Author's Note: This is sort of a Fast And The Furious/Midnight Club II
crossover, using Maria from Midnight Club II. You already know I don't own
anybody from the movies The Fast And The Furious, 2Fast 2Furious, or the
PS2 game Midnight Club II. So I don't really need to tell you that. Hehe.
However, if any unfamiliar names appear that don't seem to apply to either
the game or the movie, I probably own them. This story MAY be told from
several different points of view because I kinda try to get everyone's
personal feelings down where you can see them, but I may stick to only
Maria's POV. Plus, I'll go ahead and say that I don't know THAT much about
cars, so the car things won't be THAT elaborate, even though I really wish
they could be. It's through no fault of mine, I'm just a girl that loves
cars and hasn't been around them that much, except dirt stock cars. Also,
I'm not from Houston, so I don't know what the street-racing scene is like
there, or if they even have one. I just picked a close-to-Mexico place
that Maria could be from, since she's Hispanic, and I just chose to make
her Mexican. This is my first FATF fanfic, and my first Midnight Club II
fanfic for that matter, and I hope you enjoy it. Please review. I won't
say "no flames" because even if I say it, people who don't like my story or
just want to be mean will flame it anyway. But if you do give flames, have
the decency to be logged in, because if you have a story out there, I will
cut you down unless it's exceptionally excellent work. So beware. Hehe.
J/K. Oh, but if you DON'T have a story out there, you might as well not
flame, because you just make yourself look stupid. Why flame someone
else's work if you don't have any of your own? Think about it. Anyways,
enjoy!
Coming Of An Equal
Chapter One
*Maria's POV*
I knew making the move from Texas would be a blessing for me. The street
racing scene was dying there, and that was what I lived and breathed
since I used to skip school and hot-wire peoples' ride back in my junior
high school days. I was a terrible truant. But street racing, that IS
what I live and breathe, still to this day. And I probably always will,
until I get too old and arthritic to press my NOS buttons. At least, I
can't see anything capturing my interests more for a very long time.
So, I packed up all my shit, which wasn't much, into the backseat and
trunk of my sky-blue Supra and headed out of town toward the Pacific
coast. At that time, I wasn't quite sure where I was going, but I knew I
had to head somewhere where there was a street racing scene, and one that
was decent, active, and exciting.
I won't lie to you. My car was my heart and soul. Still is. I'll never
get another one and race it too until mine gets so worn out that it won't
keep up anymore. Which doesn't look like anytime soon. It's a Toyota
Supra, sky-blue in color, with these graphics going down both sides that
kinda look like huge cat scratches. It's tight, believe me. Plus, I got
all the NOS graphics and all that good stuff on the windshield and the
back windows and on my fenders, etc. And it's got a killer NOS system in
it. And a lot more than that, but those are my secrets. You won't find
a much better car anywhere. At least, that's what I thought when I left
Houston.
When I reached California, I saw one of those big green highway signs
that said Los Angeles. And it hit me that that's where I needed to be.
An interesting new life, beautiful beaches, plenty of clubs, plenty of
stuff to do. But most of all Los Angeles just seemed to spell out
serious street racing. I pointed my car in the direction that that big
green sign posted on the bridge said to go and hoped for the best.
I suppose you're wondering what I left behind in Houston. Well, the
answer is absolutely nothing. There was nothing there for me anymore.
My mama and papa were total assholes and as far as I could tell, I was a
burden to them. And they didn't give a shit about showing it. Ever
since I was three years old, I knew how to put my own clothes on, even
though they didn't always match, but nobody in my household cared. And I
could tie my own shoes. Sloppily, but I could tie them. I taught myself
that. Plus, after so many years of trying to gain my parents' love in
every way possible, I gave up around the sixth grade and began to take up
with friends. I don't guess they were the best friends to have, but to
me, they were the family I lacked.
When I entered the seventh grade, I began to not give a shit about school
anymore. Why should I? Nobody cared if I went or not. Nobody cared if
I made good grades, or even decent grades, for that matter. So fuck it.
It wasn't that big of a deal anymore. I began to skip school, sometimes
for days at a time. The school would contact my parents, they'd beat the
shit out of me and act like they cared that I wasn't going to school, and
then I'd return to class for a few days before striking out again the
next week and not going. I figured if my parents didn't kill me, all
they could do was make me stronger. And that's the only thing I thank
them for now. Anyway, while we were skipping school, my friends and I
would hot-wire the local rich folks' cars and race them on the
interstate. We always returned them before we got caught, but it was the
most exciting thing I'd ever experienced. And that's how I became a good
driver. Most people get their permit during their sophomore year of high
school and begin driving full-time by their junior year. But I was
driving almost everyday at thirteen years old.
Because the school I attended had decent guidance counselors that
actually gave a shit and worked with me on things because they saw my
bruises and knew where they came from, and that my parents really weren't
all that great, I was able to pass junior high school and make it out of
the eighth grade. I even made it through my sophomore year in high
school. But I quit in the middle of my junior year. I'm no math whiz,
or English whiz for that matter (as Spanish is my first language and
English my second. I learned English when I first came to the states
from Mexico, but I was eight years old. My accent shows.), so I figured
I wouldn't make it past that point anyway. My counselors and even the
principal tried to work with me, but things just didn't work out. I
kinda wish they had now.
I was able to manage to get a job at a local Hardee's. But you know how
Hardee's never gets any business, even with these new Thickburgers they
have out now. So I was actually laid off from a fast food restaurant
because they didn't need that much help. Sucks, huh? Well, it was
actually a blessing in disguise.
Because I applied to a local high performance auto parts store and garage
and received the job. I worked there for about three years before the
owner, Jack Redford, an older white guy who is probably the nicest man
you could ever meet, presented me with this run-down, ragged piece of
shit car for Christmas that looked like it could never be used again, and
told me that if I could fix it up, I could have it. And then he told me
the sweetest thing I'd ever heard: that I could use any tool in the
garage and any performance parts I wanted, free of charge. That was
outrageous to me, and at first, I didn't even want to accept because it
was just too much. But who could turn down an offer like that? Plus,
trust me, Jack had everything. And to take a second to brag on myself, I
am an excellent mechanic. I can do anything to a car.
Now, Jack was really the only father figure I'd ever known, since my own
dad was a total alcoholic ass. I think Jack knows I look up to him as
such, and that's why he got me that car. And he didn't step in to help
one bit the entire time I was building it. I'd spend from dawn until
about three o'clock every morning working on it, for weeks. By that
time, I'd moved into an apartment Jack had given me for free up above the
garage. It was small, only one big room with a bed, sink, "kitchen
area," bathtub, and toilet. Of course, my bathtub and toilet was blocked
off from everything else, so technically I guess you could say I had two
rooms. Anyway, I have decent interior decorator skills, and I made the
place look and feel like home. And I was proud of it, and didn't think a
damn thing about bringing friends over to chill. By that time, I'd made
some new friends, street racers I'd met coming into the garage. They may
have raced on the streets illegally, but other than that, they were good
people who didn't bother anyone, were always polite, and never made too
much noise. Well, when they were at my place they didn't.
Anyway, about the building of my car. I guess it doesn't take a rocket
scientist for you to know it's the one I'm driving now. Of course, it
was still a Supra, but it didn't look anything like it does now when I
first got it. But when I first laid eyes on it and Jack told me it was
mine to build, I got a visual in my mind of what the end result would be
instantly. I immediately went to the store computer, the one I always
worked on, and did a complete layout of the finished product. I was so
excited I could have fainted when I saw the layout. I knew that I could
make that old rusty-looking car out there in the garage look like that.
All by myself, too.
Now, the car wasn't terribly ragged. But it was an older model. It had
been seriously used, and was in need of a good mechanic to bring it back
to life. Something about that rusty red car made me feel a kindred
spirit with it. Maybe it was because it was my first car, the only one
I'd ever had for myself that didn't belong to anyone else. And I didn't
even have to steal it. I just had to build it. Or maybe it was the car
itself, and the way it looked. The headlights, glazed over with a thick
layer of dust, seemed to stare at me, begging me to fix it up and make it
new again. And it was then that I knew this car needed me just like I
needed it.
Like I said, the car wasn't terribly ragged. It had just been abandoned
for a pretty long time. I could tell it had been driven hard by its
previous owner. It had been wrecked, at least two or three times by what
I could tell. Nothing serious, just a few fender-benders. So, needless
to say, it needed a new body kit. In fact, I ripped apart the entire
body and put a whole new one on including the hottest body kit I had
available to me. I was definitely going to take advantage of Jack's
offer, since he insisted. I also pretty much ripped apart the entire
underside of the car, but that was definitely needed anyway. Nothing
that was under the hood of that car would hold up, or somebody would
still be driving it. Every pipe, tube, or piece under the hood shone
like a star on a clear night and to this day, I've kept it that way.
I then installed all the best high performance parts on the market.
Remember I said Jack had everything at his store and garage? Well, you'd
never be able to grasp what I mean unless you saw it. It's too bad
street racing is dying there, and Jack's high performance business is
slowly deteriorating. But he still has his garage.
Also, by this time, I'd been working in his store and garage for about
four years, since I was sixteen years old. Not only had I managed to
become a great mechanic, but I'd also mastered custom painting. I
painted my brand new car sky-blue, or baby-blue, whichever color you like
to call it. Then I put on those cat-scratch graphics I mentioned
earlier. After that, I installed a set of blue glow lights under the
car. The finished car was the most beautiful and raciest-looking car in
Houston. At least, in my opinion, and those closest to me, which were my
co-workers.
The next step was to learn to master driving it. Which, I hate to admit,
took a while. For a long time, I had a heavy foot. I had ever since my
day of hot-wiring as a junior high school truant. I was lucky that
Houston had a local driving course which was supposed to be used for
police officers in training. You know how they have to go through all
that defensive driving crap. I can't stand cops, but Jack, the old guy
with all the connections, got it to where I was allowed, with much
begging on my part, to be able to drive there. He told them something
like I was supposed to be working for him to be a professional,
legitimate drag racer, but I needed more practice in a place where there
was plenty of room for speed. Plus, I think he paid them a huge lump of
dough, but I didn't ask about all that.
My first experience with nitrous-oxide was outrageous. I could install a
NOS kit, but being able to actually use it was a totally different
matter. Another of Jack's mechanics, Michael, a twenty-eight year old
guy who raced illegally at night, was with me in the car. He had also
taught me to drive stick, which was a hilarious time, but I don't need to
go into that in detail. Anyway, about the nitrous, he waited until just
the precise time before he told me to hit the button. And when I did, I
got a rush like no other. I almost wrecked my brand new car that day,
but luckily I got the thing stopped from the spin it was in just before I
hit a railing and possibly totaled the car and killed me and Michael
both. But you know what he did? He laughed at me, like it was no big
deal. And told me he'd bring me back tomorrow for another try. And you
know what else? I thought it was funny myself. The adrenaline rush was
huge, and I craved more, bigger and better adrenaline rushes. Almost
like my father craved liquor and my mother craved any drug she could
smoke, snort, or shoot up. While Jack is responsible for my car and my
mechanic skills, Michael has to be given credit for my driving skills.
Well, not totally. A lot of my driving skills rely on my vivid
imagination and the fact that I fear nothing and I'm possibly the most
daring driver you'll ever meet. No road, cop, raised bridge, or hill can
stop me. And I've managed to master controlling my car in mid-air, which
sometimes can be vital to winning a race, but is usually especially vital
to escaping from the cops. I practiced a lot on that driving course
alone as well. I practiced a lot on the roads myself at night, alone,
between midnight and dawn, when traffic wasn't as heavy. I mastered the
skills of the street racer. And now I've raced more races on those
Houston streets than I can count. And I've never lost a single one, not
even my first.
Now I was restless. Having beaten all the competition in Houston, and
with people dropping out of the racing scene altogether, I felt it wasn't
the place for me anymore. Jack understood when I told him. So did
Michael. Michael even went out and raced a 10 G buy-in race, which
wasn't common, and he'd had to go to Dallas to do it. He'd beat the best
racers there were, racers who worked for rich guys and had come from far
away. He won $40,000 that night and gave me $20,000 of it out of the
goodness of his heart. Michael isn't a very rich person, because we
don't see stakes like that around here, so I didn't want to take the
money, but he told me I was his little sister and there was no way I was
leaving town without a lot of cash in case I needed it.
So, after saying my farewells and packing all my shit up, I drove away,
leaving Houston behind. Houston was dead to me anyway.
As I drove into L.A., I didn't really know where to go. I had plenty of
money, but I'm a tight-wad and didn't want to spend much of it, so I
rented the cheapest room I could get at the local Days Inn.
When I unlocked the door to my room and went inside, I almost immediately
regretted my cheapskate actions. The room was small and crappy, with a
single bed and terrible decorating. At least it did have cable TV,
although there was no remote control. It also had a refrigerator and
microwave that worked pretty good.
I was desperate for a shower. Actually, a bath. I wanted to soak a
little bit. I turned on the air conditioner and went outside to drag all
of my luggage upstairs into the room. I figured I'd stay here until I
found a job and a place. I mean, I had enough money to pay $27 a night
for a little while. And it wasn't that bad of a room and, besides, it
was all I needed for little ol' me.
I then went into the bathroom to run my bath water. I immediately
noticed that there was no drain stopper. I still wanted to take a bath
and soak for a while, so it was time to improvise. As with all motel
rooms, they give you several towels and washcloths. So I took one
washcloth, balled it up into a ball, and stuffed it into the drain the
best I could, hoping it would stop the water from leaking out quickly.
Then I undressed, took my hair down, and lowered myself into the bathtub.
I soaked for at least an hour before actually bathing, shaving, and
washing my long dark reddish-brown hair. I had to add more water about
every twenty minutes.
Before getting out of the tub, I pulled the balled up washcloth from the
drain, rung it out, and spread it out over the shower rail, as I did the
washcloth I had bathed with. I spread the hand-towel out over the floor
so as not to make the floor slippery and then dried my hair and body and
wrapped the towel around myself. I then pulled some pajamas that Michael
had gotten for his little girl to give me for my birthday the year
before. I guess they had gotten tired of coming to my apartment early in
the morning and seeing me in my tattered nightgowns and high-water
pajamas.
I put the pajamas on, which were baby blue with puppies and dog bones on
them. Clearly, Michael's little girl, Midori, had picked them out
herself. I loved them. They were my favorite ones out of the three
packs of pajamas I had gotten for my birthday that year from Michael.
Midori was like my little neice, and I adored her as much as she did me.
It hurt me to leave her behind, but I had needed this. I then turned on
the TV, found a music station, and cut it down so as not to disturb me
too much. I looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. Those big
red numbers read 11:00pm. Early for me to be going to bed, but I'd been
driving a significant portion of the day, and was extremely tired.
I pulled the covers back and slid under them, pulling them up close
around me since I had the air conditioner wide open. I'm one of those
people that has to have constant background noise, so even in the dead of
winter, my air conditioner is running unless I have a heater that puts
out enough noise, which I never have. I needed one of those motors that
people can keep by their bedside.
I took one of the pillows and pulled it close to me to snuggle with, laid
my head on the other one, and fell into the deepest sleep I'd ever slept
up until then.
Coming Of An Equal
Chapter One
*Maria's POV*
I knew making the move from Texas would be a blessing for me. The street
racing scene was dying there, and that was what I lived and breathed
since I used to skip school and hot-wire peoples' ride back in my junior
high school days. I was a terrible truant. But street racing, that IS
what I live and breathe, still to this day. And I probably always will,
until I get too old and arthritic to press my NOS buttons. At least, I
can't see anything capturing my interests more for a very long time.
So, I packed up all my shit, which wasn't much, into the backseat and
trunk of my sky-blue Supra and headed out of town toward the Pacific
coast. At that time, I wasn't quite sure where I was going, but I knew I
had to head somewhere where there was a street racing scene, and one that
was decent, active, and exciting.
I won't lie to you. My car was my heart and soul. Still is. I'll never
get another one and race it too until mine gets so worn out that it won't
keep up anymore. Which doesn't look like anytime soon. It's a Toyota
Supra, sky-blue in color, with these graphics going down both sides that
kinda look like huge cat scratches. It's tight, believe me. Plus, I got
all the NOS graphics and all that good stuff on the windshield and the
back windows and on my fenders, etc. And it's got a killer NOS system in
it. And a lot more than that, but those are my secrets. You won't find
a much better car anywhere. At least, that's what I thought when I left
Houston.
When I reached California, I saw one of those big green highway signs
that said Los Angeles. And it hit me that that's where I needed to be.
An interesting new life, beautiful beaches, plenty of clubs, plenty of
stuff to do. But most of all Los Angeles just seemed to spell out
serious street racing. I pointed my car in the direction that that big
green sign posted on the bridge said to go and hoped for the best.
I suppose you're wondering what I left behind in Houston. Well, the
answer is absolutely nothing. There was nothing there for me anymore.
My mama and papa were total assholes and as far as I could tell, I was a
burden to them. And they didn't give a shit about showing it. Ever
since I was three years old, I knew how to put my own clothes on, even
though they didn't always match, but nobody in my household cared. And I
could tie my own shoes. Sloppily, but I could tie them. I taught myself
that. Plus, after so many years of trying to gain my parents' love in
every way possible, I gave up around the sixth grade and began to take up
with friends. I don't guess they were the best friends to have, but to
me, they were the family I lacked.
When I entered the seventh grade, I began to not give a shit about school
anymore. Why should I? Nobody cared if I went or not. Nobody cared if
I made good grades, or even decent grades, for that matter. So fuck it.
It wasn't that big of a deal anymore. I began to skip school, sometimes
for days at a time. The school would contact my parents, they'd beat the
shit out of me and act like they cared that I wasn't going to school, and
then I'd return to class for a few days before striking out again the
next week and not going. I figured if my parents didn't kill me, all
they could do was make me stronger. And that's the only thing I thank
them for now. Anyway, while we were skipping school, my friends and I
would hot-wire the local rich folks' cars and race them on the
interstate. We always returned them before we got caught, but it was the
most exciting thing I'd ever experienced. And that's how I became a good
driver. Most people get their permit during their sophomore year of high
school and begin driving full-time by their junior year. But I was
driving almost everyday at thirteen years old.
Because the school I attended had decent guidance counselors that
actually gave a shit and worked with me on things because they saw my
bruises and knew where they came from, and that my parents really weren't
all that great, I was able to pass junior high school and make it out of
the eighth grade. I even made it through my sophomore year in high
school. But I quit in the middle of my junior year. I'm no math whiz,
or English whiz for that matter (as Spanish is my first language and
English my second. I learned English when I first came to the states
from Mexico, but I was eight years old. My accent shows.), so I figured
I wouldn't make it past that point anyway. My counselors and even the
principal tried to work with me, but things just didn't work out. I
kinda wish they had now.
I was able to manage to get a job at a local Hardee's. But you know how
Hardee's never gets any business, even with these new Thickburgers they
have out now. So I was actually laid off from a fast food restaurant
because they didn't need that much help. Sucks, huh? Well, it was
actually a blessing in disguise.
Because I applied to a local high performance auto parts store and garage
and received the job. I worked there for about three years before the
owner, Jack Redford, an older white guy who is probably the nicest man
you could ever meet, presented me with this run-down, ragged piece of
shit car for Christmas that looked like it could never be used again, and
told me that if I could fix it up, I could have it. And then he told me
the sweetest thing I'd ever heard: that I could use any tool in the
garage and any performance parts I wanted, free of charge. That was
outrageous to me, and at first, I didn't even want to accept because it
was just too much. But who could turn down an offer like that? Plus,
trust me, Jack had everything. And to take a second to brag on myself, I
am an excellent mechanic. I can do anything to a car.
Now, Jack was really the only father figure I'd ever known, since my own
dad was a total alcoholic ass. I think Jack knows I look up to him as
such, and that's why he got me that car. And he didn't step in to help
one bit the entire time I was building it. I'd spend from dawn until
about three o'clock every morning working on it, for weeks. By that
time, I'd moved into an apartment Jack had given me for free up above the
garage. It was small, only one big room with a bed, sink, "kitchen
area," bathtub, and toilet. Of course, my bathtub and toilet was blocked
off from everything else, so technically I guess you could say I had two
rooms. Anyway, I have decent interior decorator skills, and I made the
place look and feel like home. And I was proud of it, and didn't think a
damn thing about bringing friends over to chill. By that time, I'd made
some new friends, street racers I'd met coming into the garage. They may
have raced on the streets illegally, but other than that, they were good
people who didn't bother anyone, were always polite, and never made too
much noise. Well, when they were at my place they didn't.
Anyway, about the building of my car. I guess it doesn't take a rocket
scientist for you to know it's the one I'm driving now. Of course, it
was still a Supra, but it didn't look anything like it does now when I
first got it. But when I first laid eyes on it and Jack told me it was
mine to build, I got a visual in my mind of what the end result would be
instantly. I immediately went to the store computer, the one I always
worked on, and did a complete layout of the finished product. I was so
excited I could have fainted when I saw the layout. I knew that I could
make that old rusty-looking car out there in the garage look like that.
All by myself, too.
Now, the car wasn't terribly ragged. But it was an older model. It had
been seriously used, and was in need of a good mechanic to bring it back
to life. Something about that rusty red car made me feel a kindred
spirit with it. Maybe it was because it was my first car, the only one
I'd ever had for myself that didn't belong to anyone else. And I didn't
even have to steal it. I just had to build it. Or maybe it was the car
itself, and the way it looked. The headlights, glazed over with a thick
layer of dust, seemed to stare at me, begging me to fix it up and make it
new again. And it was then that I knew this car needed me just like I
needed it.
Like I said, the car wasn't terribly ragged. It had just been abandoned
for a pretty long time. I could tell it had been driven hard by its
previous owner. It had been wrecked, at least two or three times by what
I could tell. Nothing serious, just a few fender-benders. So, needless
to say, it needed a new body kit. In fact, I ripped apart the entire
body and put a whole new one on including the hottest body kit I had
available to me. I was definitely going to take advantage of Jack's
offer, since he insisted. I also pretty much ripped apart the entire
underside of the car, but that was definitely needed anyway. Nothing
that was under the hood of that car would hold up, or somebody would
still be driving it. Every pipe, tube, or piece under the hood shone
like a star on a clear night and to this day, I've kept it that way.
I then installed all the best high performance parts on the market.
Remember I said Jack had everything at his store and garage? Well, you'd
never be able to grasp what I mean unless you saw it. It's too bad
street racing is dying there, and Jack's high performance business is
slowly deteriorating. But he still has his garage.
Also, by this time, I'd been working in his store and garage for about
four years, since I was sixteen years old. Not only had I managed to
become a great mechanic, but I'd also mastered custom painting. I
painted my brand new car sky-blue, or baby-blue, whichever color you like
to call it. Then I put on those cat-scratch graphics I mentioned
earlier. After that, I installed a set of blue glow lights under the
car. The finished car was the most beautiful and raciest-looking car in
Houston. At least, in my opinion, and those closest to me, which were my
co-workers.
The next step was to learn to master driving it. Which, I hate to admit,
took a while. For a long time, I had a heavy foot. I had ever since my
day of hot-wiring as a junior high school truant. I was lucky that
Houston had a local driving course which was supposed to be used for
police officers in training. You know how they have to go through all
that defensive driving crap. I can't stand cops, but Jack, the old guy
with all the connections, got it to where I was allowed, with much
begging on my part, to be able to drive there. He told them something
like I was supposed to be working for him to be a professional,
legitimate drag racer, but I needed more practice in a place where there
was plenty of room for speed. Plus, I think he paid them a huge lump of
dough, but I didn't ask about all that.
My first experience with nitrous-oxide was outrageous. I could install a
NOS kit, but being able to actually use it was a totally different
matter. Another of Jack's mechanics, Michael, a twenty-eight year old
guy who raced illegally at night, was with me in the car. He had also
taught me to drive stick, which was a hilarious time, but I don't need to
go into that in detail. Anyway, about the nitrous, he waited until just
the precise time before he told me to hit the button. And when I did, I
got a rush like no other. I almost wrecked my brand new car that day,
but luckily I got the thing stopped from the spin it was in just before I
hit a railing and possibly totaled the car and killed me and Michael
both. But you know what he did? He laughed at me, like it was no big
deal. And told me he'd bring me back tomorrow for another try. And you
know what else? I thought it was funny myself. The adrenaline rush was
huge, and I craved more, bigger and better adrenaline rushes. Almost
like my father craved liquor and my mother craved any drug she could
smoke, snort, or shoot up. While Jack is responsible for my car and my
mechanic skills, Michael has to be given credit for my driving skills.
Well, not totally. A lot of my driving skills rely on my vivid
imagination and the fact that I fear nothing and I'm possibly the most
daring driver you'll ever meet. No road, cop, raised bridge, or hill can
stop me. And I've managed to master controlling my car in mid-air, which
sometimes can be vital to winning a race, but is usually especially vital
to escaping from the cops. I practiced a lot on that driving course
alone as well. I practiced a lot on the roads myself at night, alone,
between midnight and dawn, when traffic wasn't as heavy. I mastered the
skills of the street racer. And now I've raced more races on those
Houston streets than I can count. And I've never lost a single one, not
even my first.
Now I was restless. Having beaten all the competition in Houston, and
with people dropping out of the racing scene altogether, I felt it wasn't
the place for me anymore. Jack understood when I told him. So did
Michael. Michael even went out and raced a 10 G buy-in race, which
wasn't common, and he'd had to go to Dallas to do it. He'd beat the best
racers there were, racers who worked for rich guys and had come from far
away. He won $40,000 that night and gave me $20,000 of it out of the
goodness of his heart. Michael isn't a very rich person, because we
don't see stakes like that around here, so I didn't want to take the
money, but he told me I was his little sister and there was no way I was
leaving town without a lot of cash in case I needed it.
So, after saying my farewells and packing all my shit up, I drove away,
leaving Houston behind. Houston was dead to me anyway.
As I drove into L.A., I didn't really know where to go. I had plenty of
money, but I'm a tight-wad and didn't want to spend much of it, so I
rented the cheapest room I could get at the local Days Inn.
When I unlocked the door to my room and went inside, I almost immediately
regretted my cheapskate actions. The room was small and crappy, with a
single bed and terrible decorating. At least it did have cable TV,
although there was no remote control. It also had a refrigerator and
microwave that worked pretty good.
I was desperate for a shower. Actually, a bath. I wanted to soak a
little bit. I turned on the air conditioner and went outside to drag all
of my luggage upstairs into the room. I figured I'd stay here until I
found a job and a place. I mean, I had enough money to pay $27 a night
for a little while. And it wasn't that bad of a room and, besides, it
was all I needed for little ol' me.
I then went into the bathroom to run my bath water. I immediately
noticed that there was no drain stopper. I still wanted to take a bath
and soak for a while, so it was time to improvise. As with all motel
rooms, they give you several towels and washcloths. So I took one
washcloth, balled it up into a ball, and stuffed it into the drain the
best I could, hoping it would stop the water from leaking out quickly.
Then I undressed, took my hair down, and lowered myself into the bathtub.
I soaked for at least an hour before actually bathing, shaving, and
washing my long dark reddish-brown hair. I had to add more water about
every twenty minutes.
Before getting out of the tub, I pulled the balled up washcloth from the
drain, rung it out, and spread it out over the shower rail, as I did the
washcloth I had bathed with. I spread the hand-towel out over the floor
so as not to make the floor slippery and then dried my hair and body and
wrapped the towel around myself. I then pulled some pajamas that Michael
had gotten for his little girl to give me for my birthday the year
before. I guess they had gotten tired of coming to my apartment early in
the morning and seeing me in my tattered nightgowns and high-water
pajamas.
I put the pajamas on, which were baby blue with puppies and dog bones on
them. Clearly, Michael's little girl, Midori, had picked them out
herself. I loved them. They were my favorite ones out of the three
packs of pajamas I had gotten for my birthday that year from Michael.
Midori was like my little neice, and I adored her as much as she did me.
It hurt me to leave her behind, but I had needed this. I then turned on
the TV, found a music station, and cut it down so as not to disturb me
too much. I looked at the digital clock on the nightstand. Those big
red numbers read 11:00pm. Early for me to be going to bed, but I'd been
driving a significant portion of the day, and was extremely tired.
I pulled the covers back and slid under them, pulling them up close
around me since I had the air conditioner wide open. I'm one of those
people that has to have constant background noise, so even in the dead of
winter, my air conditioner is running unless I have a heater that puts
out enough noise, which I never have. I needed one of those motors that
people can keep by their bedside.
I took one of the pillows and pulled it close to me to snuggle with, laid
my head on the other one, and fell into the deepest sleep I'd ever slept
up until then.