You found her, you and your buddy Tom, abandoned in an alley. The torn ragtop, back window gone, four flat tires, but potential there. A few weeks shy of seventeen, swigging beer bought by someone you asked outside the vendor's on 37th Street. Light in a bottle, power and speed. Nothing can stop you. The guy lets you have her for a hundered bucks. TR 6, fast as a rumour. Tires hawked from the Goodyear. You bring her in. Norris, the shop teacher, looking on; other guys in Automotives jealous, rich kid's car. All of you, calling only one thing in your lives, her. The prom three weeks away. You were the guys without dates. Fingernails greasy with lube; tiny road maps of grime on your fingers. And shop talk a front against loneliness. Valve jobs, headers, cams. Not engines you were talking, but love. Too shy to ask Charlene, at the Dairy Queen, for anything more. You pulled the engine, rebored her. New rings, gaskets. Rolling into the sunshine. Then down to the wash on 33rd, plates borrowed from Norris' Malibu. A few times by the drive of the D.Q. Charlene looking your way now. When you pull the front end, a pin sheared; front wheel barely on. Dealer out of stock. Wrecker's not much better in a town where everyone drives Fords. What to do? You and Tom, your beer cooling; while you huck stones at River Park. Thursday. The prom tomorrow night. Wire, he says. yeah, wire. Don't tell Norris. Friday afternoon the pin replaced with wire. Twisting it with pliers. There, it won't drop. You can hardly believe it. New plates your brother bought. You and Tom take her up the hill climb road to Broadcast hill. To the parking spot unmder the radio tower over the city, but the lot is empty before sundown. So you cruise the bypass road. She needs no coaxing to hit sixty. Letting her down easy, to the river again. Your turf after dark. Sometimes the rich kids, frat rats and their girls in pleated skirts, come in convoys. Goofs, greasers, they taunt you. Then it's chains slapped on car hoods. Sometimes a knuckle to nose, bone crushing on the steps of the school. As far as it gets, all that rage. Tonight you forget about that. Elsewhere, other are getting ready too. Corsages sweating in the fridge. Dresses on the bedspread, new shoes. You and Tom and her. The beer is better this time. You're confident. This power. Won't let him take the wheel. Later, you say, when I'm pissed. As the sun goes down, you build a fire. And the other loners arrive, drinking beer, traces of their cigarettes in the dark. Someone asks you how fast she goes. You hadn't thought of that. Like a challenge. By eleven, you're on the road, Zeppelin on the tape, bottled light in your eyes. Few cars this time of night. Cops all down in the city. The tach pops with each shift. 80-95-100 She hums. You're soaring with her, a road race machine that corners at 90, into the curves. Cutting shorter and faster But you forget something. The pin. No one will say anything until after the prom. Charlene's there, not even noticing you're not. Later a few people say they wondered. And what you couldn't have known. How she flipped three times, the cops said. When she lost the wheel. Sheared a power pole. The first news gentle. Days pass, then the gross details. First, through the windshield to your shoulders, held by the dash, then snapped back again. Your stubborn head. And Tom they found in the bushes. The wheel meshed in a tree. Kids came in processions, even the rich kids. Mortality somehow linking you. Too late. Vague skidmarks. The pole already replaced. A few oil spots fragrant with sage dust. No bloodstains. Wanting something to be there. To mark it.
©Bruce Hunter, 1986 -- unauthorized duplication prohibited