It took almost a week before we were able to drag my beloved Chevrolet Chevelle out of the yard and into a quiet, abandoned corner of the garage. Al, Jones, myself and two brawny truckers helped to push it out of its dug-too-soon grave. I paid both with a service and wash of their trucks. They left laughing about my attempted 'resurrection.'
It was a good thing, I decided, that the garage was so large, indeed created for an outfit of about eight men to work as well as a boy for the front desk, but that was back in the days when the highway was a major thoroughfare. It was lucky because I could keep the Chevy shoved in a lonely corner until I had a spare two seconds to do some welding, wiring or enlist Jones' help – with a bribe of a six-pack of course – to beat out and fit panels.
It took me two months to strip the car, totally removing pretty much everything and only keeping what I knew I would never be able to afford to fully replace. That stuff, like the engine, would be subjected to my experiments as I tried to make it far superior to anything that the stock vehicle could ever have possessed. I'd always been good at taking something and making it better.
The only thing that gave me pause in those early months was a box type thing that was fused in place in the undercarriage, protected by a thick sheet of metal that ran from the front of the vehicle. I'd seen it's like on the vehicles used in mine sites before, but never on a roadster. It was designed to protect the precious parts of the undercarriage from rocks and thick mud that would cause everything to seize. What it was doing on such a low-down vehicle as the Chevelle, I couldn't say.
The box itself was another puzzle, another mystery that I was going to be unable to solve any time soon. It was slightly larger than two of my heads put together and seemed to have nothing any hinges, locks, seems or joins in it anywhere which confused the hell out of me. Why would anyone make a perfectly smooth box and fuse it to the underside of the car? I tried everything to remove it, chiselling, cutting, pulling and sawing but the metal around it was every bit as sturdy as the box itself, which resisted all of my attempts to cut into it despite trying all of the most powerful tools I could. Resigned, I just left it there hoping it wasn't some drug dealer's stash or something.
I'd gotten Al to look at it, to see if he could come up with any ideas as to why the previous owners had it fused on there but he was at as much a loss as I was. Jones had just laughed at my paranoia that it was something terrible. So, against my better judgement I left it there, clinging to the underside of my car like some kind of tumour.
Jones and Al, I had quickly come to realise, had a steadfast, humorous, father-son relationship thing going on that left me bewildered and constantly lagging behind. I mean, how could two people who quite clearly had no relation to one another at all become so close knit? Al watched over Jones like a hawk at times, yet managed to be perfectly discrete about it. He cared a great deal for the younger man, that much was apparent, and Jones joyfully basked in the indirect praise and attention.
It was just as strange for me to admit though, that I was beginning to feel something like affection for them also which frightened me to be quite frank. After all, it had only been a very short time thus far, to short, I thought, to form the kind of familial bond we all seemed to share.
But there was just something about the way Al hovered when he had an inclination that I was going to do something dramatically stupid and potentially dangerous. There was something about the way he looked at Jones and I whenever he tried to teach us something knew and finally –finally!- we managed to get it right, though not without egos that were as bruised as our hands.
There was something too about the way Big Al had infinite patience when teaching, despite his generally surly disposition. I loved the way that the older man would treat me no different to Jones, and how despite our formidable work load he always ensured that we got fair hours to make up for the scummy wages he was able to provide – after I finished paying off my car, of course – even if we wanted to work overtime to make up for said scummy wages.
It didn't bother me though; I had a car – albeit one far from driving standard even if the engine did reluctantly cough to life- a place to rest my head – okay, so a dusty old loft that smells like diesel and old dog isn't the best place to crash at the end of the day, but it one-upped a park bench – cash in my pocket – so what if it wasn't a lot of dough? But it was enough to buy food, car parts, dunny rolls and the occasional bribe of cheap beer – and people who gave a damn about my well-being – even if one of them was a jerk-wad who persistently drove me to the edge of sanity and beyond.
I had possessed far less in my twenty-odd years of life, and I would perhaps even go so far as to confess that it could very well have been the best I'd ever had it. Hardly a day went by when I wasn't breaking down into fits of laughter over the antics and misadventures of Jones, sometimes even with a sideshow of Big Al dosed in. The thing that made a difference in life, I realised, was the people who had their grubby claws in it, no matter their intentions there.
"Havek!" was the only warning I received before one of the Chevelles brand-spanking new tires came bouncing towards me. I leapt forward and grabbed the wheel before it could smash down shiny new rim first into the hard, unforgiving concrete.
"Jones you arse!" I yelled, wishing I had something other than a bunch of rather necessary wheel nuts to pitch at his thick skull. "These cost me an arm and a leg each, you toss-pot! Don't you dare scratch a single one!"
"So, uh- where'd you get the other arms and legs from, lil lady?" he asked with a cheeky smile, wheeling the fourth and final tire over to me with excessive amounts of care. Not that I minded of course; excessive was far better than insufficient. I simply gritted my teeth and scowled at the idiot.
"Just put them on," I commanded, waving the rattle gun threateningly under his nose.
"Sheesh! I'm going alright?" he exclaimed, lifting the new tire in place. "Crazy bitch." I heard him mutter after a moment. I made sure to step on his fingers as he attempted to push himself off the floor. The ensuing slew of curses would have made both truckers and sailors extremely proud.
I wielded the rattle gun like I'd been born to it, having a wheel attached and double checked but the tire iron just in time to move around to the next one that Jones had in place. In under two minutes my car had four brand spanking wheels and could officially be labelled completed, even if there were a few minor things that had to be dealt with, like touching up the interior and slapping on a paintjob. But those were cosmetic and meant little in the end, so I could at last say that after two years of hard, never ending labour I was at last done. Perhaps this would mark yet another turning point in my life, another furtive step forward.
"Al! Al! It's done!" I cried out, clapping my hands together like an exuberant toddler.
"I can see that," was Big Al's deep throated reply from where he stood, arms crossed and a smirk playing around his mouth. He looked at the way I was standing there, just grinning happily before making a brusque shooing motion with his hands. "What are you waiting for? Go burn some rubber!"
I laughed heartily and grabbed the keys from where they hang on a desolate hook, out of sight but never far out of mind, before slipping my fingers under the door handle, grinning feverishly at the clunk it produced when pulled.
I thought I might die as I slid into the low seat, the smell of leather, chrome and diesel assailing my nostrils like the sweetest of perfumes. I closed my eyes and wrapped my hands around the steering wheel with relish, running my palms over the slickness of it, fingers trailing over the bumpy grips on the back. It seemed to fit my hands perfectly.
"Shall we drive?" I opened my eyes to find Jones sprawled in the passenger seat beside me, trying to appear nonchalant and failing miserably at it. The eager look in his eyes rivalled mine in ferocity.
"You tell me, bud," I asked the car, waiting a moment before reverently turning the key in the ignition.
The engine purred to life as I said it would way back when I first discovered the car, albeit it sounded more less like the purr of a kitten and more like the rumbling grumble of a dinosaur. It was utterly the most perfect sound I had ever heard.
"Just like you said it would," Jones murmured from the passenger seat and I grinned wolfishly at him, the excitement of it all making me giddy.
I adjusted the side mirrors in nervous anticipation, the car humming as it idled, as though it too was eagerly anticipating being back on the wide open road. I took a moment with the rear view mirror, staring back into my own eyes as though I would see some marked change.
I didn't. My brown hair still hung low over my forehead and down the sides of my faces, choppy and sheared into rough tufts at the back. I still had the same six earrings that I'd had since I was thirteen, three studs and two hoops in one ear and a small, lone hoop in the other, a small purple stud resting in my nose.
It was the same sharp face staring back at me with its too long nose and dosing of freckles over my tanned skin, my overly large brown eyes shining so brightly that I looked slightly ill. I could faintly see the silvery scar that traced through my eyebrow, but the fringe covered most of it and you wouldn't know it was there unless I pushed the hair back, which I never do.
"You right there, good lookin'?" Jones asked with a mocking tone in his voice. I glanced at the cheeky bastard before smirking and smoothly guiding the stick into first gear, Al rolling his eyes at our melodramatics. I saw Jones' hand clench on the pant leg of his baggy jeans. After my constant mooning over the car and all of the hard work, blood, sweat and tears we'd put into getting the old wreck going again, he had come to love the Chevelle almost as much as I did.
We sat outside for a moment as I double-checked everything I possibly could, the dark tint protecting us from the scorching rays of the afternoon sunlight.
"You're not going to have some kind of fit over there, are you?" Jones asked me, half-joking and half-concerned for his own well-being. In a cheeky response I revved the powerful engine before we finally got going.
The Chevelle rolled slickly down to the highway and I looked both ways before gunning the engine and gliding slickly around the corner, grey smoke throwing up behind us as the tires fought for traction.
"So much for baby steps," I heard Jones mutter over the roar of the engine and I grinned, loving the feel of the wheel beneath my hand, the smoothness of the gearstick, the tingling rumble shuddering through the whole car and the leather seat beneath my arse. I loved it all.
I stretched out the engine, pushing the car faster and shifting through the gears till it was at its max.
"What're you doing?" Jones gasped in an epic fail of his masculinity. He reached up and grabbed a hold of the handle over the door as if that would help him if we had a head-on collision with an oncoming truck.
"Revelling in freedom," I responded, baring my teeth in what must have been quite the savage grin. The car felt steady in my hands and the road was perfectly straight, wide open and with not a car in sight. It was like the pathway to a rev-head's heaven.
"How's your heart rate?" I asked Jones with a wicked grin. He turned to look at me with a suspicious and panicked glint in his eye dark eyes.
"Why? What are you going to – ARGH!"
I forced in the brake and reefed the car around so that it skidded across the empty lanes onto the furthest side of the road, doing a full one hundred and eighty degree turn in there somewhere so that we were facing back towards the garage.
"Crazy bitch!" Jones managed to gasp out as he struggled to maintain any dignity that he may have once had.
"Don't be such a little girl," I retorted with a roll of my eyes as we powered along. Jones stuck his tongue out at me before nearly biting it off as I forced the accelerator down again.
~ ( ) ~ ( ) ~ ( ) ~
"How'd it go?" Al asked as we pulled back in to the garage. Jones leapt out the door before we'd rolled fully to a stop, staggering to his feet with a slightly unhealthy green tinge to his skin. I didn't feel a shred of sympathy; what kind of mechanic doesn't like to push fast, powerful cars to their limits?
"Awesome!" I responded with a world-eating grin on my face. Al shook his head in wonder.
"Must've been. I don't think I've ever seen you smile like that."
"She's a maniac," Jones bit out as he slunk back into the workshop.
"Maybe," I agreed with his retreating back, another grin flashing across my face. "Anyway, Al, can I have the weekend off? I wanna get the Chevy painted by that guy you told me about?"
"Well…"
"Awesome! Thanks!"
Al just blinked at the words that had flowed out of my mouth in a torrent but I was already running for the stairs of the loft well before he had any chance to respond. It was just so damn exciting!
I grabbed my wallet, stuffed it with cash, some clothes, a toothbrush, hairbrush and jammed my red truckers hat into the top of the bag. To say that I packed lightly was a fairly accurate statement.
"See ya!" I yelled to Jones as I bounded down the stairs of the loft and past him with a flushed face, catching a glimpse of his exasperated headshake. I threw the bag onto the passenger seat and looked up at Al from the open window of the Chevelle.
"Hey Al…"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks," I smiled at him, trying to convey all of my gratefulness into that single gesture.
"For what?" he responded, though he seemed to already know the answer.
"Everything. I mean it," Al blinked rapidly several times before a broad smile spread under his bushy beard.
"You just make sure you come back when it's all done. I wanna see that car of yours in all its glory."
"There's no place I'd rather be," I responded before once again turning the key in the ignition, setting the Chevy in gear and pulling away.
I left the window down as I drove, the air rushing in as I belted out Lullaby by Nickleback utterly shamelessly from my toneless set of pipes. I laughed freely, feeling lighter than I had in years, my fringe catching in the heavy rush of air and flying back off my face. It felt to me in that moment that maybe, just maybe, I had seen the worst of it, that the storm had finally lifted.
A surge of pure recklessness pulsed through me with those thoughts, not that my reckless streak is ever too far from the surface. I pushed the accelerator to the limit and worked my way to top gear. If I got caught then and there I would have lost my license for the rest of my life and been institutionalised. Maybe I should have been because my heart was telling me that the Chevelle had a little more to give whilst my head was pretty certain that the classic was at its peak.
"C'mon baby," I muttered, clenching my hands around the steering wheel and applying a little more force on the accelerator. It resisted for a moment and I thought that maybe that was it, but then the resistance fell away and the Chevelle bit out a deep growl before surging like it was going through some rapid gear changes, but the gear box was only a six speed and already at the top end.
The needle on the speedometer continued to rise and then it maxed out, but my innards told me that the speed was still climbing. By now we were going impossible fast and the air rushing past me from the open window was so forceful that I struggled to take a breath.
"Shit!" I exclaimed and went to move my foot off of the accelerator but a gruff, metallic and distinctly masculine voice cut me off.
"You chicken?" It asked, and my gut clenched. My hands were suddenly extremely sweaty on the wheel and I braked sharply, ending up facing across the two empty lanes.
"What!?" I exclaimed – shrieked – without meaning to, fighting down an abrupt and fierce panic attack, the like of which I hadn't experience since I was about eleven and my dad was going to- no.
"What?" I repeated again, slightly more in control of myself, though if that voice spoke again I was sure to utterly lose the plot.
"Who said that?" I demanded harshly, attempting to mask my fear behind false bravado though I knew it was a pointless attempt. I scoured my gaze over every inch of the Chevy's interior, but of course there was no one there. I shuddered, staring at the radio in horror and confusion as realisation came to my mind. My Nickleback CD was still pumping but that voice had easily cut in over the lead vocalist. "Who said that?" I demanded again, trying to insert a little more authority into my voice. But of course I received no answer once again.
I stared at the radio dubiously for a little longer before shaking my head and putting the car into gear. It must've been a spasm of the radio, or my imagination or something. There was simply no other explanation.
I drove more sedately now, the occasional tingle still running up my spine as I kept getting the feeling that I was being watched. I switched the CD from Nickleback to some gentle country. It was perhaps not the best driving music, but it was mostly instrumental.
Oh if only I'd gotten out of that 1970 Chevy Chevelle then and there and walked away…
~ ( ) ~ ( ) ~ ( ) ~
Hello lovely people!
Thanks so much for your support on my first chapter! A very special thankyou to Fox Of The Last Temple, wordgeek1000 and Fandom Jumping Expert for your kind reviews!
Please review! It seriously makes my day and lets me improve the story!