Jackson Storm, no affiliation given
They're at the sisters' thing. That's what he's been calling it, much to Gale's chagrin. Not 'the' funeral. Not Ray's funeral. It's 'that sister thing.' You know. The shindig.
"You worked with him, right?" one of the sisters asks. She's writing place cards. Immediate family parks up front. Then close personal friends.
Storm knows she's not really looking at him. Her mind is somewhere else. He's literally IGNTR's poster child; if it mattered to her who he was, or at least who he'd been to Ray, she'd have noticed on her own.
"I'll park in the back," he says. He means it as an explicit favor to her, but she doesn't seem that grateful.
She seems like her baby brother just died.
"I'm sorry for your loss," says Storm. When it leaves his lips, it sounds perfunctory. Storm's not sure if that's how he wanted to sound or not.
It's not like she's listening, anyway.
The back row is for rubberneckers. The cars who don't really deserve to be here. The ones adjacent Storm hadn't talked to Ray in twenty years, and one of them is only Ray's sister's neighbor. She'd never met Ray; just knew he missed his sister's wedding last year. He took some job and needed to be in Los Angeles. Start date non-negotiable. Rumor had it the racer he'd signed on for had been notoriously difficult to work with. Talented, though.
Maybe Storm should feel guilty about that. Being difficult, that is. Being difficult and keeping Ray from weddings and stuff. (Sometimes he genuinely does; he's just never figured out what to do with the feeling, except ignore it.)
Today, though, it feels like triumph. Because That's right. He chose me. He chose me over all of you.
And now he's gone.
Storm's engine misfires. He swallows thickly.
"And how did you know Ray?" asks the neighbor, turning to him.
Funeral small talk jumps to the top of Storm's list of things he finds absolutely stupid.
"Better than you did," Storm replies.
It's a long funeral. The first half is religious, and Storm knows none of the hymns. The second half is memories. Those aren't any more familiar.
"Anyone who knew Ray at all knows where I'm going with this," claims a Ford Explorer, brandishing a fishing pole. Laughter ripples through the crowd.
Storm does not know where the Explorer's going with this.
"'Cause you know, most people talk about the weather, or work. The usual stuff. Not Ray. He'd come up to you the first time, and ask, 'Do you know how to fish?' You could be in the middle of Death Valley and there'd be Ray, asking about the fish!"
More laughter.
"And of course, Ray never actually learned how to fish. I mean, show of tires - who's ever ended up on a fishing trip with Ray before they figured out he didn't know the bait from the pole? I'm serious - get 'em up there!"
Storm looks around. Turns out Ray's been on an ungodly number of fishing trips.
"That's just who Ray was. Even put money down on that cabin - all right, folks, tires again; who's been to the cabin? yeah, I thought so - just so's he could take folks there. Have a little fun. Ray believed in taking time out for all the things you're bad at. If there's one thing Ray oughta be known for, it's that."
"He never did learn how to fish," adds the next speaker, to more laughter. "On account of always being too busy shooting the breeze with whoever he'd invited up there!"
The next talks about what a jokester Ray had been. So easy-going.
One woman recounts a love letter, from when they'd been young. Ray was so sensitive.
The quote she reads from the letter is so unlike the Ray Storm knew he wants to gag. And he'd never found Ray particularly funny. Sarcastic, maybe. Occasionally uncouth. There'd been that one time when he'd programmed McQueen into the simulator. But Ray didn't tend to crack jokes with Storm - thankfully, since Storm's not big on jokes. They're often told by cars who think they're funnier than they are.
Like the car at the mic right now. Not funny. Even so, it sounds like the whole room's in stitches.
None of this was the way he'd known Ray. Ray feels further away than ever.
Storm closes his eyes.
After his eighth consecutive win, Ray had placed a tire on his fender. No one's ever done that before, kid, he'd said. Not in the entire history of the Piston Cup. This is all you.
Storm had said, Don't touch me.
The night of his tenth consecutive win, his first Championship, and McQueen's big crash, Ray had said, from a respectful three feet away, I'm glad you stayed safe.
I just won, Storm replied. Like, the whole thing.
Ray shrugged. I never thought you couldn't.
But you thought I'd be dumb enough to crash?
Ray's gaze follows the ambulance out of the stadium gates. I'm always gonna worry about you, Storm, he says.
Storm opens his eyes again. Now there's a late model dirt sprinter at the front of the room. One of Ray's former racers, talking about how high Ray always placed in the chili tailgate cook-off. You know, just casually, because he was one of The Guys. Chili cookoffs and a cold beer after the race. Everyone remembers doing that with Ray, right?
Everyone.
Storm is going to choke on his own exhaust.
Every time a car here opens its mouth, It feels like they're taking Ray from Storm a second time. Every 'remember when,' every wistful chuckle and the wave of knowing glances that follows without fail - the chassis-shaking laughter because of something Ray said, once upon a time, long before Storm ever knew him. Ray's life and times balloons before Storm's eyes and Ray doesn't just drift away like a ghost - he shoots into the stratosphere like a rocket and the loss is sharp and sudden and it leaves a sonic crater in its wake, just like the first time.
Just like every time between then and now.
Every memory is a Ray Storm never knew - and probably would never have known, even if Ray lived another hundred years. Maybe that's what hurts the worst. Storm can't imagine knowing anyone the way that all fifty of these freaking cars apparently all knew Ray. Except his sister's piece of garbage neighbor.
Storm's never been closer to anyone in his life than he'd been with Ray. Not even Gale. And yet -
"One word: Hushpuppies!" exclaims a rusty Shelby coupe. The room rocks with knowing guffaws.
Storm's gonna scream.
In the middle of yet another fishing story - this one, about catfish down in the bayou - Storm backs out of the neat rows of countless strangers.
He leaves.