by Daya Daniels
My head is clear.
My nerves are under control.
For now.
The only thing I focus on up ahead is the murdered out 2018 Dodge Camaro I plan to take home tonight, hopefully in one piece.
Megs isn’t here tonight, just to piss me off. She’s been laying low. I’m not entirely sure why. After five Friday night races in a row, I still haven’t seen her pale ass and gold teeth. My guess is that she doesn’t want to race me for my car back. She just wants the money.
A puff of air leaves my chest.
Ash is right behind me, keeping up. Her blue tresses are all over her head. Her hand dangles out the window occasionally disappearing inside as she puffs on a cigarette. Bambi sits next to her.
The car rolls over hills and dips in the valleys along the highway.
It’s a smooth ride.
The stars twinkle in the clear sky and the white moon shines down on us.
My fingers curl around the leather steering wheel that’s already warm from my grip.
I drive.
I think of nothing, except for her, except for winning.
The double yellow lines with their pretty glitter in the road flash by me.
I turn the wheel parallel with those double yellow lines never edging too close or too far away from it. I gauge the middle of the road from those lines and hope the motherfucker who put them there so long ago knew what they were doing.
Behind the wheel of that Camaro I plan to soon be mine is a dude named Rogan.
A real asshole.
First time I met him, he assumed I came from Calabasas or some rich folk town like that until I had to kindly inform him that I’m more Mexican than his grandma, grandad and their baby blue El Camino put together. He hasn’t backed off since then. Talks a lot of shit whenever I see him. I punched him right in the mouth once. Guess he was too drunk to remember it. Tonight, I might punch him again.
I laugh a little.
The air washes over my face.
The rumble of the engine sinks into my chest, shaking my heart around a bit, reminding me I’m about to make a scorching mark on these streets tonight. And I’m assured every single driver in the long line of cars up ahead knows exactly that.
But as they say, every driver eventually runs out of luck.
I’m not sure I believe it.
So far, the universe has been kind to me, at least when it comes to this. I still have my life. I still have outlaw courage to a fault. All I need now is the woman I saw tonight who looked so cute in her chicken hat and my car back!
~
The crowd gathers.
Rihanna’s “Bitch Better Have My Money” explodes from a car.
There are a bunch of drivers here tonight.
I spin around and eyeball each one of them. Mario—too eager. Lamont—too slow in the brain. Rissa—hates to lose, makes reckless decisions. Honey—crazy red hair, always sucking on a lollipop, hardly ever says a word. Rogan—rich guy from Hollywood, owner of the black 2018 Dodge Camaro that’s going home with me tonight. And Maise—real cool, good driver, but not better than me.
“The rules tonight!” The flag girl who’s dressed in nothing but a crop top, hot shorts and high heel boots up to her knees walks in circles in the middle of the crowd where everyone is gathered.
Applause. Cheers. Boos.
“Quiet! Quiet!” The flag chick yells. “The rules tonight are that…” She laughs. “There are NO rules except when it comes to the monnnnney. Winner takes everything in my hand for the first race.” She shakes her fistful of cash around. “After that, we race for pinks which means your car is on the line to your opponent in the next round. So, if you’re in and you lose, I pray you have cab money to get back to The Valley!”
Everyone laughs.
The flag girl checks the stopwatch in her other hand. “The countdown is on. As you know, these races must be fast. No bullshitting. No lingering. No fighting.” She gives everyone a stern look. “Once it’s over, we need to get out of here quickly!” She gestures harshly with her arm.
Arms folded, I push off the side of my car and dig the toe of my boot into the gravel.
“Good luck, Nevada.” Ash yanks me into a hug. “I know you won’t need it, but I say that shit anyways.”
Bambi taps my shoulder.
“Let’s see what the great, Racehead, has in store for us tonight.” Mario flashes me a stupid smile along with a middle finger and saunters over to his car.
“I got a lot.” I march around to the driver’s side door and run my hand over the fresh paint job on the Firebird.
Smooth. Cool. Pretty as a fucking picture.
I suck in a harsh breath.
“Racehead, I must warn you, if you cross me off at the curve, I’m going to blast your ass right off that cliff.” Rissa curls up her top lip.
“The only way that can happen, Rissa, is if you beat me there. That would be the like expecting you to land on the fucking moon.” I smile.
Rissa freezes and lifts a shoulder.
“Which means it will never-fucking-happen.” I whistle as I slide into the driver’s seat and slam the door.
Rissa mutters something to herself as she stomps away.
The engines in this line kick over and get revved up like crazy.
Hard faces. Tight fingers curl around steering wheels. Firm grips on gear sticks.
I laugh a little at the sight and look ahead at the wide road which narrows into a tight passage beneath an overpass. If you don’t get in a first or second spot, you’re fucked until the next curve. Racing out here is as close as any of us crazy motherfuckers could ever get to rally. This shit is dangerous. It’s all around you, coming at you live and direct from every direction. This sport is not for the timid. And it certainly isn’t meant for any car that hasn’t had its suspension dropped…just a little. But, whatever.
I start the Firebird up and grip the steering wheel, appreciating the sensation of the warm leather against my fingertips. My boot massages the gas petal, feeling it out, revving it gently. The back tires spin against the asphalt. Smoke billows up around the rear of the car and fills the night air with the stench of burning rubber.
All the other cars in this line do the same.
The flag girl stands to the right of the Firebird. With a checkered flag in her grip, her arms are lifted high and her silicone-injected boobs are spilling over her top for the world to see.
I say a silent prayer to myself and blink exactly three times focusing on that overpass ahead. It lingers beneath the orange glow of the street lights and then beyond that is blackness.
My boot presses down on the gas, enjoying the horsepower this Firebird has, knowing all the torque it’ll be pushing when I decide to run it flat out.
“Good luck, racers!” The flag chick lowers the black and white permission to speed.
I release the brake.
~
White-knuckled, I change gears when we approach the curve.
Easy-E’s “Cruisin’ In My ‘64” blasts from the speakers.
I spit the lyrics.
The perfect distraction…
Heart thumping. Palms sweating. Eyes flickering everywhere between the ledge and the rocks that jut out on my left.
The car rumbles when I shift into second.
Glancing in my mirror, I find them all the drivers behind me, eating my dust!
I take a left.
Then, a right.
But I go too wide on the next turn.
And the car drifts.
Fuck.
SCREEEEECH.
I pull up the brake and swing the Firebird back into position.
Smoke clouds my vision and obscures the black sky.
Black. Green. Red. Purple. Dark gray. Indigo.
It all flashes by so quickly in a dark rainbow blur.
ZOOM. ZOOM. ZOOM. ZOOM. ZOOM.
I’d know Rogan’s high-pitched laughter anywhere.
Ass-wipe.
I stomp
on the gas.
My back slams against the seat with the force and soon I’m back in the pack, weaving through cars, sweating like a beast, thigh muscles burning, avoiding the metal guard railing, only focusing on the double yellow line in the middle of the road.
The Firebird moves.
ZOOM. ZOOM. ZOOM. ZOOM. ZOOM.
The ticker on the speedometer shakes as if it’s afraid to tell me how fast thing machine is moving.
One hundred. One fifty. Two hundred…
Shit.
The Firebird screams!
BLAM.
Honey’s car spins out and hits the guard railing.
I overtake every single car when we hit the second tunnel but they’re gaining fast. The wind rushes through my hair and my heart rate picks up when I think about that fistful of cash the flag girl was waving around.
I switch gears and breathe in the burnout. “Don’t you just love the smell of gasoline?” I laugh.
“Annie” by Anthonio spills out from the speakers.
Quickly, I turn my lights out.
Black. Black. Black.
There’s nothing ahead for at least a half a mile where the street lights linger at the end of this tunnel.
The cars behind me reduce their speed.
Not by much but by enough for me to know they’re scared.
Another laugh rattles my chest.
With a flick, the lights click back on when I take the bend.
I hit the gas and switch my headlights back on when the car takes the turn. When I make it to the straightaway, I change gears and stomp on the gas. The front wheels lift for a beat. This baby is about to take off in flight. It’s about to rocket to the motherfucking moon! The front wheels of the car descend and hit the asphalt, hard. BAM. I worry that the chassis has twisted. The wheels spin, flames trail the asphalt and die out. Then I’m gunning it again, doing speeds that are illegal in most states.
I swerve left, then right, then left and laugh out loud as the wind moves viciously through my hair. Mario has nowhere to go. I refuse to allow him to draft me and then do his usual move and overtake me right before we get to the finish line.
He attempts to hit me from behind.
What in the fuck?
I swerve to the right.
When he tries once more, he nudges the Firebird and sends himself into a vicious tailspin that kicks up dust everywhere.
Better him than me…
“Racehead, you ASSHOLE!” Mario shakes his balled fist around when I swerve once more, blocking his path.
“Winning ain’t for everybody, loser!” I purse my lips and take this Firebird home.
The shrill of a six-cylinder engine is just behind me.
Rissa’s face is hard.
She’s gaining on me fast, but then her car starts to wobble with her insane speed. Left then right. Right then left. It’s all over the fuckin’ place!
“You want some fries with that shake!” I grip the steering wheel tighter, laughing.
In the rear-view mirror, Rissa’s car is dead in the road, left in a cloud of smoke.
My face locks up when I change gears and force this baby to give me everything she’s got. The engine roars and with a life-altering jerk, the wheels spin and tires grip the ground before it rockets down the stretch.
The crowd is just ahead.
A sea of big eyes, mouths chewing on fingernails and sweaty skin. They always look the same. Worried mostly. It’s an audience of soon-to-be busted up couples, assorted drivers who’ll end up with a little less money than they had before they came here and car-less drivers.
The gray car…
I blink rapidly, then focus on the road.
The crowd roars when I cross the finish line chalked-out into the asphalt.
Then I go full savage.
I open the driver’s side door, hit the gas and do a burnout that sends smoke up into the sky and has everyone choking on broiled Goodyear tires.
Ears are blocked. People choke. People cheer.
I celebrate the victory!
The Firebird comes to a stop then idles. I kiss the steering wheel then wipe my sweaty face with my tank top. The flat bed rumbles down the road to collect what’s left of Honey’s car.
I emerge from the Firebird and freeze in place.
Be still the mayhem in my heart.
It patters. It pounds. It beats all over the place.
“Hey,” Vashti mouths and her hand flicks up offering me a tiny wave.
I ignore the crowd and stroll over to her, standing in the middle.
She’s still in her chicken uniform ex the hat though. The night breeze flows through her hair and sends a fresh clean scent my way from her strands.
“That was really cool.” Smiling, Vashti nods non-stop.
“Thanks.”
“I came here as soon as I could get away.”
I lower my head, smiling. “Yeah, thanks. You didn’t have to.”
Her big eyes dart around. “No, no, no, I did. I’ve wanted to come out here for a long time to witness what everyone talks about.”
“As you’ve said.” I laugh.
“It’s beautiful out here at night and the city just looks—wow.” She gazes out at The Valley and the landscape of white twinkling lights.
A body bumps into me.
Vashti’s smile is big and white. “This is so cool. The energy here is just wow.” She laughs looking more like a fascinated kid who’s made it to the zoo for the first time to see all the wild animals than young woman.
And we truly are animals here. Ruffians shoved into human bodies who smell of diesel, motor oil and gasoline.
“It’s just so cool to be here.” She smooths her hideous uniform with her hands.
I don’t remind her that just being here, being a part of this could get her arrested, fined and possibly jailed through the weekend.
“Yeah, it’s pretty cool.” I massage the back of my neck.
A wad of cash is slapped in my hand.
“Yeah, thanks!” Without bothering to count it, I pack all the wrinkled bills into my back pocket.
When another body knocks into me, I shove it away.
The flag girl makes the announcement for the pink slip races.
“Have you knocked off for the night?” I keep my eyes on Vashti’s browns.
“Yeah.” Vashti bounces on her toes. “Yes, I’m done for the night.” She smiles. “I’m kind of excited about that.”
“I bet.”
She extends a hand in my direction. “I just wanted to say thanks for letting me use your car. I’ve been using it to go through my notes after class. It’s been a huge help. I’ve had so much to do, especially with Banks, picking him up from—”
“The Camaro versus the Firebird!” The flag girl squeals.
My attention is already on Rogan who stands a few feet away from me looking tougher than he really is. “Well, let’s go, Racehead.” He jerks his chin in the direction of the car he owns that I’ve been foaming at the mouth for ever since I saw it.
Reaching out, I place a hand on Vashti’s shoulder. “Don’t leave.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
“I just have one more race and then I’m out of here.” I smile. “Maybe we could do something after all this is over?”
Vashti bites her lip. “Yeah, sure. What did you have in mind?”
More shrieking, screaming and cheering.
I ignore it all, only focus on Vashti. “I thought maybe we could go for a drive?”
“Yeah, sure.” She giggles.
Vashti
I GUESS ALL IS fair in love and illegal street racing…
The Cuda rolls along the highway.
M83’s “I Need You” floats from the stereo. The wind fills the car and I’ve all but stripped out of my chicken uniform, except for the pants, and down to a tank top. I’m relaxed despite that I’m tired and my hair smells like I dunked my head in a deep fryer.
I’m surprised Nevada didn’t wan
t to drive, but maybe I shouldn’t be. She’s been driving all night. Now, she’s stretched out in the passenger seat, boots up on the dashboard and posture reeking of who gives…
The colorful city lights come into view and then I take the next exit.
“Are you going to miss that Firebird?” I glance over at Nevada.
She lifts a shoulder. “Yeah, probably, but not too much.”
“Oh.”
“I put a lot of work into it but it’s no different from any other car I’ve ever owned. I won it in a race anyways about six months ago. Now, I’ve lost it in a race.” She tosses me a look and laughs. “It’s just the nature of the beast, I suppose. I’m not a sore loser. I know sometimes I’ll have good days out there and some days will be shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Take the next exit coming up.”
I do exactly that, gripping the steering wheel tighter as it rolls over the turnpike.
Nevada had taken Rogan up on that race. It was all on a straightaway. The Firebird stalled. Rogan took the lead. And then it was done. So, now, Nevada is one car down but a few thousand, I assume, richer from the first race.
I turn left and then right. High walls come into view that curve into a perfect oval. My mouth gapes at the big red sign which tells me we’re entering the Auto Club Speedway.
“Are we allowed to be here?” The car stops in front of the massive double gates.
“No, but a friend of mine works the security night shift so I come here all the time just to sit in the stands and to walk around on the tarmac. I’ve been here once or twice on the weekends to drive but mostly I can only come here after hours.” She cranes her neck out the window to look up at the sky.
The gate clicks and then slides open.
“Okay, cool.” I hit the gas.
The Cuda rolls right through the gates before they shut.
~
We’re on the track.
The entire place is bathed in darkness.
There are exactly four turns on this two-mile, D-shaped oval which banks at fourteen degrees. It’s an interesting angle. I sniff the air one more time certain I’m breathing in the remnants of gasoline. It’s everywhere along with the lingering aroma of burning rubber.
I’m tucked tightly in my jacket, lying flat out on the asphalt next to Nevada, looking up at the night sky that’s full of stars.