Sarge woke up when the new day's sunlight graced his face. He grunted as he rolled over in the bed, burying his face in the pillow. Independence Day, 2006.
He dragged himself out of bed and stretched slowly, yawning as he did. The air conditioner kicked on, dousing him in a blissful wash of cold air and quite effectively waking him up. He trudged the short distance to the bathroom and turned on the shower, before glancing at his reflection in the dusty mirror.
He had gained weight since his days in the army, but that was expected. He was in his sixties, for christ's sake, it happens to everyone. His hair had greyed a considerable amount, and deep wrinkles lined his square face. He hated to admit it, but he was getting old.
He showered and shaved quickly, dressing in his usual t-shirt and shorts. After another quick glance at his reflection, he ushered himself into his storefront. It was tradition that he play the reveille every year for Independence Day, and he was damned if he skipped a year.
Sarge brought his old cassette player into his yard, checked the tape, and hit play. To the sound of the trumpet call, he raised the flag; truly, it was a distinguished tradition-
Noise. That's all it was. Every goddamn year. It was just noise!
Fillmore emerged from his geodome, smirking. Over the trumpet call played the screech of electric guitar, that damn psyche-whatever he always listened to.
"Will you turn that disrespectful junk off?!" Sarge cried over the clamor.
"Respect the classics, man!" Fillmore returned, "It's Hendrix!"
Sarge switched off the aged cassette player, and snapped: "You do this every goddamn time—"
"Peace, man." Fillmore interrupted, switching off his music in turn. "It's routine."
"Pretty sorry excuse for a routine." Sarge huffed, and turned on his heel. It seemed like things were not turning for the better, after all.
"Wait, no, come back." Fillmore groaned. When Sarge turned to look at him, Fillmore beckoned for him to come closer. "I heard something last night," he said, leaning on the fence idly, as though they were talking about nothing more important than the weather.
"What's that?"
"That McQueen kid…" Fillmore began, looking around suspiciously before continuing. "He's got a thing for Sally."
At first, Sarge didn't know what to think. It was unlikely, that was for damn sure. "I don't believe you."
"I overheard it!" Fillmore claimed, "Mater was sayin' some wild stuff, man."
"Wait, hold on, you got this from Mater?"
"Well, not directly." Fillmore hissed, "They- he and McQueen- were out in the road last night, just talking, and- and Mater was sayin' somethin about McQueen was falling for Sally, and-"
"Mater's delusional," Sarge concluded, "He didn't know how to cope with the town being abandoned-"
"That's not the point here, Sarge!" Fillmore leaned in, almost conspicuously, "What I'm thinkin'… Is that McQueen's gonna end up staying in town-"
"God, Fillmore, you're delusional too." Sarge groaned, "There's no way in hell that's gonna happen."
"Hear me out!" Fillmore insisted, "McQueen's gonna end up staying, and you know what happens then?"
He paused dramatically, waiting for an answer. Sarge rolled his eyes, "What?"
"Customers! Everything finally goes back to how it was." Fillmore's grin was a mile wide.
Sarge scoffed. "You know that's unrealistic, right?"
"I don't think so," Fillmore said, "I mean, what else would happen if he decided to stay? The press would find out eventually, man."
"Why on Earth would he stay in the first place?"
"Sally!" Fillmore half-exclaimed, "Are you even listening?"
"Jesus," Sarge groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hated to admit when Fillmore had a point. "Let's just get breakfast."
"Whatever, man," Fillmore huffed, "Makes complete sense to me."
They headed down to Flo's together, lightly bickering all the way there. Although it was still empty, the near-finished road was a blessing upon the town. Everyone's spirits had been raised exponentially in the day since the grand reveal.
Flo's Cafe was buzzing with conversation and the clamor of tableware, as it usually was on mornings like this. The folks of Radiator Springs had a habit of congregating there each morning, and they had for the past thirty-or-so years. Sarge and Fillmore slid into their usual booth, greeting Flo on their way in.
"Y'know, you should totally come out to Willy's Butte with me, sometime," Fillmore said, "I used to smoke out there, not so much anymore though… It's real meditative, man."
Sarge frowned. He was not particularly pleased with the memories associated with Fillmore and Willy's Butte. "We'll see about that one," he said, "I'm getting too old for rock climbing."
"Maybe you should try yoga, or something," Fillmore replied, "It could be good for all that pain you've been having recently."
Sarge scoffed, though before he had a chance to reply, the door burst open and McQueen sprinted in, hollering at the top of his lungs: "Did you know Doc is a famous racer!?"
For half a second, it was dead silent. Then, the room erupted into laughter.
"Doc?" Sheriff asked, "Our Doc?"
"Not Doc Hudson?" Sarge added.
McQueen looked indignant, dropping himself into a booth. "No, it's true! He has three piston cups!"
Across the room, Mater spit out his drink. "He did what in his cup?!"
More laughter rippled across the room.
"I think the heat's starting to get to the boy!" Sheriff announced.
"I'll say! Look how red he is!"
Fillmore caught Sarge's eye, saying, "He's losing it, man!"
Sarge shook his head and looked away, now noticing that Sally had joined McQueen in the booth.
"Hey, what're you doing?!" Sheriff interjected, moving to stand.
"It's okay, Sheriff. You trust me, right?"
"I trust you alright, it's him I'm worried about."
Sally hummed, a vague smile coming across her face. "I trust him." She turned to McQueen, who looked stunned. "Hey, let's take a drive."
"A drive?"
"Don't you big-city folk ever go out for a drive?" Sally said, eyebrows raised.
"Er… No, we don't."
Sally smiled at him, and exited the diner with a toss of her hair. McQueen glanced around at everyone, mouth agape as though he had something to say but could not find the words for it, before following her out the door.
Sarge briefly glanced at Fillmore, who was giving him the "I told you so, but I'm not going to say it" look. He hated when he did that.
Everyone crowded at the windows, watching to see what would happen. McQueen looked conflicted, looking out towards the open road and back to the open door of Sally's porsche. He stumbled towards the road, looking up and down as though he were considering his chances of escape. Out of the corner of his eye, Sarge saw Sheriff's hand tighten on the doorknob.
"Are you coming, or what?" Sally said, her voice mostly audible through the diner's thin glass windows.
McQueen cast a glance in her direction, and back at the road. He grinned, and joined her at the Porsche, getting in the open door and closing it behind him.
Goddamnit. God-effing-dammit, he was right.
Part of him was in denial that it could even be happening in the first place. He could care less about Doc's past- Sarge had seen his share of strange pasts from his time in the army. It was the fact that, despite everything that had happened so far, Fillmore had been right about McQueen.
Sarge looked at him, and a wide grin spread across his face. "Don't you dare," he said, jabbing a finger at him, "I know."
Fillmore raised his hands in defense, "I'm just saying, man-"
"Don't."
McQueen and Sally did not reappear until late in the evening, chatting happily about the town's history. Something about abandonment, something about wanting to go back in time. Sarge listened inconspicuously from his spot at Flo's, ignoring Fillmore's raised eyebrows and wide eyes.
He tossed and turned the majority of that night, his mind buzzing with impossible what-if scenarios. Maybe Fillmore was right. Maybe McQueen would stay after all, Dinoco be damned. He could have a good life here, give up his career… Sarge frowned, realizing that this particular outcome sounded far too much like his own.
Then again, he would be lying if he said he didn't want something like that to happen. Maybe not as far as McQueen losing his career, but… He certainly had become an asset around town, despite the complaining. And, not to mention, he would most certainly bring a whole lot of tourists if he decided to stay. "Everything finally goes back to the way it was," he said aloud, staring at his ceiling blankly as he repeated Fillmore's words. His hopes were high, no matter how much he hated to admit it. It would be a dream come true to see the town thrive again, as it once had. Everything could, indeed, go back to normal!
Even including the situation with Fillmore? He asked himself. Sarge had gone back and forth on it many times over the years, but not so frequently as he had recently. He wasn't sure exactly what he wanted; in some ways, he still felt like that twenty-five year old who had followed through with leaving him, even despite his mixed feelings. Quite frankly, he was disappointed in himself. He certainly thought he would be over the whole ordeal by now, and to think that he was considering such a thing…
Sarge forced himself to sleep, refusing to think about it any longer.
He rolled out of bed around five the next morning, and turned on his radio to occupy his mind. Doc must have tuned it to some classic rock station the last time that he had fixed it, and Sarge never bothered to change it. It wasn't that he was nostalgic at all…. He preferred to think that he didn't need to change it because he was working smarter. He didn't know the radio stations these days, anyways.
If you change your mind, I'm the first in line! Honey, I'm still free! Take a chance on-
Sarge promptly switched the radio off. "No, thank you," he said, frowning. He was having some rotten luck these days, and the last thing he needed was disco, of all things. Unwilling to turn on his television set and try the news, he got ready for the day in silence.
When it finally hit eight, Sarge headed outside for the second day in the row. Determined to make something go right for once, he popped his Reveille cassette into his boombox and hit play. Who cared that it wasn't Independence Day anymore? He had a tradition to uphold.
It seemed as though the universe had other plans for him, however. Not fifteen seconds in, Fillmore's psychedelic-hendrix-crap started up from the inside of his geodome.
"Are you kidding me?!" Sarge cried, promptly switching off his boombox.
Fillmore emerged from his beaded curtain, red in the face from laughter. "The look on your face, man!"
"Real funny."
"You're right, it was," Fillmore replied, grinning. He leant up against the fence, like he always seemed to do. "It's routine."
"Shut up."
Fillmore giggled, but it quickly went flat as his grin faded. "No way."
"Huh?" Sarge followed his gaze to the road, which was now completely and utterly finished. Bessie was pulled off to the side of the road next to Mater's junkyard, and…
There was no sign of Lightning McQueen.
A small congregation had grown at the edge of the finished road, Sally at the head. Sarge and Fillmore moved to join them, staring down Route 66 for any sign of a battered red racecar. Of course, there was none.
"He's gone?" Flo asked hopefully, as though she wanted someone to prove her wrong.
"Well, we wouldn't want him to miss that race of his," Sarge replied. Admittedly, the kid had grown on him. He was endearing, in an annoying and pretentious kind of way.
Sally sighed, visibly upset. She turned away from the crowd and set off down the road, sneakers padding heavily against the pavement. She disappeared into the Cozy Cone office, door swinging shut behind her with a dull slam.
Sheriff sniffled, and scrubbed a hand across his face.
"Dude, are you crying?" Ramone asked sympathetically, resting one hand on his shoulder.
Sheriff shrugged it off. "No! I'm happy!" He barked, "I don't have to watch him every second of the day anymore! I'm glad he's gone!"
Just then, Red burst into tears and ran off. That had somehow sealed their fate: McQueen really was gone for good, just like that.
"Hey, what's wrong with Red?"
In near-unison, everyone turned their heads to see that Lightning McQueen had appeared out of nowhere, standing nonchalantly with his hands in his pockets and looking just as confused as the rest of them.
Mater sighed, "Oh, he's just sad 'cuz you left town and went to that big race…"
Sarge couldn't tell if he was joking or not. He never was the brightest, but then again…
"Wait a minute!" Mater cried, a grin spreading across his face, "I knew you wouldn't leave without saying goodbye!"
"What're you doing here, son?!" Sheriff interjected, pushing himself to the front of the crowd, "You're gonna miss your race! Come on, I'll drive you in the cruiser and we might be able to make up for lost time!"
McQueen smiled bashfully. "Oh, well thank you Sheriff, but I wasn't planning on leaving just yet."
Sheriff blinked, stunned. "What? Why not?"
"I'm not sure I'd look too good if I got to the most important race of the season with these shoes," McQueen gestured down at his previously-white Chucks, which were now deeply stained with motor oil and dirt. "Anyone know what time Luigi's opens?"
Luigi gasped in delight, rushing to the front with Guido in tow. Before anyone had time to process it, McQueen was ushered into Luigi's shop and sat down in a high-backed seat. Everyone watched from whatever view they could get; none of them had thought that Lightning McQueen- the very same man who had destroyed their town- would be their first customer of the year.
"Alright, Luigi, hook me up with the best pair of sneakers you got!"
Luigi, who had been rummaging through his stockpile of shoes, glared at McQueen incredulously. "No! No, no, no, you don't know what you want. Luigi knows what you want." He stalked over to McQueen, crouching down to examine one of his battered sneakers, "These- how you say?- sneakers are travesties of modern fashion! But these-" Luigi stood and glided to the other end of his shop, dramatically pulling open a curtained display, "-Leather platform boots? They say: "Look at me! Here I am! Love me!"
McQueen blinked, astonished. He shrugged, "Well, you're the expert."
He walked out of Luigi's fifteen minutes later, his overdramatic white-leather-platform-heeled boots clicking on the pavement. McQueen showed them off proudly, seemingly satisfied with the purchase.
"Honey, I think you need a new outfit to go with those shoes," Flo said, pulling him aside. Next to her, Ramone nodded enthusiastically.
McQueen was whisked away by the couple, busily talking about what they would dress him in. They always were the fashionable ones in town, Sarge thought, somewhat smiling to himself. The townsfolk dissipated, chatting eagerly about what was happening as they returned to their posts.
Fillmore sighed dramatically, "I'm not gonna say I told you so, but…"
"Nothing's happened yet, Fillmore." Sarge said, glancing up at him. He looked away quickly as they made eye contact. "Just because he's buying things doesn't mean he's going to stay."
"I'd say it's a sign," Fillmore replied, "You know, my tarot cards told me that this was going to happen."
Sarge groaned, and started heading back to his own shop. "None of that's real. You know that, right?" he said passingly.
"Sure it is," Fillmore countered, following him. "You just need to open your mind a bit, man."
"My mind is open enough, thank you."
"I'm not so sure about that."
Sarge spun around as they reached his lawn. "I don't need you telling me how to think."
Fillmore laughed, resting one hand on his shoulder. Sarge shrugged it off out of habit. "You haven't changed one bit, man."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"You're still strange to me, soldier. That's all." With that, Fillmore departed towards his own shop, disappearing behind the beaded curtain with a flourish.
Sarge shook his head, almost berating himself for the thoughts he'd been having as of late. Fillmore was still Fillmore, no matter how much Sarge tried to convince himself that he had changed. The door to the surplus shop jingled as he opened it, and he huffed as he sat down in his chair. It's not like he was actually planning on going through with it, right?
He sat around for a while, again switching between pretending to work and reading his novel. Fillmore had recommended it to him- it was about a wartime pilot who went crazy after seeing all of his friends die. Apparently it was some antiwar political book, but he hadn't gotten to that part yet.
The bell above his door jingled, and Sarge sighed heavily, not looking up from his novel. "What the hell do you want now, Fillmore?"
"Oh, uh," A voice said, distinctly not Fillmore's, "Sorry to bother you."
Sarge hastily threw down his book, startled. In the doorway stood McQueen, holding a cup of Fillmore's organic-whatever and a bundle of clothes under his arm. "Jesus, sorry," Sarge said, "I thought you were-"
"Oh, it's fine!" McQueen said, grinning reassuringly, "I just wanted to ask- Do your neons work?"
"Erm… Yeah. I replaced them the other day."
"Great! We're surprising Sally tonight at sundown."
"With what?"
"The neons. And music." McQueen gave him a rundown of the plan, which included something that sounded quite similar to one of Flo's parties back in the day. Music, drinks, neon lights…
As McQueen left, Sarge couldn't help but think that Fillmore had been right about everything so far. Though, if he ever admitted that, Fillmore would likely put the blame on his tarot cards and the stars… or something like that. He spent the rest of the day waiting anxiously until sundown. It felt like an eternity before sundown actually came, and by then he had already met Fillmore at the edge of their shared fence.
"I'm not gonna say it," Fillmore said, smiling giddily. His arms were crossed, and he rolled the amethyst around his neck between two fingers.
"Say what?"
"... I told you so."
"Shut the hell up."
Together, they joined the others in the intersection. It was buzzing with conversation and excitement; Flo and Ramone had donned their matching disco outfits, and Sheriff seemed to have put on a tie. As the sky transformed into a wash of saturated pinks and oranges, Sally finally exited the Cozy Cone. Her head was down, and she looked dejected.
Her expression changed quickly as she noticed everyone standing around in the road. "Okay, everyone, what's going on?"
Mater leapt to the front of the crowd, grinning from ear to ear. "Ladies and gentlemen! Please welcome the new-" He bowed dramatically, gesturing in the direction of the door, "Lightning McQueen!"
McQueen practically strutted out of Ramone's, decked head-to-toe in clothing that hadn't seen the light of day in thirty-some years. Freshly-laundered bell-bottom slacks and a bright-red satin shirt, complete with Luigi's world-famous leather boots.
"Radiator Springs looks pretty good on me, huh?" McQueen said, opening his arms to show off his new look.
Sally giggled like a schoolgirl, delighted, "Well I'll say!"
"Hey, is it getting dark out?" McQueen said, conspicuously louder than his normal speaking voice.
Lizzie stopped rocking in her chair, sitting forward, "Huh?"
"I said: is it getting dark out?!"
"Now, what was I supposed to do when-"
Red pressed the play button on the boombox, and an old Chords tune started up. In wonderful synchronicity, neon lights flickered back on for the first time in years, painting the town in a wash of bright pinks and yellows and greens.
Sally and McQueen looked on in awe, as though they felt they'd been transported to a different decade. Flo and Ramone began to dance in the street, picking up the familiar movements of an old routine. For the first time in years, everyone seemed content with life. Income didn't seem to matter in that moment, only the swelling saxophone and blinking neon lights.
Life could be a dream! Sh-boom, if I could take you up in paradise up above! Sh-boom and tell me darlin' I'm the only one that you love…
"I've always liked this song." Fillmore seemed to appear out of nowhere, smiling dreamily.
"Have you?" Sarge asked.
"Yeah, man. It's a classic." He sighed happily, "Brings back a lot of memories, you know?"
Sarge didn't like the bitter taste in his mouth as he spoke next, "Yeah. I know."
"Man, you remember New Year's Eve, that one year?" Fillmore asked, "Right after all that shit happened with the road. Um… 1967. That's it."
"Yes, I remember."
"I think that was the last time I heard this song," Fillmore said, "New Years Eve, 1967."
Sarge didn't reply. He didn't know what to say, especially since they had both avoided talking about it for so long… this was a terrible time to bring it up!
Everytime I look at you, something's on my mind… If you do what I want you to, baby we'd be so fine!
Sarge, as if directed by the music, met Fillmore's gaze, and he was looking right back. Sarge knew he should have looked away, but he found that he didn't especially want to, not when it might ruin the moment-
"D'you want to da-" Fillmore began, but was interrupted by Flo.
"Is that what I think it is?!"
Sarge looked away quickly, hoping to God above that she hadn't been talking about them. Luckily (or unluckily), she was focused on the mass of headlights speeding down the road towards them.
"Customers?" Sally breathed, pulling herself free from McQueen's arms.
"Customers, everybody! And a lot of 'em!" Flo called, bringing everyone's attention to the light. "You know what to do, just like we rehearsed!"
A spotlight erupted on the town, singling out McQueen; it was as if he had become a messiah, swarmed by the press like moths to a flame. Questions sounded more like demands, and McQueen's pleas were lost in the noise.
The siege was over as quickly as it had begun: not five minutes after the press had arrived, they had whisked McQueen away again. As the news vans and semi trucks departed down the highway, so did the joy that the evening had brought. There was a reeling sound from Lizzie's boombox as the song ended, draping the town in crushing silence.
"I didn't get to say goodbye," Mater said, sighing. With that, he headed home.
Everyone followed suit, hearts heavy. Lightning McQueen was gone, as were their hopes for a new beginning. As Sarge locked the door to his shop behind him, he felt as though Radiator Springs had been lost to eternity for the second, third, fourth time. Through his window, he saw that Fillmore had remained outside: he looked hopelessly down the road from his yard, toying with his old Zippo.
He went to bed early that night, forcing himself to believe that it had been for the best.