Chapter 42 – "At the End of Another Lost Highway"
The sun waded higher in the morning sky, casting perfectly imperfect shadows of palm trees along the roads of Beverly Hills. The balmy air still had a crisp whisper - enough to relax even the most overheated cars. If one listened close enough, one could hear the riff of a classic electric guitar riffing a surfer's ballad.
Along the seaside, where a small gated community lived together in harmony, each home stood meticulously constructed in a contemporary fashion. The exteriors were so dry and monotonous, yet even still, one of those houses could easily bankrupt the average race fan in town for this new type of Piston Cup race.
One car, a familiar veteran racer with a loud green paint job and a mustache shined up so exemplary that it could have been fake, stood idling in the driveway of one of the homes. Next to him, a wooden sign hanging on a short wooden pole swung with each breeze. Across the front, a giant sticker read "SOLD" in red lettering.
The driveway meandered up to the front garage door made of aluminum clad. The face of the house didn't quite match this old Piston Cup champion's home in Carburetor County.
Quite the opposite, actually.
In Carburetor County, the tiny home he watched his son grow up in was meekly guarded behind a broken fence. A home he purchased back when Lightning McQueen barely had a name for himself - back when cars called him "the rookie" instead. It was the jealous racer's attempt at watching McQueen's every move. Every practice lap. Every technique.
For himself.
As any car would know, it didn't really help. It only taught Chick that he could watch other racers all he wanted - all night long, even - but he had to face the truth at one point. He had to admit raising a race car required a real mentor. A teacher, perhaps. Not that he would know much about that. He never even graduated high school.
And his son?
His son being held back for racing history - of all things - made his gas tank turn.
Chick thought he'd be proud to raise a champion to be his doppelgänger, but these days the defeated racer wanted his son to be anything but him.
The construction spoke for itself - built just a few months before. The brand-new home towering over the retired racer had no pits or cracks in its plastered tan face. A fortress secured by a heft iron gate - and it didn't include the gate leading into the neighborhood itself.
In Carburetor County, as soon Chick came rolling on home and shut the front door, the wall to his left had visibly penciled in lines drawn over one on top of the other. Little numbers next to the lines showed how much his son grew each time Chick told him to park there and see where the new line fell.
But here, in Beverly Hills, each wall had a slab of clean white paint.
Untouched.
In Carburetor County, the coffee table in the living room had stained rings all along its edges. It always held up sprawled out racing magazines. Some nights, the small table had dried bits of food stuck to its surface.
All thanks to Chick's son, who promised he would do his chores and deliberately disobeyed him.
His son would consistently eat in the living room instead of the dining room table, where he didn't have to be near his dad.
But in this new home, a fireplace waited patiently for its occupants to come home, right where the coffee table would have been. A warm, welcoming hug from the cruel competitive world outside. The mantle above had no trinkets. No awards. Not even a shiny medal from his son's school.
And, it most certainly didn't have a Piston Cup.
But then again, in Carburetor County, that house didn't have a Piston Cup either.
At least, not anymore.
Paving stones lined the perimeter of the home with various colors and textures. It doubled as a way to let the excess water drain out into the street, then down the road to be filtered through the earth again.
In Carburetor County, their overgrown lawn was still waiting for his son to mow it like he was told. Chick warned his son about rattlesnakes being attracted to taller grass. Which, of course, his son took as a challenge.
Small mechanisms ran between the stones leading up to the front gate for additional security. A car who most cars didn't like very much needed the extra security measure.
In Carburetor County, between the tall blades of grass, old plastic toys waiting for his son to come back out and play. Unbeknownst to the toys, they witnessed the last playtime a while ago.
The Beverly Hills kitchen had sparkling state-of-the-art appliances. Each appliance was stainless steel and top-of-the-line quality, complete with brand names the racer couldn't pronounce if he tried. The stove nearly doubled as a personal chef with all the settings and modes adorning its face.
In Carburetor County, that stove still wore what the experts call "ancient spaghetti sauce" from his clumsy son making dinner for himself while "champion" was out telling the world how great of an athlete he was.
One could see all of this and more just from being stagnant in front of the home. Most of the front face had more windows than it did walls. Up the ramp leading to the second floor, a master bedroom fit for a king, but not fit enough The King, stood by for that nap the old champion was going to take after all the moving finished.
In Carburetor County, Chick's bedroom only reminded him of his ex-girl, who took the bedroom furniture set without the mattress and bed frame. The mattress used to have two pillows, but his son could swear he could still smell his mother's perfume on its surface, so he kept it in his bedroom to sleep on when he needed it.
And from what felt like miles down the hallway from Chick's master bedroom, light filtered through a cracked door - where his son would soon sleep. The sun could kiss a car good morning in that room, and the moon could whisper "goodnight." It overlooked the crystal ocean through one large window that stretched from ceiling to floor.
In Carburetor County, he had his blinds shut in his room. At all times. No exceptions. He had Green Day posters embracing all four of the walls. Each poster represented a new phase his son promised wouldn't be just a phase. It even had a desk scraped up from frustration of not knowing any of the answers to his homework. It even had notches in the legs closest to the door from every kicking temper tantrum his son could hurdle.
But the room kept his son safe, his son's thoughts safe, and that was enough for Chick.
For Chick Hicks, forgetting it all was easy. He couldn't wait to forget. He even knew Murphy would be so happy to say Carburetor County didn't matter anymore.
Chick's brand-new career would keep his house floating effortlessly through payments for the next fifteen years. His home was the only one in the neighborhood that still had payments due. More than likely, because, unlike Chick Hicks, they didn't live beyond their means.
"We're almost done, Mister Hicks," said a moving truck hoisting a clean white trailer that matched his cab's paint job, "This is the last of your things, but I need to readjust my trailer for an easier angle."
"Sure, sure," Chick dismissed him with a swat of his wheel. He took a deep breath, the old memories disappearing, and he smiled, "We're home, Champ."
beep beep beep beep beep
Chick glanced over at the moving truck reversing toward the house. He started towards him, "A little more to the left," Chick badgered, "There you go. Now to the right," his eyelids furrowed, "Your other right. Who taught you how to drive?"
The racer's instructions were as random and eclectic as the rainbow of stickers littering his green body. He waved his tire around, conducting a broken symphony of directions.
"What are you doing?!" Chick scolded, "You're about to run into the windows!"
"Mister Hicks," the moving truck rolled his hazel eyes, "I haven't run into anything or run over anything the entire time I've been here. I'm not gonna start."
"Just watch out for the windows," Chick reiterated, "And the walls," he cleared his throat, "Actually, you know what, just-…excuse me," Chick sighed, "I'm sorry."
The moving truck's eyes almost shot out of their windshield at the apology.
"I want my son to have an impressive first impression."
The moving truck snapped out of Chick's apology trance with a scoff, "He doesn't need a good impression at all, Mister Hicks. You told me over and over again that your son couldn't wait to be here," he positioned himself up to the garage door. A ramp extended out from the back of his trailer to the edge of the front door. Five small forklifts wearing different but coordinated uniform patterns over their paint scurried out. Each hoisted brown cardboard box with different words written in permanent ink to match each room.
"He is over the moon about not being in that awful-," Chick moseyed over to the forklifts before they could get inside the home, "HEY," he called out.
The forklifts all turned to look at him. Some had concern written all over their faces, while others couldn't seem to care less.
"Be very careful with that stuff," Chick demanded, "That's my son's stuff. You're handling a future Piston Cup winner's personal collection. They'll be priceless after tomorrow."
"Yes, sir," said a masculine voice out of the group of forklifts, but Chick had a hard time telling which one of them spoke. They all about-faced and disappeared into his house.
"….speaking of," the moving truck began, in an attempt to bring Chick's attention back to him like a shiny ball, "…how is your son holding up with all of this, Mister Hicks?"
Chick perked up when he heard his name and drove around to the front of the truck, "Sorry, what was that, Julian? I couldn't hear you. I was watching those guys," he gestured toward the forklifts that no longer stood at the front door.
"Your son," Julian repeated, "Murphy. How is he handling the news?"
Chick raised an eyelid, "What news? What's wrong with him?"
The moving truck blinked a few times, "You don't…know?" Julian thought for a moment, unsure if he should bring up the death of a Carburetor County student. After all, Chick would find out eventually, with it blaring all over the news channels and other media outlets.
Chick looked at the front door, checking it as if he still needed to keep an eye on the forklifts he couldn't even see anymore, "Did something happen to Murphy?" he looked back at Julian, "He didn't call me or…text me or whatnot."
Too late.
Julian sighed, "Carburetor County, Arizona. The murder."
"Oh, that was years ago, Julian. And it wasn't a murder," Chick laughed, "Lightning McQueen's daughter is alive and well. Besides, if you haven't heard, she's gonna be in the race with Murphy," he smiled smugly, "She won't win, but she'll be in the race with him."
"No, I know that story, Mister Hicks. I'm not talking about her," Julian corrected, "I'm talking about some murdered kid. Like, just killed. Recently."
"Crime's been going up in that sleepy county," Chick replied, "Notice a pattern? Ever since McQueen moved there, crime skyrocketed. They ought to hire more law enforcement or get the military out there."
"Military-…wh-…the news said that county barely has a population of- "
"Exactly. So, it shouldn't be this hard to find the car responsible," he exhaled, "Look, Julian, I don't have time to keep up with old school drama, and neither does Murphy. I've been settling into this house and making arrangements for the new job. Murphy is focused on starting his life out here. We're both pretty booked at the moment."
"Alright," Julian shrugged his axles, "Just curious. Didn't mean for it to sound like I'm prying."
Chick turned back to the house, leaving Julian to stare ahead down the driveway he'd never be able to have himself.
"She is perfect," Chick beamed with pride, "Three bedrooms. Two and a half bathrooms."
The truck whistled, impressed, "My entire family could live there," he chuckled sarcastically, "Right now, we're all kind of living inside of the same walls," his neutral expression became a tiny frown, "All of us."
Chick shook his hood, "No, no. Murphy and I don't have much of a large family."
"Then why-," Julian composed himself - kept himself as professional as possible and choked back what he really wanted to say, "Then, why did I become a moving truck instead of someone famous."
"Was that supposed to be a question?" Chick's gaze broke away from the house for a moment, sensing the different tone coming from Julian, but let his feelings roll right off his trunk, "I'm actually gonna use that third bedroom as an at-home office for when I can't make it into my real office."
The color in Julian's eyes practically faded away. A cold rush of air that didn't actually exist brushed against his axles and climbed up his suspension. The weight of his expenses added to the weight he needed to haul for a living. His shocks compressed into a slump. He may not have been able to say what he wanted, but he knew Chick was too busy drooling over the house than paying attention to his expressions.
Chick pointed at the front door, "That aluminum-clad door."
Julian adjusted his side-view mirrors to get a glance, "Oh yeah," when his eyes made contact with the door, he felt his diesel tank sink, "… I'm looking at 'em."
"You know what those doors lead to?"
"Mounding piles of debt, I'm sure," Julian muttered.
Chick couldn't hear him. The racer gestured toward the door again, "You don't realize that right behind that door is the end."
Julian raised an eyelid, "I don't get it."
"Years of hard work paying off," Chick continued, "The life Murphy always wanted," his grin widened, "That boy's face is gonna make an expression it's never made before when he comes home."
"I couldn't imagine," Julian replied.
"I mean, really comes home. A place he can finally have gratification in calling his home," Chick's grin moderately faded, and the enthusiasm in his voice fell soft, "A place he won't ever run away from again."
Julian shrugged, "Kids are gonna be kids, Mister Hicks."
Chick shook his hood, "Oh-ho, no, no, Julian. We are exactly where Murphy's been running to this whole time."
"This exact place, hm?"
"And now he doesn't have a reason to run anymore."
"I don't know why you ever left Los Angeles in the first place, then."
"To know thy enemy, Julian."
"I'm sure," Julian narrowed his eyes, "A powerful enemy in the middle of nowhere, USA?"
"Yes," Chick nodded fast, "The middle of nowhere, USA. Where you just said a car is rolling around murdering others, and besides, that's where the enemy lived."
"It couldn't have been that serious."
"Number ninety-five."
"Oh, come on."
"Turns out, moving there didn't help much at all. It made life a living hell for my son. I didn't like it, but the hard work gets you here, Julian. I needed to do what had to be done. For our future. For my success. If you think about it, this is paying it forward to Murphy. He will have exactly what he wants now."
"If I'm hearing you correctly," Julian cleared his throat, "Because I want to get this straight. You moved to the middle of nowhere to stalk Lightning McQueen?"
"It wasn't stalking," Chick said fast as if he knew what Julian would say, "It was studying."
A lock clicked open behind the old racer, and a whirring sound entangled with a smooth slide filled the air behind him. A welcome change from hearing an old fence gate bashing open every time someone came home, and Chick knew the only other car that could get through that new gate, not including himself, without any permission.
A similar, though much younger image of the racer, enrobed in freshly waxed black paint and smokey flames rolling up his fenders and dissipating before they reached the middle of his doors, let himself through the gate. His earthy brown eyes darted around at the sight ahead. They moved up the entire height of the home, then back down to the front door. The gate began to slide shut again behind him, letting out the same noises as when it opened. He jumped gently, then calmed down once he realized the sound didn't come from any danger.
Julian glanced over at the young car, then looked in his side-view mirrors at Chick, who grinned wildly and was already turned to see him.
"Champ," he gestured toward the house, now behind him, "Welcome home."
Murphy's eyes glanced over his father. He blinked a few times, then mirrored a much calmer grin.
"Well?" Chick waved his tire, "Get over here and look around, Junior."
Murphy accelerated just enough to get his wheels turning toward his father. As he drove, he couldn't help, but sneak peeks at the palm trees on the property swaying like they were waving at him too. Murphy's smile grew more and more every inch he got closer to the front door. He passed his father and approached the front door, mesmerized by a call that only he could hear.
"Your room is waiting for you," Chick uttered as Murphy drove by.
The young racer gasped softly, "Really?" Murphy stopped just before entering the house, "You mean my posters, my guitar, my- "
"Room is waiting for you," Chick repeated, holding his smile.
Murphy had to see it. He had to see it now. He needed to know if it looked just like the picture painted in his mind for years.
"Yeah," Chick continued as Murphy continued driving, "Now you don't have to spend a second night at that luxury motel place," he turned his wheels and drove toward Julian's front end, getting ready to pay for the moving service.
Murphy slammed on his brakes. Though he wasn't driving fast, his brakes locked so hard that a screech whispered from his treads halting on the floor. His smile dwindled in a direction his father couldn't see.
But he did hear Murphy's tires squeak, and it made him laugh. Chick looked up at Julian, "Did you hear him? Murphy hated that motel so much he stopped like his catalytic converter just fell off."
"That's awesome, dad," Murphy's voice danced with excitement, but his face said otherwise.
No matter how well Murphy could lie with his words, he couldn't lie with his face.
Dammit.
No matter how balmy the temperatures were in California, nothing could compare to the heat he felt radiating off Jane's body next to his. His breath skipped just thinking about himself sleeping on the same mattress he used to cuddle with Gianna again. The same bed on which Gianna shared intimacy with him. The same mattress…
Murphy's thoughts unraveled like a train off its tracks.
The same mattress he watched Jane slumber all snuggled up under his plaid blanket after saving him from a dust storm. He shut his eyes…and that rosy Porsche was in his mind again.
The way her eyes blinked open with a sleepy face. He saw her awaken from underneath his blanket, staring deep into his eyes, as the covers fainted - no - melted down the curves of her metal.
The impression in his mind knocked the wind out of him the same way it did when he witnessed it that very next morning.
Murphy still idled at the front door and groaned under his breath, jealous of how his blanket got to hold her first and how his blanket got to…touch her first. Caress her body, and…did Jane remember it the same way?
He wished he could see her point of view, but he hurt the hell out of her when they were just getting to know each other.
And he knew that.
But what Jane didn't see that very same day was what happened after they were separated once more. Two friends - home in their own beds.
Jane wasn't there to see Murphy drying off in his room after a soothing wash that night. She didn't see him lock his bedroom door. She didn't see him drive up to his bed, climb in, and stuff his grille into the pillow she rested her front bumper on the night before. She didn't see him breathe in, deeply, smelling her, imagining she was still there with him.
Her laugh. Her stupid jokes. That damn bend of her lips when she smiled.
And Jane certainly didn't see Murphy feverishly grab his blanket, stuff it into a messy line, and hug it with all four of his wheels. She never saw how he squeezed the blanket against his undercarriage, and primally kicked his mother's pillow off his bed. Or how Murphy went right back to pressing his grille into Jane's pillow.
A pillow that used to smell like Gianna.
But even when it did smell like Gianna, she never affected him the same way.
Never hypnotized him.
Jane never saw the way her scent made Murphy's axles relax and his pupils expand further than the universe itself. The way she gave him a high a car couldn't buy on the street. Jane didn't see Murphy bring some of the blanket up in front of him and clench his teeth down into the fabric.
Murphy knew, for a fact, that Jane didn't realize just how different he was around her than Gianna.
Murphy drove into the house, but the spell wouldn't stop even as he drove the home, looking at each room until he found the ramp to the second floor.
She's a McQueen. Snap out of it.
He used to tell himself that, over and over again until he, through a clenched jaw, would answer aloud, "I. Don't. Care."
The fight inside of him would boil.
You can get any girl you want. You just got cheated on by a cheerleader, and you settle for a McQueen out of the billions of cars roaming the world. You had ONE job.
I. Don't. Care.
You're a Hicks.
I. Don't. Care.
Murphy shook his hood, bringing himself out of it. On the inside, a raging earthquake. On the outside, he was an excited young man with his future ahead of him and a new place to live.
Murphy stopped when he found his room. His brake lights lit up the hallway until he nudged the door open some more and drove inside. Murphy saw it arranged the same way he had it in Carburetor County, except for the close to the cinematic window overlooking the ocean from ceiling to floor. He stood taller on his suspension, seeing his dream room almost precisely like the photo in his mind. The ocean waves even crashed the same way Murphy imagined.
But then…
…the image of Jane silhouetted against the sunlit sky peered in front of him just as it did when he saw her on the motel balcony earlier in the day. A ghostly image of her parked on a translucent patio that wasn't actually in front of him now. Even if he wanted to approach her, he couldn't because his bedroom window had no door.
He daydreamed about how she looked at him when she noticed he was there. His pupils widened again, taking in her imaginary paint glistening like the ocean.
He remembered the conversations about Jane that he used to have with Caleb. The Kia Sorento was the only car he ever trusted enough to tell.
"Caleb, I don't know what to do. Gianna is gorgeous, but there's something about Jane, man."
"Bro, if you're not gonna ask her out, I will," Caleb would tell Murphy, "If you're not happy, break it off with Gigi. Otherwise, I'm going after her."
"I heard cars in the halls say she's single, but there's no way she's single."
"Dude, I heard she's never even had a boyfriend."
"Look at her and tell me that's not a bald-faced lie, Caleb."
"You never know. Maybe she's waiting for you," Caleb would smirk, "But I know what you mean. She's that type of lady who doesn't know how sexy she is."
"I know it sounds stupid, but it makes her even sexier."
"I know you must have glanced at her trunk in passing. God daaaamn."
"Gianna would kill me, but yeah…I may have glanced at it."
"Gianna ain't here. You can admit it."
Even if a car told him Gianna wasn't around, Murphy would always check his mirrors before saying anything that could make Gianna angry, "Jane's incredibly sexy."
"Hahaha. She's got an hourglass shape with an athletic touch and everything."
"Caleb, please."
Caleb would laugh, knowing how the thought made Murphy starve, "You know what they say about Olympians when the Olympics comes around. Look it up on the internet, bro. They all hook up with each other when cameras aren't rolling. How could they not? They all have perfect Olympic bodies."
"They don't have the time. They're Olympians."
"Bro. Rumor has it that any city the Olympics are in always have…shortages of important safety measures. Catch my drift? Like I said, look it up."
"Yeah, got it, but what do the Olympics have to do with anything?"
"I mean," Caleb would smirk, "You and Jane have athletic bodies. It's not a secret. Come on."
In the ghostly image of her, Jane's eyes pierced his. Maybe it was her imperfect eyes being two different hues. Or the way the desert made her paint glow in a sunset.
If only it were real. If she was in that room with him.
Murphy stomped his tire, trying to snap out of it again, but he couldn't.
He'd drive over an entire road solely made from every cactus in Carburetor County - let their thorns go right through his treads, just to have the chance of feeling their first kiss again. Especially the moment he felt her lips accept his.
Over and over.
He'd waited so long to reside in California, but that dizzying sensation…could it be?
Homesickness?
For that hillbilly desert wasteland?
For the crickets singing under an endless sky of stars?
Chrysler.
If a home is where your heart is, could that be why he felt so empty here?
He shivered.
With a turn of his wheels, Murphy cruised over to his acoustic guitar and the metal tools that helped him play it. He hooked the tools to his rims and carefully took the guitar off of its stand, propping it up in front of him. He brought his axle over the front end and let one of the tools do the strumming. He kept his other axle behind the guitar's neck and let the other metal tool press in chords. Once in position, Murphy eyed himself in a vertical mirror, framed in black stained wood leaning against one of the walls in his room. It had a long crack trailing down from its upper right corner.
He rested his front bumper on the guitar's body and strummed its string gently while holding back the stinging salty water begging to stream out of his windshield. He watched the ocean waves crash in the mirror's reflection. The waves would start at his left side view mirror, pass his bedroom mirror, and dissipate in his right side view mirror.
He couldn't tell which of the three haunted him more as he belted out, in a shaking voice, one of his favorite Green Day songs with marginally amended lyrics and a slower tempo.
"They said home is where your heart is, but what a shaaame," Murphy crooned, "cause everyone's heart doesn't beat the saaame."
He continued to strum, "Mine's beating out of tiiime," he couldn't hold his tears back any longer. Even still, he continued, "City of the damned."
"I'm at-," the saltwater from his eyes breached Murphy's defenses and poured down his hood, dripping off his fenders and falling into the ocean's image, "I'm at the end of anooother lost h-highway," he stopped and just spoke one last line, "Signs misleading to nowhere."
It made Murphy flash another memory of Jane in his room again.
"You know this song?" he remembered asking her as he played Green Day's The Waiting Unknown on his stereo.
He could even remember Jane's amused laughter as the Porsche answered, "I know this band."
Murphy brought his eyes to his mattress, and his breathing hastened. His RPMs increased so high that his hood - and his hood alone - shuddered.
You'll never see her again after tomorrow.
You got what you wanted; now you've lost what you had.
Murphy abruptly forced his guitar away from him, "FUCK."
The guitar flung into the side of his bed frame, and the metal tools ripped off his rims. The sticker-littered body of his guitar separated from its neck with a booming snap while the metal tools crashed into his already cracked mirror, causing the long crack to expand. As the neck fell toward the brand-new wall, the tuning pegs and portions of sharp wood scarred the fresh paint.
With the song's melody floating around the room, a blaring scream, and the general sound of things breaking, Murphy didn't even notice another car idling in his room's doorframe.
"Champ?"
Murphy heaved a breath of shock and jumped backward. His eyes quickly coasted toward the voice.
His father stood alert on his suspension with a concerned furrow between his eyelids, "What the hell is going on?"
"NOTHING," Murphy shouted, a bit disoriented and using tire rubber to push tears off of himself.
"Did you think your room wasn't complete without broken crap scattered all over?" Chick Hicks rolled deeper into Murphy's bedroom and looked at the mess better. His eyes widened, "Look what you did to the wall! Your guitar!"
"I'll GET another one," Murphy swatted the air with a wheel.
"You are NOT getting another guitar," Chick scowled, "At least, not from me. You're not getting anything new from me if this is gonna be how you treat things," his upper lip lifted into a snarl, "Dammit, you're too old for this, Murphy."
Murphy bucked forward to respond, but his father cut him off.
"I spend all of this money - A LOT of money - trying to make YOU happy, Junior. You're not here more than ten MINUTES, and you're already trashing the place. What the hell?"
"Don't call me Junior. I'm NOT a child," Murphy responded anyway, in a battle for control, "AND I'LL FIX THE WALL, ALRIGHT?"
Chick growled and revved his engine hard, "I'm sick of you talking to me like that. If you don't want to be treated like a child," he pulled his axle back and whacked Murphy across his face, "Then DON'T ACT like one."
Murphy placed his tire up on the spot his father slapped and stared ahead with a deer-eyed gaze. His treads matched up with Chick's near perfectly.
"I don't even want to look at you right now," hissed Chick, "I messed up a lot, and I know that Murphy, but I've been trying my damn hardest for you."
Murphy continued to stare ahead, frozen in place.
"One of the only reasons we had that old hillbilly house was because I chose to take care of YOU alone with whatever money we had left, instead of living in one of those mansions you hung over my roof your entire life. Unless you WANTED to go do heroin with your mother in California."
Murphy pulled his tires up into his body, shrinking down to the size of a constricted, shriveled pea. Or so, he felt.
"You think things just happen to you," Chick laughed, "You think there's no rhyme or reason for anything I do for you. I'm not perfect, Murphy. I'm just a car. I was YOU once, Champ."
Chick slammed his tire onto the floor with each point he trailed off with, "I wanted the fame and the money and the big houses and the warm air and the palm trees and the girls and the ocean and the white sand beaches, and LOOK what happened."
Hee gestured to himself and then to his son, "I see you not only going down MY road," Chick uncovered a crumpled pack of opened cigarettes from his wheel well, "But you've already STARTED on your mother's. HERE," he threw the pack at Murphy's grille. Bits of tobacco leaves sprinkled the floor and parts of his front bumper.
"I'm tired of it. I'm exhausted, Murphy. I genuinely regret not disciplining you more. It's not like you ever stop whenever I say 'no' to you. I told you to stop smoking months ago, but you ignored me. You won't even let me talk to you every once in a while. I get a job offer in line with your racing offer, and I scrape up all the money we had to get your trunk here. I bet on being a talk show host just to keep a garage over YOUR roof. Just have even the smallest chance to give YOU the life you've always wanted before you moved out for good. Yeah, I lied to you for most of your life, sure, but did you ever even want the whole truth, Murphy? Is that what you've wanted to come home from school to see every day? The truth?"
Chick put himself in reverse and steered his wheels toward Murphy's bedroom door, "I can't even look at you right now. I don't even want to look at you. You do whatever you want. You go be the greatest racer I never could be, make me proud of you, and then we'll go our separate ways. I'll give you that one priceless thing you've always wanted. Separate ways. Deal?"
Before Murphy could answer, Chick hurried out and away.
Murphy peered around his room, looking at the damage he had caused. He moved his tire off of the space his father slapped and lowered down to a piece of his guitar. While Murphy tried to manage the parts swinging around by their strings, he caught a glimpse underneath his bed. Boxes of cardboard and plastic tubs were stored safely under his bed frame.
His eyes were suspended on one particular see-through tub. He spotted his own startled contemplation cast onto a shining golden Piston Cup with Doc Hudson's name engraved on its face."
"Come on…pick up...," begged a female car with a southwestern flavored voice. She watched her cellphone screen.
Hey, it's Alyssa. If this is that creeper from Trigonometry, I'm calling the cops.
Beeeeeep.
"Alyssa, it's Jane. We haven't talked since I told you about Murphy, so…," the young Porsche paused, "I'm sure you heard the news about Caleb," she thought for a moment, "If you need to vent or anything like that, just know I won't judge you for anything you say about him. I think we all need to stick together. More than ever. That's all I wanted you to know."
Jane ended the call, leaving the message for her friend to hear. She pulled her lips in, tapping open her list of contacts again and scrolling up to the beginning of the alphabet. She eyed one name in particular.
Austin.
She glanced at the time, which told her it was just about noon.
Half the daylight was gone.
And that meant the next time the sun rose, she'd be in a line of steaming, revving engines, all with the same goal in mind. A crowd screaming their hoods off.
Even louder than Lutum.
Millions of pairs of eyes surveying their every move.
She puffed out a quaking breath. On top of the stress, the lingering thought of not being there for Caleb's funeral nearly rotted her heart into rust.
Even if it was controversial.
She went ahead and tapped Austin's name. She rolled her lips around as she heard the tone ringing, rubbing them in and out. The ringing continued. She swallowed a dense gulp.
"He hates me," said Jane to herself, "Good going, Jane."
The ringing stopped.
"How on earth am I gonna fix this?" Jane said aloud, looking at her call history to see if, perchance, Alyssa returned her call.
But…no dice. Jane turned her wheels inward and zoned out in front of her.
The quiet motel room hummed with painful anguish of silence.
Her family - so far away (minus Mack).
Her friends - revolted.
And the racing fans - the very nourishment of every car's career on that starting line - where was their promised support?
Certainly not in the room with her or any of the other cars in the motel, for that matter.
Jane shook her hood the more she let her mind take over her confidence.
What's the point of all this?
The money will make the room louder. The number of cars that know her won't make her feel less alone. The fame would take away her privacy. Establishing a relationship with her biggest crush already inevitably pushed her friends away.
Was all the worth missing a funeral?
Just one more day.
For the better half of that morning, Jane promised herself that all of this pressure would only be for one more day.
And then? The end.
Maybe college. Maybe trade school. Perhaps just establish her own shop in Radiator Springs so she could hear those familiar stories, hear the jokes she knew every punchline to, and see the same cars she grew up with for the rest of her days.
….and to pray to the manufacturer that she never fails at her business, as every car in Radiator Springs has done before.
But that was all before her father came into town, which she admittedly knew nothing of. Frankly enough, should that be the path she chose, Jane would most likely be privileged enough to never see her business fail because of her dad.
And would her business really matter if it didn't come from her hard work?
Her effort.
Her talent.
Her aptitude.
Her strength - if she could even call herself strong anymore.
No.
She took a deep breath.
Not anymore. It was time to get the naysayers and vile characters out of her focus, once and for all.
Carburetor County's previous racing coach.
Gianna, in general.
Doctor Freudliner.
Vermella.
At a minimum, for just one more day.
Suddenly, Jane's phone screen lit up and buzzed. Her mirrors perked up at the sound, and she rushed to check the name on the screen.
Austin
"HEllo?" Jane's voice cracked pretty hard when she answered.
"Jane," said the male's voice - on the soft side. In a monotonous tone, he asked, "How's the trip going?"
"Hey, Austin," she cleared her throat with a slight cough, "I'm having a good time, minus the news. I called Alyssa, but she hasn't picked up. I left her a message."
"Oh," the police recruit replied, "Well if that's what the call was for, I can tell you she's not here with me."
"No, I know that," Jane could cut the distance she felt from her friend with the sharpest knife, and even still, it would chip. Jane knew it wasn't the police academy changing him. It was her own damn fault, "I'm sure you've heard."
"I heard a few things," said Austin.
Jane took another deep breath. She tried to choose a topic but couldn't decide, "Any one thing you want to talk about first?"
"Let's not beat around the bush. You have your own life, Jane. I'm not going to try to live it for you. That's not my business."
Jane raised an eyelid as Austin continued, "You're doing stuff that makes you happy, and I think that's great," but Austin's vocal inflections barely changed the evenness of his tone.
"It was the heat of the moment," said Jane.
"No, Jane. It wasn't."
Jane could see the Ford Police Interceptor shaking his hood with utter disappointment inside her imagination.
Austin continued, "Just tell me how long you've liked him…."
"Ah, only about- "
"Tell me the truth."
A cold chill radiated out of Jane's metal. She wasn't quite used to an unfriendly persona coming out of Austin. She responded, "A while."
Austin fell silent. He told her not to lie, and although the half-truth wasn't false, it was still vague.
He knew she knew that.
"-since," Jane continued, to fill the awkward silence, "Since I met him, okay?"
"And that means you liked him even when he said those things to me? You liked him when he teamed with Caleb and took turns trying to make me feel all feeble and-"
"No, Austin. No way."
"You just told me you've liked him since you met him."
"But I never once supported any of that."
"Did it turn you on when they tried to discourage me from the academy?"
Stab.
"Did it make every part of your body tremble?"
Twist.
"When the two of your lips touched, did it burn worse than what they put me through?"
Pull.
"St-Stop it. Alyssa had already scolded me. She said the same stuff, more or less…."
"Jane, Alyssa loves you. There isn't anything you could ever do short of killing someone she cares about that would ever make you dead to her. She even told me she supports you, and I know you know that's true because she told me she said the same thing to you. She probably isn't answering because she's a Prius and needs to charge. You know how late she sleeps in. Plus…you and I both know you don't wanna talk to Alyssa before she's had her morning charge."
Her concern for Alyssa's judgment to banish Jane from her life dwindled, "I'll say…."
"Jane, look…even though I hate him, I'm not happy Caleb died," Austin explained, "I don't get a sense of victory knowing his body is going to be buried and forgotten and all the crap he's said to me gets to live in my head forever."
Jane just kept quiet. She did her best to keep her bottom lip stiff.
And Austin continued, "I'm genuinely upset that I can't be there tomorrow. To see your race, though I'll be watching from the TV, or to see the last moments of sunlight touching Caleb's paint. You, because I love you. As a friend. Caleb, because I wasn't there to protect him, and that's another thing I'll need to live with forever."
"I didn't think you'd feel bad at all, to be honest, and that's part of how I left the voicemail to Alyssa. No judgment. I was expecting to hear you give him the works just as I expected Alyssa to vent."
Austin paused, "I didn't choose to start the academy this Summer to not be there - even for cars I'm not fond of. I'm supposed to be there. I can't stop that feeling. Even if I don't like the car, it's something I can't control. I told my mom I wanted to be a police officer. She bought me this light bar. I could have been a doctor, Jane. I could have been an accountant. But for some reason I cannot explain; I don't feel useful unless I'm the first one there to help. Even though I still have some fears. I still feel like I was- "
"-built for it," Jane finished for him.
"Y-Yeah…"
"Guess what?"
"What?"
"This car told me a thing or two about being fearless, Austin."
He stayed quiet, just listening to her.
"You're not a coward just because you're afraid of getting hurt, Austin. Or afraid of a car that's bigger than you. Or even some stage fright at a dumb Winter concert. It's about facing the stuff you're afraid of and doing that stuff anyway, and you did that. You're in the academy. You're facing everything you were afraid of. That's everything that makes you fearless."
"I- "Austin scuffed his tire on the ground, which Jane could hear from her side of the call, "I never thought of it that way."
"Yeah, I didn't either, until I heard it myself."
"Who'd you hear that from?" Austin asked.
"Miss Relay mentioned it," Jane replied, "But after bringing it up to him, Murphy was the one who actually taught me how to use it in practice."
Austin's eyes widened on the other side of the call, even though Jane couldn't see it, "Murphy. Your rival. He helped you put it into practice? You brought up all the stuff Alyssa, and I helped you with, and he didn't make fun of you for it?"
"No, Austin. Murphy continued your help. I swear on my life, Austin. Murphy isn't actually bad when- "
"Don't you swear on your life unless you absolutely mean what you're gonna say."
"Murphy isn't bad when he's not around Caleb," Jane replied, without any hesitation, "I swear it on my life. He's still an attitude on wheels, but that's just him, Austin."
Austin sighed, "Hm..."
"Murphy's just…spicy."
Austin paused, and shortly after, Jane could hear a small giggle from him, "Spicy."
Jane's mirrors perked up, "How would you describe it?" she recognized her old friend in his voice again, "I can't think of anything else."
Austin scoffed, "I mean, is he, like, Jalapeño spicy? Cayenne spicy? Wasabi spicy? Or- "
"Austiiiiin."
"Jaaaane."
They both waited a few moments to speak, letting small lingering laughs out. Jane licked her parched lips. The nerves from the call were almost entirely gone, "But I can hear it in your voice that me being with Murphy hurts you. I don't want to hurt you, Austin."
"If what you said is true, whatever you have going on with Murphy doesn't hurt me," Austin grunted, "Besides…if there's something good you of all cars see in him, then I'm gonna trust your judgment. And so will Alyssa."
Jane exhaled heavily. Consolation washed over her from hood to taillight.
"For what it's worth," said Austin, "I'm glad I started the academy when I did. By the time we graduate high school, I can start working immediately."
"I'm glad you did too…," she said, "And, really, you don't know how much this means to me."
"Maybe I don't," Austin agreed, "But it doesn't matter. I know how much you mean to me."
Jane went to answer, but the peeling sound of tires driving away trickled from the bottom of the room's door. Jane narrowed her eyes, watching a shadow swoop away.
"You still there, Jane?" asked Austin.
Jane kept her eyes on the space between the floor and the bottom edge of the door.
"Jane, you there?"
"Hey, I gotta go," she bit the inside of her cheek.
"You said that kind of fast. You alright?"
"-someone was just listening to me."