The Great Phantom III Caper: A Tale of Automotive Hubris, Marital Discord, and Really Expensive Mistakes

Chapter 1: When You're Blind But Your Bank Account Isn't

Picture this: It's the early 2000s, and I'm living the high life as a legally blind entrepreneur with a thriving business and the kind of disposable income that comes from actually knowing what you're doing professionally. I've already got a gorgeous 1988 Rolls-Royce Corniche (which I only drove on weekends when absolutely nobody was watching—because nothing says "successful business owner" like a Rolls in a driveway), a Silver Spur factory limo that once belonged to Tommy "The Hit-Man" Hearns (the boxer who had the rather impressive distinction of being a five-weight champion and, like me, apparently had some spirited discussions with the IRS), and a full-time chauffeur on payroll. Basically, I was the embodiment of "strategic asset allocation."

Now here's the thing about making real money: you don't keep it in a checking account like some kind of nervous accountant. You invest it. You buy things. You deploy capital. You acquire assets that appreciate, generate income, or in my case, produce genuine joy while looking spectacular in a driveway. My wife understood this. We were partners in building something substantial, which meant we were also partners in knowing where the money went—and more importantly, why.

So naturally, the next logical step was: acquire more premium automobiles. The math was actually sound in my mind: I already had the chauffeur (the fixed cost was already there), a genuine obsession with Rolls-Royces (which was becoming a collection), and the capital to back up strategic purchases. It wasn't recklessness; it was diversification. Some people buy real estate. Some people buy art. I bought exceptional British motorcars. My banker understood. My accountant understood. My wife understood.

The only person who didn't fully understand was about to teach me a very expensive lesson about liquidity.

Chapter 2: The Auction Catalog Trap

Summer 2003. I'm at the RROC annual convention in Newport, Rhode Island (well, not at it—I was at home, legally blind, so someone mailed me the catalog like it was 1987). I flip through the Bonhams auction catalog for "proper motor cars," and there it is: a 1938 Rolls-Royce Phantom III convertible limousine.

It was like the universe had sent me a personal invitation to financial ruin.

I knew I had to have it. But there was one tiny obstacle: my wife. You know, the person who signs the mortgage and occasionally has opinions about household spending? So I employed my most sophisticated negotiating technique: the lie combined with a fever dream of profitability.

"Honey," I said, "this car could make us money. We'll rent it out for weddings. It's basically an investment!"

(Narrator: It was not basically an investment. It was basically expensive.)

She, God bless her, actually believed me (or at least pretended to) and set a maximum bid. A very specific maximum bid. A number I was absolutely, positively, definitely not going to exceed. Famous last words.

Chapter 3: The Phone Call That Changed Everything

I call the auction company to ask about the car's condition since I had zero plans to actually inspect it. Why would I? That would involve either driving to Rhode Island or hiring someone competent, both of which seemed inefficient.

"It's in good running condition," they assured me.

That was all the due diligence I needed. I signed up to be a written bidder. Professional. Cautious. Responsible.

Fast forward to auction day. I'm literally leaving my office to go to the gym—a man of priorities—when the phone rings. The auction company has a problem: they need a phone bidder, not a written bidder. Before my brain could process what was happening, I was suddenly in a bidding war, my paddle was metaphorically raised, and I was buying a car I'd never seen, never inspected, and frankly, had probably misremembered the maximum bid for.

Gavel drops.

I'm now the proud owner of a 1938 Rolls-Royce Phantom III convertible limousine. For twice what I told my wife I would pay.

Two problems immediately surfaced:

Problem #1: The auction company wanted a wire transfer right that second. Here's where my brilliant strategy of deploying capital into appreciating assets met the harsh reality of Friday afternoon banking hours: I had just bid $40k more than I'd promised my wife, and—plot twist—I didn't actually have eighty grand casually chilling in my checking account. Turns out, when you're a savvy businessman who invests every penny, you don't keep a "frivolous Rolls-Royce auction emergency fund" lying around. Who knew? (Everyone knew. Everyone except me at that exact moment.)

So I called my banker—back when banks were apparently run by kind human beings with flexible policies—and she made it happen. We didn't even bother with paperwork for a month. Ah, 2003.

Problem #2: I had to call my wife.

Chapter 4: The Hawaii Clause (And Divine Intervention via License Plate)

Surprisingly, the call went well. She was almost... graceful about it? Maybe she didn't fully comprehend the damage? Maybe she was already calculating revenge scenarios?

But wait—I had a trump card. A nuclear option of automotive destiny. I took a deep breath and deployed my secret weapon:

"Sweetheart, I know this is insane. I know I doubled our budget. But you're not going to believe this—the license plate is ODL 82."

Pause.

"ODL 82. Oregon Drivers License. 1982. The year we got married."

I could practically hear her processing this information, her brain doing the math, her heart doing that thing where it recognizes cosmic coincidence. Because in England, cars keep the same license plate for life—which meant this particular Phantom III had been wandering the world with our love story stamped right on its rear end for decades, just waiting for us to discover it.

"It was meant to be," I said, with the confidence of a man who had just accidentally stumbled onto the universe's blessing for his financial insanity.

And you know what? She thought it was cute. Not "I forgive you" cute, but the kind of cute that suggested the universe had intervened on my behalf. The license plate gods had spoken. ODL 82 was fate. ODL 82 was destiny. ODL 82 was apparently worth a Hawaiian vacation.

Then she dropped the hammer: "Well, it is meant to be. Which is why I'm booking the entire family a trip to Hawaii. Immediately. To celebrate."

Checkmate. The car had cost me a Hawaiian vacation before I'd even seen it. But at least now it felt romantic instead of like a financial catastrophe.

It was like the automotive equivalent of financial foreplay—a promise of future suffering wrapped in the warm glow of destiny.

The Beginning of the End (Or the End of the Beginning)

So there I was: a legally blind, recently humiliated man who was now the owner of a 1938 Rolls-Royce Phantom III convertible limousine bearing the license plate ODL 82 (currently 3,000 miles away in the wrong state), possessed a full-time chauffeur with suddenly increased job security, and had just purchased a trip to Hawaii with his own money while also purchasing a car that apparently the universe had custom-ordered for us.

I thought this would be a weekend knock-around vehicle.

I was adorably, catastrophically wrong.

To be continued, probably against my better judgment...

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Coming Soon: How a Car Arrived in Baggies, Why the World's #1 Rolls Expert Kicked Me Out of His Shop (Before Crowning Me King of Phantom IIIs), and What It Costs to Make Really, Really Bad Decisions Look Really, Really Good.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

James W. Millegan, or JW Millegan as he goes by, is an experienced business development manager with a long track record in public markets, venture capital, private equity, real estate, and the equestrian industry. Skilled in sales, asset management, securities, stock market analysis, site selection, land use planning, historic preservation, local government zoning, and project management. Strong academic foundation in economics, business administration, and political science. Career highlights include building award-winning investment strategies, leading restoration and development projects, and advancing Pegasus International, a planned 2,800+ acre equestrian resort in Oregon. Currently serving in an advisory capacity to Woodworth Contrarian Fund and continuing to focus on Pegasus, with emphasis on capital formation and strategic partnerships. A lifelong horseman, passionate about riding, jumping, and polo, and committed to an active lifestyle that includes daily swimming.