Saturday, May 16, 2009

Chapter 8 - Order of the Phoenix

It started as a little knock knock on start up - an almost inaudible tapping. He knew instantly what it was. He buried the thoughts in the back of his mind, dreading his next move. He drove his Mom’s Altima for a few weeks. He almost forgot the sound. The last year at Pennzoil had taken its toll on our drifter as well. Was there more to life than a ‘chill job’ and a ‘sick track car’? He had given the last 3 years of his life to 'drifting'. 'Drifted' less than 5 times, 6,000 forum posts, and what did he have to show for it?

The engine was failing fast now. When would he pull it? Fix it? Sell it? Sell it all? His debt weighed in his chest each time he punched his PIN – 8-9-2-4-0. A dull pang. He could… start over. Clear the debt, find another job, move out? His friends were nearing the end of their four year educations. $40,000 a year sounded nice.

He killed a few silver bullets in his room, alone. “Track car part out” - Post New Topic. Subconsciously it may have been a test, a cry for help. To see if anyone remembered him, if anyone still cared. "Why am I fighting to live if I’m just living to die? Why am I trying to see when there ain’t nothin in sight?" Maybe Pac was right. Tired of runnin.

He moved it all, his mom’s garage clear for the first time in years. Debt gone; it was like fresh air. Bits of his baby living on across the country. He missed it. His new Integra had carpet, 2 10s, sipped 87. But he couldn’t shake the memories – driving home from the body shop, backing off the trailer, onlookers in the presence of something greater than the sum of its parts.

He had done it once, he could do it again. He had his office job now, shirt tucked in with a few grand a month. He’d plan it better this time. No girl – she was cheating - with another drifter. Do it for himself, no one else - no decals, no fiberglass. He hardly posted anymore, when he did it was encouragement for an old friend. No bickering, no insults.

Why don't we turn the clock to zero, honey
I'll sell the stock, we'll spend all the money
We're starting up a brand new day

Sting, windows down, valley heat. It felt right.

1 comment:

  1. Bravo sir, you are quite the burgeoning literary visionary.
    This tale of zeal and ambition evokes feelings of depression in me, like when I look in the mirror.
    I think it is because I 'get it.'
    Please continue pursuing writing, between the words of this story I see an up-and-coming Wes Anderson (RIP) of our generation.