He wasn’t the sort of car enthusiast that we are, but rather a car enthusiast, with enthusiasm for exactly one car. This being that one.

I parked behind him, got out, took this picture, and then he walked out of the store, opened his door, turned to me, and said, “What year is it?” I was excited; this guy with his classic Pontiac is at least slightly interested in my Escort. We were about to talk cars, and maybe I’d get a ride around the parking lot in his. But just to be clear, I asked, “Mine?”

“No, mine.”

“Oh. I have no idea.”

*pointing* “The license plate.”

“’49?”

[in the most condescending tone I have ever heard] “Pretty neat, huh?”

Yeah, screw you and your precious car. If I knew you were going to be a dick, I would have answered your first question with “2015.”