Rolls-Royce sure helps clarify the social hierarchy

As Spokane’s alpha-Doug, I’m ever on the lookout for new ways to flip a giant middle finger to all the little people who get in my way.

The other day while reading the newspaper I chanced onto a wonderful opportunity to throw my ample weight around. I found it in the classified advertisements of this newspaper, under the “antique/classic vehicles” heading.

“1976 Rolls Royce silver shadow, near new condition. 95,000 miles, well maintained, serious inquiries only …”

A Rolls-Royce – legendary symbol to the rich and famous.

Now there are many places where such automobiles are as common as corn dogs. I’m talking, of course, about more sophisticated, bejeweled metropolitan hubs like Hollywood, Manhattan, Pasco …

But the Spokane area is a community with Chevy sensibilities. And that Chevy, alas, too often is squatting on cinderblocks in the front of a termite-infested hovel.

Sure, we have some sense of luxury.

Seafood buffet night at the casino, say.

But driving a Rolls-Royce over our pockmarked thoroughfares? That’s like slathering Beluga caviar on a Big Mac.

Frankly, I can’t think of a better way to show everybody who’s the boss.

And so I dialed the number listed in the ad. No, I didn’t want to buy the thing. Do I look like a fat cat who has a spare 20 grand stuffed in his sock drawer?

I just wanted to experience the heady thrill of driving a vehicle good enough for A-list celebrities like Donald Trump or Melissa Rivers. For free.

After a night of deliberation, the owner forked over the keys. (Man, I’m good.)

The only catch was that he didn’t want his name to appear in my column.

Like I haven’t heard that line from every two-bit mayor, police chief and City Council member. Not to mention my wife.

Truth is, I don’t care if the guy’s a hit man for the Stromboli Family.

Just gimme the stinking Rolls, man. I have miles to drive and people to insult.

After a brief primer on all the knobs and switches, I slid onto the soft leather seats and rolled out of a Spokane Valley parking lot. Comfort? It was like planting my ass in a jumbo catcher’s mitt.

I aimed the English-made blue/blue-gray beast for a freeway on-ramp.

To be honest, I was a tad underwhelmed. I had hoped for one of those posh Rolls-Royces that have sliding windows to separate the royals from the riffraff chauffeur.

This was more like a sedan.

But a Rolls is a Rolls is a Rolls. And around here, well, come on. Most people think Cointreau is Castro’s other brother.

As I headed east on I-90 I enjoyed double takes from motorists who noticed the imposing grill with its trademark flying lady hood ornament.

Once in Coeur d’Alene, I glided my elegant steed into the entryway of the Coeur d’Alene Resort.

A fresh-faced valet scampered over. I handed him a $10 bill.

“My good man,” I said, “would you be so kind as to deliver a message to my former employer, Duane Hagadone?”

The valet was happy to oblige and pulled out a notebook.

I told him to tell the bazillionaire resort owner and media mogul that “Doug Clark stopped by in a Rolls-Royce. Nyah. Nyah.”

I made sure the lad had the correct spelling of “Nyah” before heading back to Spokane.

The Rolls was whisper quiet. Equipped with a mammoth engine, the car averages about 12 miles to the gallon. (As if a triviality like the price of gasoline would matter to us Rolls revelers.)

It felt like floating down the highway on a large feather bed. No CD player in this baby. The Rolls has an 8-track tape player befitting its age.

I rotated tapes from a cardboard box the owner had thoughtfully provided me. Merle Haggard. Glen Campbell. Willie Nelson. … Classy.

Next stop was The Spokesman-Review where I picked up my lunch dates: two editors and a reporter.

We ordered at a Wendy’s drive-through where my “Do you have steak tartare?” joke fell flatter than a blown radial.

Along with our grub I picked up a job application form. I’m always one column away from unemployment, so it never hurts to have a backup plan.

I took my posse to Spokane’s Cliff Drive area. We had a lovely picnic and felt sorry for all those sad, deprived Wendy’s customers who don’t get to eat their burgers and fries in luxury automobiles with real burl trim.

After jettisoning my comrades, I finished my adventure by picking up my dry cleaning and then depositing my paycheck. Normally, depositing my paycheck is a depressing experience. But haughtiness and horsepower make the mundane chores so much more bearable.

I returned the car after filling the tank and thanked the owner for his generosity. Spending time in the quiet tomblike confines of the Rolls gave me an opportunity to ponder those “big” questions of life.

Like, how do the little people get through the day?

I can’t wait to turn in that $10 valet tip on my company expense voucher.

Nyah. Nyah.