by James Bird
Firebird
Two days before they were to go, Michael and Little T spent a lazy afternoon bouncing among friends. They drank a beer at the garage and shot pool in Boulder. The boys had dates for the hockey game, then a party at a friend’s in the old Baker neighborhood in Denver. Michael was nonchalant as the departure date approached but Little T's energetic persona was hitting a high C note. He was a vibrating fiddle string whipped on by a relentless bow. Around five they decided to make their way to Denver.
They started around the long sweeping on-ramp from Table Mesa Drive to the Turnpike, making Michael and Little T lean to the left. Little T grabbed the handled above him. Michael accelerating through the turn gaining speed, the car’s suspension was tight wanting to drift making it hard to turn right. “We gotta work on this power steering,” Michael said. Finally straightening out Michael gave the motor all the gas.
“Let’s go man!” Woo Hoo!” Anthony was growing excited his ginning eyes wild, his black hair flipping in the breeze. His elbow on the window frame, his hand clutching the roof just outside the door.
Michael gunned the motor of the Firebird and felt the car lift as it accelerated. He moved up through the gears. Michael reached and flipped on the radar detector. Past the city limit sign around the sweeping curve and onto the straight road. Passing cars easily, plenty of room to maneuver. As they made their way toward Denver they blasted by more light traffic. A left side pass then a right side pass. Michael gripped the wheel with both hands, his jaw clinched, “I’ll pass a few more cars then slow”, he thought.
“Hey man! Maybe we can make Denver in under thirty! A record!” Little T shouting over the wind.
His speedometer busted, Michael estimated from the tachometer the Firebird was running 75 or 80 miles an hour and burning high octane fuel at five miles per gallon. Climbing Davidson Mesa, shooting passed slower cars and trucks struggling with the steep hill. Swooping down the other side and over the Coal Creek Bridge.
“We’re gonna be Marines!” Little T shouted to no one. “Jar Heads Baby! Blow things up. Save the goddamn world from these asnos!” He slapped the side of the thirsty Firebird.
They were coming up on a truck in the left lane and a small knot of cars. A train was making its slow progress toward Denver, brightly lit by the westward sun. More traffic bunched up further ahead. The Firebird was gaining on them, Michael mapped out in his mind how he will navigate through the traffic settings marks. Michael’s began to experience the electric bursts of anxiety in his stomach. The power transferred through the wheel to his hands and his right foot gave him more. A mixture of thrill, excitement and fear rolled through him. He was going to be a Marine! Michael Darnay the liberator and protector of freedom. His heart began to race.
“Come on Froggy! Let’s go!” Little T’s head back, laughing, slapping the side of the streaking car.
“OK Beans”, Michael said, inspired, “Let’s go!” He lifted off the gas, mashed the clutch and slipped the shifter into third, the power gear, popped the clutch and stomped the gas pedal. The car dug in hard. The tachometer jiggling near redline the powerful motor growling. Michael aimed the car onto the shoulder to pass, jammed it into forth and stomped the gas again. The car exploded past the traffic, vibrating, floating over the rough pavement. The brown fields and silver-green sagebrush whipped by in a dithering gush. Michael had no idea how fast they were going 95? 100? Ahead was an opening where he could slide back onto the turnpike with plenty of open road beyond the clutch of vehicles. Michael began to ease the Firebird onto the highway; a slight lip made the car wiggle as the left side tires moved onto the road. As the right side tires popped over the lip the car wiggled again, the Firebird hopped, and shuddered, Michael felt something pop through steering wheel. He turned against the sudden jerk with all his strength.