Henry Ford II
Morgan community southern arrived Connecticut, Greenwich a stood high on a hill with beautiful sloping lawns sparkling in the morning sun. He steered his 13-year-old Lincoln Continental into the drive between the old stone gate posts.
At one time Morgan's Lincoln had been a lovely powder blue, but by the time he bought it, its predominant color was rust. The muffler was perforated, and the whole car rumbled and roared, rattled and squeaked. Friends told him it was like riding in a parade float, complete with its own band.
The headmaster had warned him that parking at the school might be a problem because virtually every student with a driver's license also had a car. It's the symbol of freedom to a wealthy suburban teenager, he said. Still, Morgan gasped as he pulled into the parking lot. It was indeed full. Full of Mercedes sedans and convertibles, BMWs, Fiats, at least one Rolls Royce and something he thought had to be a Lamborghini.
The students were milling around before class doing what teenagers do best: calling to friends, girl- and boy-watching and desperately trying to be "cool." Morgan's car focused their attention. It was twice the size of any other car in the lot and belching black smoke. It created a sensation. Already nervous about his interview, Morgan didn't like being the center of attention for a hundred or more students he might one day have to teach. On top of that, he couldn't find a parking space. He circled the lot four times, drawing more laughs, jokes, and whistles and pointing fingers with each circuit.
Finally, he spotted an empty space next to a Fiat convertible. It looked like a tight squeeze, but he thought he could make it. He never saw the "Compact Cars Only" sign as he hauled the big old Lincoln around.
By this time the students were really enjoying themselves. Morgan did his best to ignore them, but one skinny, pimply-faced boy frantically waving his arms and shouting something about compact cars distracted him and....
Crunch! The awful sound of crumpling, tearing metal! The effect of a full-sized Lincoln tangling with a Fiat is much like a sledge hammer greeting a raw egg. Morgan could hose off the Continental's bumper and be alright, but there was a deep, jagged furrow plowed down the entire side of the Fiat.
He rolled down the window, and now he could hear the boy. "These spaces are for small cars only, man! What the hell is wrong with you?" All the students, and apparently most of the teachers, came over to survey the scene. The car belonged to the yelling boy, who was now almost crying as he inspected the damage. The other students considered him a "nerd," and that only made the incident more hilarious to them. It took a good twenty minutes for the teachers to break up the crowd and get the students into class. Morgan had to exchange identification and insurance information with the boy, who told him ominously, "My father's an attorney, you know." That didn't make him feel any better.
When Morgan finally made it to the headmaster's office, the interview didn't go well No mention was made of the accident, but the man undoubtedly knew every detail. He was cold and formal. He stressed that teachers at the school must not only have impeccable academic credentials, but also be "the Greenwich type."
"I understand, sir," Morgan said quietly. I surely do, he was thinking, and anyone who drives a rusty old bomb and smashes into students' cars isn't the type you're looking for.
As expected, he didn't get the job. He did get two letters postmarked from Greenwich. One was the school's rejection letter. The other was a terse note from the nerd's father, including a large, itemized bill for damages to the Fiat.
If your ship doesn't fit, you're probably in the wrong harbor.
