I read the other day that Antwan “Big Boi” Patton — the not-as-dapper half of the rap duo Outkast — didn’t have the garage space to store all 17 of his cars. The poor fellow had to store some of them off-site, meaning that he couldn’t always lay hands on his Rolls-Royce Phantom when he wanted, or run roughshod with his chronological herd of Chevy Impalas (‘61, ‘62, ‘63, ‘64, and ‘65). Some guys can’t catch a break.

The story got me thinking about what 17 cars I will own when I make my first ten million. (I’m 1/1000th the way there, at least until my wife’s next round of dental work.) The first thing I decided is that I wouldn’t kick Grizelda to the curb. She’s my current ride, after all, a mold-green ‘94 Toyota Tercel with 140,000 miles to her name. Sure, she knocks a bit on the turns and burns oil for breakfast, but she’s been my trusty steed for better than eight years. She’s taken me from Seattle to Savannah to San Diego and back, with stops in Houma, Helena, and Homosassa Springs to boot. You can’t turn your back on that kind of service.

Next, I think I’d hunt down Lester and add him to my flock. Lester was the only pickup truck I ever owned, a five-hundred-dollar bruise-blue ‘87 Toyota with more rust than paint and a fender held on with baling wire. He was dented and frayed but game for anything, and while some might say he was past his prime, I knew him to be a lion and a king.

I owned Lester when I lived in Austin, and every few weeks I’d be approached by random Mexicans hoping to buy him (and his renowned 22-RE engine) off of me. I turned down every one until the last, selling him just before I left town. Last I heard, Lester was somewhere in northern Mexico, no doubt chortling along happily in his sturdy blue belching way. I miss him terribly.

With Grizelda and Lester on board, I’d have to make room for the rusting shell of Josephina, the scab-red ‘82 Tercel with the bronze front fender who was my first automotive love. I skinned many a knuckle on her engine block, learning how to replace spark plugs, set valve gaps, and get myself in way too deep. She took me to Texas for the first time, and took me home a few times too. At 170,000 miles, I sold her to a friend, but left a few tapes in the glove box for her to remember me by (Muddy Waters, Booker T and the MGs). Last I heard, she was resting contentedly under a shade tree, put out to pasture and no longer ready to ride. I’d bring her back just to look at her.

After that, I’d be at a loss. Next to Grizelda, Lester, and Josephina, any Rolls-Royce or Lamborghini would look dim and foolish, mere frosting on the cake. To switch metaphors, Big Boi’s got the sizzle, but I would have the steak. And 14 extra parking spaces to boot. Maybe I’ll rent him a few.

(Jay Hardwig is a writer and teacher. He can be reached at smardwig@charter.net)