I'm standing in a Ford dealership. Trying to fix a scar I didn't ask for.
The Mustang had been in the back of my mind for a while. V8. Two doors. A car built entirely on want. That appealed to me. A lot. Well, the idea of it, at least.
The first time I sat in one, a salesperson came along for the ride. He talked the whole way. Features. Options. Reasons to buy. I listened and tried to feel something. There were things I liked. The power. The stance. Two doors felt right for where I was.
There were things I didn't.
It wasn't planted. It didn't feel refined. And it was an auto. He told me the auto was better than the manual. I wanted the manual. He said one was coming in a few weeks.
I waited.
The call came. The manual had arrived. White, not charcoal. He said three people had already driven it. Said if I didn't take it today it would be gone by tomorrow. I drove it alone this time. Properly. First to second — wheelspin and a wobble. Second to third — same. Into a roundabout, hard on the brakes. The weight of the car went one way. The steering went another. Traction lights flashing, rear stepping out. Not in a way that felt alive. In a way that felt unfinished.
I drove it back.
They were waiting.
I told them I needed to think. Put a deposit down he said. Refundable. Nothing to lose. I did. But I needed to drive it again. Needed to be sure.
Funny enough, a Subaru dealer close to home had one. I didn't stop to think about that at the time.
I went in for the Mustang. The salesperson wanted to come along. Fine. We approached the freeway onramp and he said give it a squirt. I did. He gripped the door handle. Woah. Not that fast. We turned around at the next exit.
Back at the car yard they were organising to return my keys and licence. A man sat down across from me. Head of finance. Asked what I was looking at. I told him. He said it was his car. He'd bought it thinking he'd love it. Bought it to replace his Hawkeye STI.
He hated it.
Now he was selling it to get his old car back.
I sat with that for longer than I should have.
Weeks passed. I went back to the original dealer. Drove it again. Walked around it again. Looked at the panels, the finish, the detail. Asked questions I already knew the answers to.
Then he said it.
One line.
You don't buy a Mustang for the quality. You buy a Mustang to tell people you drive a Mustang.
I thanked him for his time.
The deposit was refundable. I remembered that on the drive home.
The Mustang dream was over. What I actually wanted — I already knew. I just hadn't admitted it yet.