Back on the frontage road for I-10, Maseratis wrapped like Faberge eggs were being offloaded from a clamshell transporter at the dealership.
A short distance north, Tony, Sales Manager for Ferrari of San Antonio, came out of his office resistant, but in the end couldn’t have been nicer. He said we could shoot anything inside or outside but couldn’t show any people.
The dealership has been at this location five years, he said; before that it was at the Maserati/Jaguar dealership down the road.
I asked about a cord plugged into the back of a red Ferrari on the showroom floor, and he said it was to show potential customers the charging port. He said for his clientele, a Ferrari was not their first car, of course, but their second, third, fifth, or tenth. It wouldn’t get driven enough for the alternator to charge the battery.
As I was strolling through the showroom, a heavy guy with two kids came around a corner unexpectedly. We gave each other the guilty nod, one former prole to another. He took his kids up a long aisle of cars gleaming under the lights. Donato, who I suspected of shooting the cars only for his own pleasure, was finishing up. We all left at the same time without so much as a commemorative Ferrari keychain from the gift shop.
As we passed through the doors, one of the man’s kids said, “Dad, is there any more field trips?”
“Nah,” he said. “You like it?”