by Daya Daniels
I laugh.
Ash Raimes—twenty-one years old. Best friend since I used to wear those big underpants that told me what day of the week it was. Massive car enthusiast. Sometimes coworker. A girl who has a fascination with spiders. And the most impatient woman I know. Loves tacos, as you know. Loyal to a fault. Attached to woman named Bambi who is loco in her cabesa. Ride or die family. Graduate of the school of Hard Knocks. Grew up in a foster home in Santa Monica then moved here after she ran away when she was seventeen. A few jail stints in between but no big time. Could hotwire a human being if they had a built-in ignition.
I walk farther away from the car.
Ash shivers all over. “Nevada!”
Ignoring her, I cross the road and stand in the headlights knowing this is where I’ll be tomorrow night, battling, as I always do on Fridays. Only these days, I’m either racing for cars or money. But mostly, I do it all for my reputation.
“You know what you have to do for the final race out here, Nevada.” Ash grumbles. “These assholes are coming in hot and bringing out their best cars. And Megs is cleaning up the engine on her ride. You won’t beat her racing what you plan to, Nevada. So, you can stop dreaming about getting your car back unless you do what I say.”
Another laugh leaves me.
I ignore Ash, especially considering she was the reason I lost my frickin’ car to begin with. She told me stay tight on the corners and that’s what I did. But, no other driver followed that dumb advice, just me. The lucky girl. So, on the last mile, I did exactly that and Megs overtook winning the race.
I was super salty for a week because I lost, but mostly since I had to give up my car. A vehicle I’d dumped my yearly salary into three times over. My favorite ride. A priceless vehicle.
The car I desperately need back if I want to do bigger things.
Megs a.k.a. The Rooster said she’d take fifty grand for its safe return.
I was nothing but insulted with her bargaining since my silver 1964 Pontiac GTO is worth at least a hundred grand. I’d poured years of work into that car, stripping it down from what it once was and rebuilding it to the beauty it’s always been.
Glaring at her, I only nodded since Megs knew I didn’t have fifty grand to buy my own car back with. And even if I did have fifty grand, I’d have to pour it into more important things like paying for speeding tickets and tidying up the cars in Syd’s junkyard so they could be sold. So, the retrieval of my vehicle had to take a back seat, for now.
But I’m going to get it back.
I run my fingers over a large cactus and peer out at The Valley in the distance that’s lit up beautifully under the night sky.
The Badlands—a mountain range which stretches for miles. It’s endless deserted road and far away from the city which makes it the perfect place to race.
This desolate place becomes a rambunctious scene on Friday nights.
It all happens quickly.
The cars line up. The music blares. The engines scream. And everyone scrambles the second it’s over. It takes almost an hour to drive out here for a fifteen-minute race where thousands of dollars are exchanged, cars are lost and souls and egos are murdered on this hot pavement.
“You’re going to win, Nevada.” Ash yawns. “Trust me.”
“Yeah, sure.” I stroll back over to the car.
Ash spins around and faces out to the city. “It’s breathtaking out here.”
“Yeah, it is.”
“I was looking for the Cuda the other day at the garage.” The wind ruffles her hair. “And Syd said you let some rando borrow it or something in exchange for some piece of shit car that’s taking up space in the junkyard.”
“Yeah, something like that. It’s no big deal. It was all for a customer who was in a little jam. Needed a ride until she gets another car.” I don’t meet Ash’s blue eyes, certain they’re as big as my bullshit right now.
“Uh huh.”
I smile. “Funny, because that’s exactly what Syd said.”
“Who is she?” Ash grins.
The breath that leaves puffs my chest up. “Her name is Vashti.”
Ash nods. “She into racing?”
“Yeah, a little. She’s no racing groupie though.” I laugh.
“I suppose since she has that Cuda, if she doesn’t have the racing bug now, she sure as hell will by the time she has to return it.” Inhaling the night air, Ash twists around to face me. “You are going to make her return it, right?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
Ash comes closer and peers into my face, searching for something.
A smile creeps its way across my lips.
“You’re going to let her keep the car?”
“What’s it to you, Ash, really?”
“Nothing, nothing, nothing.” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “It’s just not like you to be lending out shit that you’ve poured like hundreds of hours of work and tons of money you don’t have into, away to complete strangers, Nevada.” Her brows dip down to her nose.
I don’t gift her with any sort of response, just stare right back at her like she’s loco.
Ash comes closer. “I’ve never known you to be chasing after any woman around The Valley, Nevada.”
I smirk. “Who says I’m chasing?” I nudge her out of my space.
She giggles. “I suppose you aren’t. Usually, they’re following you around here like rats. But as always, you never have the time for them.”
“I’m not the Pied fucking Piper, Ash. I have no time for racing groupies.” I kick a rock near my boot. “Vashti’s different. She goes to college. She works, like a lot.” I laugh since I truly don’t know where Vashti works, and I’ve had very little time to find out. “And she has a little brother she takes care of.”
“Oh, that’s cool.”
“Yeah, that’s cool and she’s cool.”
“All sounds really cool.” Ash leans against the car.
I sigh.
“You seem more worried than usual, Nevada.”
“Well, it’s been like two years of this bullshit, Ash. We make the cars better, faster, more powerful. We tweak the engines. We examine the tracks. And this is all risky as fuck.” I gesture to the road behind me. “But it’s like I’m not getting anywhere. It makes no sense taking on risk for zero return, Ash.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
“I keep seeing that car parked outside the house. The gray 1996 Toyota Camry with the tinted windows.” I bite my lip.
“So blatant.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Ash grins. “You’re not worried?”
“No, not really, especially since I think I know who it is.”
“Who?”
“Well, my first guess is that it’s one of Bee’s spoiled band of banditas scoping out the garage. She’s lost enough cars to me. But she couldn’t possibly want them back. I wouldn’t keep her piece of shit rides on Syd’s property anyhow. They weren’t worth the gas they once had burned. They’ve all been chopped.” I laugh.
“Have you told Syd about the car?”
“No way.” I massage the back of my neck. “Syd would walk across the street and put a massive dent in that Camry with her boot.”
Ash laughs. “Yeah, she would.”
“But, I don’t know. Syd probably has seen it and thought nothing of it.”
“I’ll talk to Bee if I ever see her around and try to find out what she wants.” Ash sighs. “She’ll be here tomorrow night racing or just watching. Who cares.”
“Yeah, and ready to lose yet another car.”
We laugh.
“I suppose she can afford it. What else do rich people have to do besides lose shit they don’t need in the first place. These races are probably the highlight of her week between her spa appointments and burning up her daddy’s Mastercard on more shit she don’t fucking need!”
I point at Ash. “Yeah, you’re absolutely right.”
“It’s got to be the life, Nevada. That�
�s how I want to live one day, like a rich kid.”
“Well, good luck with that because unless we win the lottery, it ain’t happening. And I’m not sure I would want it to either. Makes things too easy. It would suck the fight out of us, Ash. And we’re fighters. We work hard for what we want.”
“Yeah, that’s true. I’ll remember to tell myself that when I open the refrigerator and find nothing in there except for a bottle of ketchup and an ancient box of baking soda.” She snorts.
“You know what I mean, Ash.” I groan.
“Yeah, I do, but just imagine what you’d be running if you had like real money, Nevada.” Ash makes dramatic Italian chef hand gestures. “Just think about what you could do and the kinds of cars you would have. The caliber of engines you’d be running…”
I think about it for a sec. I truly do. “I’d probably be running the same engines as the ones I do now. The horsepower would be no different. The cars would be no different. I would be no different.”
Ash nods. “I feel you on that, Nevada.”
“Nothing would be any different.” I touch my cheek. “I’d probably just have more time to race instead of being stuck in the garage day in and day out. But, I enjoy that. There’s nothing I love more than pulling apart engines and putting them back together to make sure they sing.”
“Yeah, me too.” Ash pouts then her stomach grumbles so loudly, I’m assured the entire state of California hears it.
“We should get something to eat.” I tap on the hood of the car and pull open the passenger side door.
“Yeah, we definitely should.” Ash follows my lead, gets in the car and shuts out the cool air. “You may not have picked up a racing groupie, Nevada, but it sure as hell sounds like you’ve caught a thing for one of your number one fans.” The engine fires up.
Smiling, I decide I’ll sit on her words and determine if there’s any truth to them.
But, I can’t forget that Ash is a woman who still believes in the Easter Bunny.
Vashti
IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT AND…I’m here in this crap hole.
It sucks but I’m used to it.
Checking the clock on the wall, I have less than an hour to go.
Thank God and all his angels! Even the rebel ones.
Banks is with Matilda tonight likely curled up on the sofa watching rerun number eight billion of the Golden Girls. Great show. If I must say so myself.
I sigh.
Frankly, I’d rather be there than here, even if I do have to listen to Matilda’s complaints about the noisy neighbors, the crack in her stucco ceiling and how her mail always arrives late.
The young bunch move around Main Street tonight. The girls. The guys. The couples who are on their way to dinner and a movie.
It’s dark out and I laugh a little when I accept that this place is right across the street from the job I got fired from a few days ago.
I sort through the pile of paper bags in front of me, arranging them in size and then wipe down the counter and the register in front of me. I leave everything smelling of the wondrous pine cleaner the manager here will be checking for soon.
It’s been like this all night.
I alternate between work then checking outside for any action. The window in front of me just beckons for me to jump out of it and run across the parking lot to where Nevada’s sweet ride is parked.
I’ve been driving it all week.
Banks is totally in love with the thing. I am too but mostly because I’d spent more than a few nights just with my head buried beneath the hood and in my books as I did it.
The car is clean beneath the hood—pristine and shiny—as though the car had just rolled out of the dealership even though it’s older than me! She’s a beauty. And once you get her out on the highway and move at top speed everything just flows.
There’s no sputtering or backfiring or creaking.
The Cuda runs just like a car should.
I’ve spotted at least fifty people while I’ve been on this shift who have stopped to pose and take a selfie in front of Nevada’s car. They look around. They whistle at the vehicle like it’s the sexiest thing they’ve ever seen because it truly is.
Smiling, I get back to work. I adjust the mic near my mouth when a red 2018 Porsche Boxter pulls up to the drive-thru window that packed to the sides with four rowdy dudes. “Welcome to the Chicken Shack, can I take your order?”
The dude in the driver seat doesn’t say hello, good evening or good night, just barks out what they want—eight orders of fries, six chicken burgers all with different fucking sauces. I bang everything into the machine in front of me with eager fingers. The buttons on the register get stuck!
The dude in the driver’s seat keeps talking.
I whack the machine a few times. “Shit.”
He gives me a dumb look. “Do you need me to say it slower, honey?”
“No.” I offer him up a dry smile. “English is my first language.”
Assamese, Bodo and Bengali are my second, third and fourth, ASSHOLE!
“You could’ve shocked me.” He laughs with his buddies.
A few more punches to the register. It blanks out, turns green. Static rains down over it then it starts to behave correctly. Finally!
I’m sweating all over by the time it happens.
“Can you please start from the milkshakes please?” I smile.
“Yeah, sure, Princess Jasmine, just one sec.” The dude points a finger to the sky.
I throw up in my mouth about fifty billion times waiting for this gigantic jerk.
“One chocolate. One vanilla. One strawberry, vanilla and chocolate mixed…” He goes on and on and on.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Like could these assholes be even bigger assholes right now?
The line is growing long with cars.
BEEP. BEEP.
They honk their horns.
My hands shake when I finally finish punching in the order.
I’m paid five dollars and fifty-two cents an hour to put up with this bullshit.
BEEP. BEEP.
“Vashti!” The manager yells. “What is the hold up?”
I glance over my shoulder at the grumpy woman, Celeste, my manager, who barely looks me in the face when I’m here. But today, right now, she’s glaring, at me.
“I’m going as fast as I can.”
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEEEEEEEEP.
“If you don’t go faster, Vashti, you’re going to be going as-fast-as-you-can on your way out the door to find another job.” Celeste stomps away from me.
I grab the asshole with the massive order’s credit card, run it through the machine and practically throw it back at him.
“Thanks a bunch, baby girl,” the patronizing asshole dude says before he drives up to the pick-up window.
The next car pulls up.
“My god, are you serving dinner a la carte at this place? I thought I’d never get to place my order,” the surgically enhanced blonde who sits in the backseat of a white 1994 BMW complains.
I adjust the chicken hat on my head and give her a courteous smile. “Welcome to the Chicken Shack, may I take your order please?”
She grumbles out the items to me, shoves me her card my way then accepts the receipt without saying ‘thank you.’
Surprise, surprise.
Manners around here are as infrequent as the tax breaks are.
The ground shakes.
With narrowed eyes, I lean forward to peer out through the glass in front of me.
Baby blue. Pink. Lightning red. Thunderbolt white. Darth Vader black. Glittery Purple. The colors go on and on. All the cars line up at the red light and idle, shaking the ground. There’s no music. No screaming women. No dudes who are raising their voices about who’s going to win the race. The drivers just chill in their seats, staring straight ahead. A few puff on their cancer sticks. Others adjust their mirrors. They don’t talk or smile or pay any attention to the world going on around them.
Like ghost machines, the cars move through Main Street as quietly as possible.
The man who is now ordering…
His voice has become background noise in my head.
All I can focus on are those cars.
My eyes search for her, her, her.
I never know what she’s driving.
Her window is never all the way down.
All you ever get is a flash of her platinum blonde hair and then the car is gone.
The light turns green and cars take off at the light one by one.
A flatbed truck follows behind them all, driven by a woman who looks as if she’s two steps from falling in a casket.
When the grill and hood scoop of a cobalt blue 1967 Pontiac Firebird and its twenty-inch gunmetal rims come into view my mouth gapes. Little breaths leave it but just barely. The hot car slows allowing me to have a proper glimpse of the woman inside it. Her arm hangs out the window. Slowly, she lifts it and drags her fingers through her hair, pops her gum then gives me a wink.
The torque from the engine finds its way into the ground as she revs the car.
I’m inclined to rip off this uniform, quit right on the spot and go dashing for my car. No, sorry. Her car. Maybe even the bus if I had to! Just to get out to The Badlands where everyone in The Valley is headed tonight.
“Vashti. Vashti. Vashti!” Celeste screams.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” the man ordering sucks his teeth when I don’t give him an ounce of attention.
“Vashti Dawn Patel!” Celeste is still yelling.
I’m only fixated on the woman beneath the glowing street lamp across the street.
Nevada smiles.
Then with a roar, the car is gone.
And so is my dream girl.
Nevada
THE COOL NIGHT AIR rushes into the car through the open windows. I make a left and turn on to the highway, then hit the gas. I keep my eyes on the speedometer and the dashboard that’s lit up blue and illuminating the inside of this ride.
The car floats away from the city lights and drifts toward the mountains in the distance.
Lorn’s “Acid Rain” slips through the speakers and into my ears.
This is how it always is right before a race.