Unstoppable

by Scott Hildreth

  “Alpha car, I like that,” he nodded.

  Forcing himself to walk slow, we continued down the hallway. As he held the door that led into the restaurant, I turned to him and smiled, “What did you hand the guy in the parking lot, after he apologized?”

  “His driver’s license,” he paused and held his hand in the air, “table for two, please.”

  I looked at him and smiled. He didn’t know it, but on that night; on sushi night 2014, Michael Allen Ripton won a piece of my heart.

  A large piece.

  RIPP. Trying to decide for certain where our life is headed is impossible. We seem to always have an idea of which direction we want it to go or how we want to end up; but getting there, for the most part, is always a surprise. If we fill our life with events and actions that are contrary to God’s will, it will inevitably take us in a direction that we wish was different. If we act in a manner in accordance with what is good, right, and just, life offers us the best of riches.

  Life’s riches can’t always be measured in dollar signs. Sometimes we’ve got to measure wealth in smiles. I spend the majority of my days laughing and smiling no matter what is going on. I have a temper, and I often get angry, but fifteen minutes after whatever made me angry is gone, I’m smiling again.

  I am not a perfect example of what God expects me to be. I make mistakes, and I make a lot of them. All of mankind makes mistakes, because we’re allowed to make our own decisions. Minimizing our mistakes by consciously considering the decisions we make ensures we’re living our life to the best of our ability. The path our life takes and the direction we travel, be it good or be it bad, gets down to one thing; the type of decisions we make. Life is about choices. Making great choices separates those of us that are inherently good from those of us that are undoubtedly bad.

  With Vee, I was pretty damned sure I made a good choice. Because life after Vee was full of a lot more smiles than it was before she stepped into it. Even if she wasn’t with me, I smiled more often than I did before I met her.

  “So, you really think you wanna do this?” he screamed out the left window of his car.

  Feathering the throttle to keep the engine up to speed, I turned to my right and smiled from ear to ear, making sure he saw my gold tooth. I figured it’d be a nice touch to the certain ass whippin’ he was gonna get when the light turned green. The unmistakable sound of a supercharger whined from under his hood. A new model Mustang is a fast car, no doubt. A modified new model Mustang with ten thousand dollars of performance parts and a supercharger was a damned fast car. But, no matter what this kid did to his car, one thing would never change.

  It. Was. A. Ford.

  “You just wanna go on green?” he shouted.

  I pushed the gear shifter into first gear, revved the engine a little bit and let it come back down to a loping idle. As the car shook from the race cam that that powered the engine, I chewed on my toothpick and turned to face him. I bit down on the mangled wood and grinned as I shouted through my clenched teeth over the sound of the exhaust.

  “You go when it turns green. We’ll race to Frotenac, up ahead. I’ll catch up, don’t worry,” I laughed.

  Cars continued to flow through the cross street. The frontage roads that parallel the highway in Texas have extremely long stop lights to accommodate all of the traffic that enters and exits the highways.

  He shook his head and visibly rolled his eyes as he looked up at the traffic light. The cross traffic light changed to yellow. His engine speed increased and the sound of his supercharger began to spin into a high pitched whine that would warn most people to stay away from his car in a street race.

  I’m not most people.

  And this isn’t a typical car.

  I pressed the gas pedal three-fourths of the way to the floor. With both windows down, the sound was ear piercing. The smell of the high octane jet fuel that I had mixed with the gasoline leeched into the car and began to burn my eyes. At the instant the light turned green, his car lurched forward fifteen feet without as much as spinning a tire.

  Impressive.

  I pressed the gas pedal all the way to the floor and released the clutch most of the way out. As the car yanked me back into the seat and began to slide sideways, I let up off of the gas, released the clutch the rest of the way, and stomped the gas pedal to the floor. The car pulled hard again, shifting to the right. He was a good thirty feet ahead of me as I slapped the shifter into second gear.

  The sound of the tires screeching as the car went into second gear lasted a second or so, and then the tires gripped. Short of me missing a gear or blowing my motor, this race was just about to end. Quickly, I began to gain what distance I had allowed him to get ahead. As I shifted into third gear, the tires chirped, and I was immediately even with his door.

  Sorry, dude. Buy a fucking Chevy.

  The difference between a car that is fast and a car that is god damned fast is the difference between black and white. This Chevelle, by anyone’s standards, is so god damned fast it should be illegal to drive on the street. As Frontenac approached, I yanked the shifter into fourth gear, now a good thirty feet ahead of his car, and steadily gaining speed. As I passed the intersection, I released the gas pedal and my tension on the toothpick at the same time.

  As the car coasted down to a more manageable speed, I slowly applied the brakes, slowed down, and pulled into the strip center. I parked the car, shut off the ignition, and was opening the door when I head the whine of the Mustang’s motor. I smiled as I got out of the car and turned in the direction of the car.

  The driver pulled into a spot a few stalls over and shut off the car. He was boyish looking and had a really pretty face for a guy. As he got out, he shook his head and smiled. His facial features were well defined, masculine, but almost pretty enough to be an ugly woman.

  “Dallas?” he said as he walked my direction.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Football. You play for Dallas? The Cowboys?” he asked as he walked toward the Chevelle.

  “Nope. Boxer,” I responded.

  “You’re a boxer?” he asked.

  “Yep,” I nodded.

  “Austin,” he said as he offered his hand.

  “Yep, born and raised,” I said as I shook his hand.

  “No, it’s my name,” he chuckled.

  “No shit?” I laughed, “Mine’s Mike. Call me Ripp. Your car’s a fast little fucker.”

  “Well, Ripp. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I thought my car was fast,” he said as he peered past me at the Chevelle.

  “So, what’s the deal with this car?” he asked as he pointed to the Chevelle.

  “Was my Pop’s car in high school. I bought it from him ten years ago. Restored it. Took the 396 motor out, and put a 502 in it. Didn’t really like the 502 out of the crate, so I put a different cam in it and a few other things. Probably pushing about 800 hundred horses, give or take,” I grinned big enough that he could see goldie.

  Just in case he didn’t at the street light.

  “Nice tooth,” he laughed, “You win that fight?”

  “Undefeated,” I laughed, “well, for the most part. I lost one sparring match a while back. Shane Dekkar schooled my ass.”

  “Shane Dekkar? Like Shame on Dekkar?” his voice changed a few octaves when he said Shane’s name.

  “Yeah, that’s him. Been out of puberty long?” I joked, making fun of his voice.

  “Fuck you, asshole. I’m thirty, I just look young. I got excited. Watching him fight that guy, uhhm,” he paused, looked down at the parking lot, and rubbed his forehead.

  “Mc Claskey,” I sighed.

  “Yeah. Holy shit. He looked like he was going to lose that fight. You know when the camera went to his corner and that little blonde was screaming at him. Holy shit, he came out and beat the brakes off of that dude. It was something. I’m kind of a fan,” he grinned as he looked up.

  “A fan of Dekk, or a boxing fan in general? And did you tell me to fu
ck off a minute ago?” I did my best to sound gruff.

  “Fan of boxing in general, and I probably did. I’ve got quite a mouth on me. I really don’t take shit from anybody, sorry. Always kind of liked boxing, it’s a man’s sport. I’ve never been any good at it, but I’ll fight anyone. I’m uhhm, well…let’s just say I’m far from undefeated. I’ve never backed down from anyone. Probably had my ass beat fifty times,” he chuckled.

  “I can’t tell from looking at that pretty face of yours. You look like a fucking chic, dude,” I pursed my lips and narrowed my gaze jokingly.

  “A chic? You think I look like a chic? Well, maybe I’ll have to try my luck at you, you big prick,” he shook his head and pressed the web of his hands into his belt.

  “Well, a word of advice. If you’re gonna try and take a go at me, you might want to get those hands off your hips, Austin,” I laughed as I threw a right jab at his face and stopped a half inch short of contact.

  “Holy shit,” he gasped.

  “Yeah, holy shit is right. I was the meanest prick in this city until Dekk showed up. I really don’t think he even knows how tough he really is. He fights as hard as necessary to beat whoever he’s fighting. That’s his style. He’s not going anywhere. He’ll be around for a long, long time. Man’s a beast,” I nodded.

  “So what do you do?” I asked as I looked down at his shoes.

  He was wearing jeans, a tight vee neck tee shirt, and dress boots. He resembled a lean, Muscular Harry Connick Jr., and looked like he belonged on that T.V. show Dancing with the Stars.

  “Dancer,” he said softly.

  “What?” I coughed so hard I spit out my toothpick.

  “Fuck you, I’m a dancer,” he chuckled.

  “You get paid to dance? That’s your fucking job?” I asked.

  His legs shifted, his lower body twisted, and he went into some sort of spin shuffle move that was as graceful as anything I have even seen in my life. I’m not a gay man, nor do I have a single homosexual bone in my body, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit it was damned sexy seeing him move like that.

  “That is correct. Well, I teach people,” he said as he came to a stop.

  “Impressive. Damn, dude,” I admitted.

  “I have a studio, Austin Dance. See the irony?” he asked.

  “Clearly,” I breathed.

  “So, you teach dudes or just chics?” I squinted.

  “Both.”

  The thought of learning how to dance and taking Vee dancing somewhere seemed like a great idea at the time. I had no idea if she could dance or not, but it sure seems like all women can dance, and men can’t. If she couldn’t dance, I’d have Austin, aka. Harry Connick Jr., teach her how.

  “I got an idea. How about this; you teach me to dance, and I’ll teach you how to block that punch I threw at ya a minute ago. What do ya think about that?” I asked.

  “Seriously? You’d do that?” his face lit up with joy.

  “Yep,” I half chuckled as I nodded my head.

  And.

  He busted out in a dance move, spinning in circles and kicking one leg out to the front, eventually coming to a stop facing me with his arms out to the side. He looked like Harry Connick Jr. doing a Sammy Davis Jr. impersonation.

  “Damn, dude. Someone’s gonna see that shit,” I laughed as I looked around the parking lot.

  “Fuck ‘em,” he said.

  “Yeah, there’s only one problem with that. I’m the one that’d end up fighting that fight for ya. You can dance, but you have slow as fuck reflexes,” I threw another jab at his face for good measure.

  His hand came up to block the punch a good second after I had recovered from throwing the punch.

  “Fuck you, Ripp,” he grumbled.

  I smiled and shook my head slowly.

  I liked this kid. He may not have known how to fight, but he could damn sure dance. And he had a hell of a smart-assed mouth on him. In ways, he reminded me of…

  Me.

  RIPP. Sometimes we look at ourselves and ask how the hell did I get myself in this position? Generally, when I have asked myself this, the situation has been something other than favorable. I can’t really think of one time I looked at myself, my current situation, or my current life, and thought anything but damn Ripp, you did it again. I have never been disappointed with life, nor have I been dissatisfied with trying to live it.

  But I’ve always been on the move. Running. Running toward something else. Something new. Chasing whatever it was at the moment that provided or may provide me with satisfaction. A new piece of ass. A new dude to beat the shit out of. A different car to race. Another bottle of beer. Or one more notch in my almost undefeated belt.

  Fucking Dekkar.

  And then came Vee. Right now, at this moment in time, I’m done. I’m completely satisfied with standing still.

  And it scares the fuck out of me.

  “The premium ones are sixty dollars a dozen,” the limp wristed flower salesman said.

  “Did I ask you how much the motherfucker’s cost?” I grunted.

  “No sir, you did not,” he said with a lisp.

  “Do I look like I’m fuckin’ broke?” I asked as I pressed my hands into my hips.

  “No sir, you do not,” he rotated to face the cooler full of roses.

  I pointed to an arrangement of blood colored flowers on the left side of the cooler.

  “Those, over there on the left. You got any more of those?” I asked.

  “We have various arrangements prepared, yes sir,” he said as he spun in a half circle to face me.

  “I don’t want pre-arranged shit. I want you to make it special for my girl. I don’t want some shit you made in your spare time last night while you listened to Coldplay. I want you to put this together for her. She’s special like that, got it?” I snapped.

  He nodded his head, “By all means.”

  “Okay, I want a vase like that one,” I pointed to a vase on display and paused.

  “And those flowers on the left. Give me a dozen of ‘em.”

  “The red roses?” he asked as he pointed at the flowers.

  “The ones on the left,” frustrated, I pointed to the arrangement on the left side of the cooler again.

  “Is that all you want?” he asked as he slowly raised his perfectly shaped eyebrows.

  “What else is there?” I asked.

  “Well, we can arrange them with baby’s breath, and we can…”

  “Stop. Just stop. Yeah, arrange ‘em however you do it. Make ‘em look like you’d make ‘em look if you were giving ‘em to someone that was, well…” I paused and thought.

  “She’s just different. You know…”

  “I know exactly what you mean. Yes sir,” he said softly as he nodded.

  He walked through the door toward the rear of the shop and came back with his hands full of fresh flowers, green leafy stuff, and small white flowery stuff. After a few minutes, he had the arrangement complete. He stood back raised his hands in the air, and smiled.

  “Well?” he smiled.

  “Looks small to me. Can you add a dozen more?” I asked.

  “Wow. Well, we sure can,” he said, his face filled with disappointment as he stared at his perfect arrangement.

  Slowly and carefully, he added another dozen roses, more filler, and some of the little white flowery stuff. After shuffling the flowers back and forth in the vase, he stepped back, raised his hands in the air, and smiled.

  “And now?” he said cheerily.

  I looked at the flowers and squinted.

  “Still lookin’ kinda small, dude,” I shook my head, “can you get another dozen in there?”

  He placed his hands on the side of his butt and cocked his hip to the side, “Maybe if I had a shoe horn.”

  “Just looks small. Kinda basic,” I said.

  “Basic? Excuse me,” he snapped, his hands still pressed into the sides of his butt.

  “It looks real nice,” I apologized, “can you get ma
ybe six more in there?”

  He pressed his lips together, pulled six more roses from the counter, and carefully inserted them into the vase with the others. He looked up from the vase and cocked one eyebrow.

  “That thing is as full as…” he hesitated and looked down at the vase.

  “Well, it’s just full,” sighed.

  “Looks great, dude. I love it. I’m gonna grab a card, ring it up,” I said as I turned to the card display.

  After looking at a few dozen cards that had things written in them that I would never say to anyone, I picked out a card that looked pretty on the outside, but had nothing printed on the inside. As I walked back to the counter, I tried to think of what to write in the card.

  “With the card, that will be $166.12,” he said as he looked up from the register.

  I handed him $180.00 cash.

  “You got any pens?” I asked.

  He pulled a pen from the counter and wagged it in the air.

  “You got any pens for sale?” I muttered.

  “Uhhm, no,” he hissed.

  “How about you give me that twenty cent pen, and I’ll let you keep the change?” I asked.

  “That’s a deal. And uhhm, how’d you know I listen to Coldplay?” he asked as he handed me the pen.

  “Good guess I suppose,” I said as I grabbed the vase.

  I carefully placed the flowers into the seat of the Chevelle and opened the card. I’d never really written anything meaningful in a card, and the thought of writing in it and having someone find any measure or means of value in what I wrote was almost laughable.

  Vee,

  Dekk tells me everything happens for a reason. I never really believed that.

  I believe it now.

  I looked at what I had written and smiled. I chewed on the end of the pen and thought of what to write next.

  I ain’t gonna lie. I’ve been around, and I ain’t always been good. But the day in the bar we met, that day, that first one…

  I knew.

  I knew I wanted to know you. I didn’t know why, but the why don’t matter so much. Now, now that I’ve spent some time with you, I know this…

  I looked down at the card and reread everything I had written. Hell, I was doing pretty well for a novice. I pressed the pen to the card and continued.