-- Tintown here... with many of my stories, look for links to my iAimoo Album for pictures of main (female adult) story character(s) (made with perchance.org), external links to similar pictures of the vehicle(s) involved, and links for a location if needbe. And here's my list of other stories if you like what you read.

(about 3000 words)

97% AI: Toolbaz.com and Gemini 2.5 Flash! 

           When the Cat's Away...          

    The desert sun was already a molten gold disc above the San Jacinto Mountains, promising another scorcher, even at eight in the morning. Here in Palm Springs, 1982, that was just another Tuesday. Or rather, Saturday. My name’s Rupinder Tamhankar, but everyone calls me Rupi. I’m a twenty-something, Indian-American, and my gig is valet parking, coat check, occasionally waitressing – basically, whatever-else-ing – at the country club linked to one of Palm Springs’ golf courses. It’s a far cry from my Inland Empire apartment, a good drive in my trusty (read: rusty, hand-me-down, orange, standard-transmission) Volvo station wagon. But hey, it gets me here.

    I wasn’t built for caddying, not with these arms. Dragging a heavy bag of golf clubs around eighteen holes in this heat? No thank you. My inspiration for working at a place like this, honestly, was the movie Caddyshack. It had only just come out recently, and while I wasn't exactly rubbing elbows with Ty Webb or chasing gophers, there was a certain allure to the absurdity of the rich, the immaculate greens, and the sheer audacity of it all. Plus, I got to drive their cars. Momentarily.

    That was the real perk. I’d stand at the valet podium, a little pedestal of power and privilege, watching Bimmers, Cadillacs, Benzes, and the occasional Porsche or Ferrari roll up. I’d take their keys, offer a practiced smile, and then, oh, the quiet, internal gloating. Here I am, Rupi Tamhankar, driving your imported luxury while you go lose a hundred dollars on a little white ball. And I get paid for it. It was a small, delicious rebellion, a secret victory in the grand theatre of Palm Springs opulence. Parking these machines with their plush interiors and unheard-of features was a daily masterclass in aspiration, a reminder of the world beyond my orange Volvo station wagon.

    Today, Saturday, was usually a big day for the club. The air already thrummed with the distant thwack of irons meeting dimpled spheres, and the murmur of early morning chatter from the breakfast terrace. Dr. Charles Whittaker, a regular, a man who consistently wore a plaid sport coat even in this heat, was out on the course, probably teeing off by now.

    It was his wife, Kitty, who approached the valet podium. Formally Katherine, but she was definitely a Kitty. She glided more than walked, today her silver necklace glinting against an untucked black sweater. A short, impeccably tailored black leather jacket hung open, accompanied with olive green leather pants that seemed to hum with expense. Everything about her screamed ‘Palm Springs Chic, 1982 edition.’ She had that air of effortless wealth, the kind that came from generations, not just a good stock portfolio. Or his good stock portfolio.

    “Rupi, darling,” she purred, her voice a low, throaty whisper that carried just enough authority. “I have a slight predicament, I’m afraid.”

    I straightened up, ready. “Mrs. Whittaker. How can I help?”

-- 2 --

    “It’s Chuck, again,” she said, rolling her eyes with a theatrical sigh. Only she could call him Chuck; for everyone else, it was Dr. Whittaker. “Left his wallet at home. And you know how he gets about missing a tee time.” She paused, a small, elegant hand going to her hip. “And I, for one, refuse to be the reason for a wasted Saturday.”

    I nodded, maintaining my professional composure. “Of course. Is he needing someone to run back to the house?”

    “Precisely. But not in your lovely Volvo, dear. Admirable as it is...” she said towards my orange behemoth, sulking in the employee lot. “No, no. He drove his own ‘second toy.’ I, of course, being his first.” with a smile when she delivered that last line, as if we were both in on the joke. “It’s in the valet lot. First, I need you to retrieve the keys from the valet box.”

    I opened the slotted oak box, with the neat rows of hooks. "I could drive my car, Mrs. Whittaker. It's a bit of a distance, and I imagine you'd want to get his wallet back to him quickly."

    "Oh, thank you, Rupi, that’s sweet of you to offer, but no. He wants me in his  car. You know men and their… attachments. Besides,” she huffed, “that thing is so utterly impractical. Barely holds him, me, and a single bag of golf clubs. No room for groceries, certainly no room for any self-respecting luggage.” Her disdain was palpable, yet there was a faint glint in her eyes that suggested a complicated relationship with this ‘second toy.’

    I found the hook, number 73, and pulled the keys free. Today, the keychain was a small, worn circle of leather with an embossed logo: a stylized octagon with the letters ‘MG’ nestled inside. I may seen the symbol before, of course, on the occasional classic car at the county club, but I’d never had the pleasure of driving one, nor even riding in one

    “MG, huh?” I mused, turning the key over in my palm. “Never driven one of these before.”

    Kitty nodded, a slight frown creasing her brow. “A British relic, I believe. And speaking of relics, Rupi, that’s where you come in.” She gave me a look that was part plea, part command. “I haven’t driven a standard transmission in… well, let’s just say many, many years. Since my college days. And I shudder to think what I might do to Chuck’s precious ‘second toy’ if I tried to navigate those gears cold turkey. Rupi, I need your help, dear.”

    My eyebrows shot up. This was new. Usually, I just parked the cars. Now I was giving driving lessons to a Palm Springs socialite in her husband’s British sports car. My inner Caddyshack fantasy was having a field day.

    “Lead the way, Mrs. Whittaker,” I said, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth.

-- 3 --

    We walked across the pristine asphalt, the heat already radiating up through the soles of my sensible work shoes. The red MG convertible sat there, a vibrant splash of defiance amidst the muted luxury sedans. It was clearly an older model, all curves and chrome, a low-slung beauty that looked fast even sitting still.

    Kitty gestured dramatically. “Right. This infernal thing. There’s this… cover he insists on. Tonneau, I think he calls it.” She wrinkled her nose. “It’s a frightful faff. Could you help me with it?”

    The tonneau cover was indeed vinyl, tautly snapped around the interior. Kitty struggled with the first few snaps near the driver’s side, her long, manicured nails in the way. I stepped in, my stronger, less pampered fingers easily popping them open. The vinyl was stiff, sun-baked, and smelled faintly of old leather and exhaust. Together, we worked our way around the cockpit, unsnapping the covering.

    “Honestly,” Kitty continued, her voice a low grumble as she pulled at a particularly stubborn snap, “why he needs a car that requires this much fuss is beyond me. My Mercedes just… works. Voila. This is just… work.” We finally wrestled the entire cover free. It was surprisingly heavy, a thick, folded bundle of red vinyl.

    “And what do I do with this now, K-Mrs. Whittaker?” I asked, holding the cumbersome object.

    Kitty waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, just shove it in the trunk, Rupi. The boot, I think the British call it. Here.” She handed me the keys. “The smaller, thinner one.”

    I walked to the rear of the car, inserted the key, and with a slight twist and a clunk, the small trunk lid popped open. I carefully folded the vinyl tonneau once more, then tucked it into the surprisingly shallow space. It took most of the trunk. I closed it with a soft thud.

    “Right,” Kitty announced, already heading for the passenger side. “You take the driver’s seat, Rupi. I wouldn’t trust myself.”

    I walked around, the worn leather keychain now feeling like a talisman. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I was struck by how low to the ground it was, how small the interior felt. The steering wheel was thin, almost delicate, and the wooden dashboard was a fascinating array of chrome-ringed gauges. I pushed the key into the slot.

    “Okay, so,” I said, feeling a slight thrill. “Let’s see what this old gal can do.” The MG, I mean.

-- 4 --

    I turned the key.  tttRRUUNA, rruuna, RRUUNA, rruuna, RRUUNA, rruuna. The MG shook, a violent shudder running through the chassis, but the engine stubbornly refused to catch. It sounded like a disappointed old man clearing his throat.

    Kitty winced. “Oh, dear. Sometimes it’s a bit… temperamental.”

    “No worries,” I replied, already assessing the situation. “Probably just needs a little coaxing. It’s an older car.” I knew the drill with older stick shifts, especially those with carburetors. I gave the gas pedal a few deliberate pumps.

    Then I tried again. tttRRUUNA, rruuna, RRUUNA, rruuna, RRUUNA, rruuna. RRUUNA, rruuna A little better, but still no joy. The subtle scent of gasoline mingled with the dusty desert air.

    More pumps. Give it some air, some fuel. Another turn of the key. tttRRUUNA, rruuna, RRUUNA, rruuna, RRUUNA, rruuna, RUNNnnn. Ptunk, tunk, tunk... The engine finally caught, coughing into a surprisingly robust idle. RrooOMM! RunA- runA-runA-runA, RunA-runA-runA-runA... The whole car vibrated with a kind of nervous energy. A broad smile spread across my face.

    “There we go!” I exclaimed, feeling a surge of accomplishment. I revved the engine a couple of times, just for the satisfaction of hearing that rich, guttural growl. VROOM! VROOM!

    “Rupi, darling, careful,” Kitty said, her hand reflexively going to the dashboard. “Be gentle with Chuck’s second toy. It’s… precious to him.” Right, second...

    “Right, right. Precious.” I chuckled. This was going to be fun. RunA- runA-runA-runA, RunA-runA-runA-runA...

    My gaze fell on the jiggling gear shift. It was a beautiful thing, a smooth, wooden knob, perfectly spherical, with the same MG logo subtly carved into its top. No numbers, no letters, just the emblem. “Okay, Mrs. Whittaker,” I said, looking over at her, “this is where it gets interesting." I depressed the clutch, feeling the resistance in the pedal. “So, we’ve got four forward gears, and reverse. See?” I demonstrated, moving the lever fluidly through its gates. “First is down and left, second is up and left. Third is down and right, straight from second. Fourth is up and right from third. And reverse,” I paused, pushing down, then succeeding in pulling up  slightly, “is over here, next to third.” The action of the shifter was satisfyingly mechanical, a solid THUNK with each engagement.

    “Right,” Kitty murmured, though her expression was still a touch apprehensive with no roadmap to guide her.

    “Alright, let’s take a little spin around, just to get a feel for it.” I checked the rear-view mirror, which was tiny and offered a rather limited view. RunA-runA-runA-runA, RunA-runA-runA-runA... Clutch in, first gear. I slowly, smoothly, released the clutch while giving it just enough gas. rrroOOMMM... The MG lurched forward, then settled into a clean roll. On my first try too.

-- 5 --

    “Okay, now for second.” rrroOOMMM... Clutch in, THUNK, clutch out, gas. The transition was a bit rougher, a slight head-nod from Kitty, but we were moving. I drove a small loop, up past the manicured hedges, past the pro shop, the distinctive whine of the engine echoing faintly. rrroOOMMM...

    “Third gear now,” I announced, gliding the shift knob through its motion. rrroOOMMM... THUNK. The little car accelerated, the wind already whipping through my hair, even at this low speed. The engine hummed happily. This was a completely different beast than my lumbering Volvo. It was way more, excitable.

    After a quick run through fourth gear, I slowed, downshifted smoothly back to second, then first, finally pulling up to the curb where we’d started. RunA-runA-runA-runA, RunA-runA-runA-runA... I parked the MG carefully, turned off the ignition, and the car gave a final, settling shudder of silence.

    “There. It’s not so bad, is it?” I asked, turning to Kitty, a proud smile on my face.

    She looked a little pale, but a faint smile played on her lips. “You make it look dreadfully easy, Rupi. Alright.” She took a deep breath, and then, with a resolute nod, began to unbuckle her seatbelt. “I guess it's my turn.”

    She got out, then, bending over slightly to navigate the low-slung bucket seat, she slid gingerly into the driver’s position. As she leaned in, her black sweater riding up just a touch, I caught a fleeting glimpse of a soft pink waistband beneath the olive green leather pants. Hanes. Pink Hanes. Not silk, not lace, not imported European lingerie. Just… NORMAL. It was a surprisingly humanizing detail, a tiny crack in the perfectly polished facade of one Mrs. Katherine Whittaker.

    I moved over to the passenger seat, settling in. “Okay, you’ve got this,” I encouraged. “Remember, slow on the clutch, steady on the gas. Feel for that friction point.”

    Kitty took a deep breath, took to the key of the MG, and turned. tttRRUUNA, rruuna, RRUUNA, rruuna, RRUUNA. Same as me. She immediately pumped the gas. tttRRUUNA, rruuna, RRUUNA, rruuna, RRUUNA, rruuna, RUNNnnn. Ptunk, tunk, tunk... The engine caught, perhaps a little more reluctantly this time. RrooOOM!

    “Good,” I said. “Now, clutch totally in. First gear.” RunA-runA-runA-runA, RunA-runA-runA-runA...

    She fumbled slightly, pulling the shift knob a bit too hard, but managed to find first. RunA-runA-runA-runA, RunA-runA-runA-runA...

    “Okay, slow and steady now. Gas first, just a little, then slowly ease off the clutch.” RunA-runA-runA-runA, RunA-runA-runA-runA...

    RrooOO.. Kitty’s foot trembled slightly on the clutch pedal. She gave it too much gas, then released the clutch too quickly. The MG bucked violently, then thump-stalled. Silence.

    Kitty’s shoulders slumped. “Oh, bother! See? I told you. Maybe you should drive. Volvo does make nice cars...”

    “You’re doing great,” I lied, but sincerely. “It’s about feel. Try again. You got the engine started, that’s half the battle.”

-- 6 --

    She sighed, then turned the key. tttRRUUNA, rruuna, RRUUNA, rruuna, RRUUNA, rruuna, RUNNnnn. Ptunk, tunk, RrooOOM! Attempt two. More gas, slower clutch. The car lurched forward, revved high, then thump-stalled again.

    “Almost!” I cheered. “Just a little less gas on the take-off, a little more consistent with the clutch.”

    Kitty stared grimly ahead. “This is ridiculous.”

    “You’ll get it,” I insisted.

    Third time for the engine start.  tttRRUUNA, rruuna, RRUUNA, rruuna, RRUUNA, rruuna, RUNNnnn. Ptunk, tunk, RrooOOM! This time, she focused, her brow furrowed in concentration. RunA-runA-runA-runA, RunA-runA-runA-runA... She eased the clutch, her foot shaking slightly, while simultaneously pressing the gas. RrroooooOOO... The car shuddered, then, miraculously, began to roll. OoooOOO..

    “Yes!” I pumped my fist. Kitty kept the gas steady, the car moving at a respectable, if slightly jerky, pace across the parking lot.  “Let’s try for second, Ma’am!”

    RrooOOM! THUNK! She managed to get into second gear, RrooOOM! THUNK! Then third, her movements still hesitant, but she seemed gaining confidence with each shift. She made a wider loop than I just did, clearly wanting to avoid any immediate, expensive obstacles.

    We drove back to the valet podium, where Kitty pulled up the parking brake very slowly.

    I asked her, “you think you can do this, Mrs. Whittaker?” and she nodded over the still running engine. RunA-runA-runA-runA, RunA-runA-runA-runA... I hopped out of the passenger’s seat and gave her an ‘okay’ sign with my right hand. I watched her drive off, a red streak against the green and gold of the desert morning, leaving me alone at the valet podium.

    I stood there, contemplating the empty space where the MG had just been. Kitty Whittaker, socialite, purveyor of disdain for old cars, was out there fighting the ghosts of her college years and the tyranny of the standard transmission. It was a strange little victory for me, a tiny ripple in the placid waters of Palm Springs privilege. I imagined her white-knuckling the MG’s steering wheel in her fancy clothes yet minimalist underpinnings, making her way towards their sprawling estate, the overflowing wallet in need of retrieval. The image made me smile.

-- 7 --

    Later that morning, the desert sun had climbed higher, turning the gold to a relentless, blinding white. And a familiar red shape glided into view at the valet podium.

    It was the MG. Kitty, still at the wheel, approached the podium, parking deliberately, if a little abruptly. RunA-runA-runA-runA, RunA-runA-runA-runA... The engine idled for a moment, then she decisively turned the key, cutting the thrumming growl. She looked at me, a wide, triumphant grin splitting her face.

    “Rupi!” she practically shouted, though her voice still retained its throaty quality. She quickly got out of the car, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Oh, my goodness, Rupi! It was… exhilarating! Absolutely exhilarating!” She clapped her hands together, a delicate thwack of leather on leather. “I got it! I actually got it! Once I got past that dreadful initial bucking, it was like… like flying!” Her eyes sparkled with an almost childlike glee. “Thank you, Rupi. Thank you so much. You truly have a knack for this.”

    I beamed. “Anytime, Mrs. Whittaker.” WOW...

    She paused, then gestured back at the MG. “Now, darling, if you wouldn’t mind. Could you park this firecracker for me? And please, put that insufferable tonneau cover back on. Chuck insists.” She handed me the keys, the worn leather keychain now feeling like a trophy.

    I took the keys, a wide, genuine smile now plastered across my face. This was even better than parking a Ferrari. This was a shared secret, a small moment of connection that transcended the usual boundaries of employer and service. This was human.

    I happily walked to the driver’s side, opened the door, and slid in. My hands found the wooden shift knob, and I gave it a few gentle rocks, feeling the solid, satisfying resistance within the gate. I took a deep breath, a grin spreading across my face. And I’ll get to drive again once the Whittaker’s depart 'the 19th hole', too!

    tttRRUUNA, rruuna, RRUUNA, rruuna, RRUUNA, rruuna, RUNNnnn. Ptunk, tunk, RrooOOM! The engine came to life with a familiar, happy growl. RunA-runA-runA-runA, RunA-runA-runA-runA... I checked my mirrors, and I peeled away the MG from the valet podium, this morning in Palm Springs, 1982, made just a bit more interesting for Ms. Rupi Tamhankar.

    And a whole lot more for Mrs. Katherine Whittaker, alright.... and she handed me some cash from Chuck's wallet once I brought back their car.

97% AI: Toolbaz.com and Gemini 2.5 Flash, but I fed it the 600 word "plot". The engine sounds and tidbits were added by me. Inspired by encountering a real-life basis for this imaginary 'Kitty'...