4. Old Tears, New Fears

Thunder rumbles through the drudgingly gray clouds as the constant soaking rain beats down on the oak casket. Six men in black carry the casket in a precession of dripping rainwater and flowing tears. Following immediately behind, are two people; a tan skinned young man with sopping wet thick black hair and smaller, frailer middle-aged woman. The woman's slightly wrinkled face was veiled with black, hiding her apparent sobs. The young man walked on steadily with the woman carrying a painful somber on his face. His tears blended into the cascading rain down his tan cheeks. The pallbearers reached their destination under a makeshift white tent and placed the heavy casket onto the straps above the freshly dug grave. Then five U.S. servicemen carried an American flag over to the casket and covered the beautiful soaked wood with the colors of honor. The young man took the lady's and placed it on the casket along with his own. The five service men marched into formation and one of the stated "Godspeed to our brother in arms, Major Carlos Delado. We, the United States Navy salute you. Ready! Aim! Fire!"

The young man flinched at the first crack of the five-rifle salute. Tears began flowing down his face while it cringed in somber pain. "Dad," he whimpered through his rasped pain and tears. "DAD!"

A sudden gasp of air. Gone are the soaking rain and gray clouds. Gone is the funeral precession. However, the tears, pain and sadness remain. The young man opened his eyelids to reveal bloodshot and irritated windows to his soul. They began to well up as he realizes that he's remembering the most significant point of his life up until now. He stares through his blurry tears at the stark off-white walls of his bedroom. The sun is pouring in with hues of pink and orange. He glances over to his alarm clock. 6:45 am. Rubbing his eyes, he crawls out of his messy sheets and sits at the side of his bed; his hair is a mess of thick blackness consuming most of his head. He grabs the green bathrobe draped over the bedpost and stands up. Wrapping it over his tan skinny half naked body, he opens the door and walks towards the bathroom. He sees an older woman leave the bathroom in a pink nightgown.

"What's wrong, Mom? Can't sleep?" asked the tall, dark, and bloodshot young man. She looks up at him with matching bloodshot eyes and tears welled underneath her wrinkles eyelids.

"Its Dad, isn't it," whimpered the teenager walking closer towards his mother. She replied with a slight nod and wrapping her arms around her son. They both cradled each other and sobbed in each other's arms.

"I just can't get over the pain, Ricky," sobbed his mother.

"It's been six months and nothing feels any better, Mom," replied Ricky. "I just miss him so much. Why did he have to go so quickly? Why?"

"I know what you're saying. It seems like every day that goes by, you think you should be healing. But it hurts now as much as it did six months ago," sobbed Ricky's mother. "It's an awful thing, but every day, I pray for distractions to keep my mind off from him so I don't cry all day."

"Yeah but to keep the spirit of Dad alive, we can't forget him. Maybe it's a good thing that we cry every day. It shows that he'll never die," comforted Ricky. "As long as we both can remember him, he won't die." He then gave his mother a kiss on the forehead and entered the bathroom. "Please get some sleep mom. You have a lot of stress in your life as it is."

About half an hour later, Ricky was packing his books into his backpack, getting ready for school. He then grabbed his laptop computer and noticed that his cell phone was on his desk.

"Aiya-chan. Why didn't you answer my call last night?" he asked himself. A feeling of disappointment came over him as his shoulders dropped and he slowly exhaled. Suddenly, a horn honked from the driveway. "Who the hell could that be?" he wondered. Ricky darted through the hallways and through the front door. A white early-nineties style fastback coupe with pop-up headlights stood there, idling. Then, the driver's door window rolls down, revealing a familiar face.

"Ricky, mah man! What do you think? Isn't she a beaut?" asked the driver of the car, a teenaged boy with brown, messy hair.

"Benji? Is this yours? When did you get this?"

"Last weekend. I could barely contain myself all week cause I wanted to surprise you and everyone at school! I finally got my insurance and registration squared away yesterday."

"Wow, you really outdid yourself this time. It looks fast and sporty," commented Ricky as he was circling around the car looking at the white glossy body.

"Not to mention it's FR. Say, Ricky, wanna ride to school?"

"Hells yeah! I'd rather ride with you than on that shitty bike!"

"Well then hop in, bro!"

Ricky opened the passenger door and sat inside the sports car. The floor mats were obviously worn and old; the plastic dash was beginning to fade. Everything has the faux finish of Armor All.

"So how old is this thing? And what's FR?" inquired Ricky.

"It's a '93 Nissan 240SX Fastback, but we can call it the RMS13. FR means that its engine's in the front and its rear wheel drive," replied Benji.

"Cool. Why not just call it the 240SX, like it says on the rear?" asked Ricky. "I think it sounds cooler."

"Because, it's cooler to name a car by its chassis code. The code of this car is RMS13," answered Benji.

Puzzled, Ricky replied, "Whatever makes you happy, Benj."

Benji then dropped the shifter into reverse and popped the clutch without revving the engine. It promptly stalled.

"Dammit!" Benji complained. "This thing needs more power or something. First thing I'm doing is looking for an SR20DET."

Benji restarted the engine and tried again, but over-revved the engine this time. Both their necks snapped forward as the car leapt backwards.

"Sorry," Benji replied as he put the shifter into first. He released the clutch suddenly and skipped the car ahead, whip lashing their heads back and forth.

"You need help with that?" asked Ricky.

"Hey, this is my first time driving to school with a manual shift!" snapped back Benji.

©2005, Marc Gabriel Palardy, All Rights Reserved