Blu Cepheus, Patron Saint
I once met a man who color-matched his earrings to his Lamborghini.
I had encountered quirky and eccentric exotic car owners before, but I will never forget the day we crossed paths in the arrival area of Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. I was waiting for some college friends to emerge from the escalators, and as I would later learn, he was waiting for his wife.
The Lamborghini logomark emblazoned across his black shirt caught my eye first, followed quickly by his hair, a retro-looking bowl cut dyed dark blue. He seemed to have emerged from a decade gone by, but I couldn’t put my finger on which one. Overcome with curiosity, and seeing as I had no one else to talk to, I broke the ice with my strange, fleeting companion.
“Lamborghini fan?”
His gaze, a mysterious mix of surprise, amusement, and annoyance, shifted towards me. The corners of his mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.
“I own one.”
I knew the protocol. Complement first, and then ask another question.
“That’s awesome! What kind?”
“Huracan. I custom ordered it.”
As he spoke, his hands pushed the bowl away from his ears, revealing two dazzling, sky-blue stones shining back at me. His dark eyes swirled with ego and pride.
“I matched these earrings to the color.”
At this moment, he seemed less a man than a mirage, a bizarre deity of automotive excess that had inexplicably taken material form next to me. We talked for nearly an hour, trading stories and knowledge in the ritual dance of car enthusiasts.
I learned that his deep blue hair matched the rare color of his other car, a previous-generation Mercedes-Benz SL65 AMG, and that he refused to drive his Lamborghini in the rain. His vanity was as startling as his earrings. It seemed he believed that any dream car other than a Huracan or a boosted V12 Benz was barely worth its weight in scrap metal.
His wife eventually arrived, and to this day I regret not asking which of her cars matched her pink-tipped perm. I shook his hand as the two of them turned to walk away. Watching them go, I swore to myself I’d find him and his sky-blue Huracan again, if only to convince myself he was of this world, but I haven’t seen him since. It rains too much in Georgia.
