The engine turned over and over, but wouldn’t start.
“Fuck,” I muttered under my breath. I pulled the keys out of the ignition, and got out of the car. The car that refused to start was a 1966 Ford Mustang. I had picked the car up for $500, and I think that have been a little too much. The outside of the car was about every ugly color possible. There was gray primer, red primer, black primer, and some patches of off-white, pastel yellow and dark green here and there for some variety. There was one car here, but it had parts from just about every wrecked Mustang in the state. The interior was not much better off. The tweed seats were torn to hell, so that the yellow foam pad was more visible than the actual tweed covering it. The dash had more cracks than a plumber’s convention, the rearview mirror was duct taped to the window, and the seat belts were about as useful as a solar-powered flashlight. While I couldn’t do anything about the looks of the car yet, I did improve upon the mechanical aspects of it. The stock 289 cubic inch motor was pulled out faster than you can say “horsepower,” and a slightly bigger 351 cubic inch engine was put in its place. A friend of my uncle’s had helped me modify the engine compartment to seat the big block engine, cutting and welding the shock towers to compensate for the exhaust headers. Everything was going well until I tried to start it. For some reason, the damn thing just didn’t want to run. So here I was in my driveway on a Saturday morning, wondering what the problem was. My blue shop jumpsuit was covered in black splotches of oil and other car fluids from projects past. I stepped over the huge mess of tools on the ground, and tripped over a small red toolbox.
“This piece of shit runnin’ yet?” I hear behind me.
“Here, lay down behind it and I’ll show your smart ass,” I reply, and turn around to see my best friend, Ernie. Wearing baggy blue jeans and a black t-shirt with a rock band on it, in this case Slipknot. He’s a kinda chubby Mexican guy, not much taller than I am. That means he’s short too.
“Ha, the only thing you’d do is put it in neutral and let it roll over me. I thought you were good at workin’ on cars? What the hell’s takin’ so long?” He kicks one of the old, worn out tires.
“Hey watch it, you’re going to make the damn thing fall apart. So what the hell do you want, to bug me and distract me?”
“You know it, loser.”
I bend back over the fender of the car to find out what the problem is. Ernie reaches in front of me and grabs the loose wire that’s supposed to connect the coil to the distributor.
“Kinda need spark to run a car, smart guy.”
“Yeah yeah, kiss my ass,” I retort, and grab the wire from him. I push the end onto the coil where it should have been, and check the engine compartment over to see if I had any other simple problems. “So where’s your truck? I would’ve heard that thing pullin’ up.”
“My blue one? It’s in the shop.”
“I thought you already had it in the shop.”
“I did, but the thing fell off the lift.”
“What? How in the hell does a big ass truck fall off of a lift?” He shrugs his shoulders.
“I dunno, they’re dumbasses. But now it’s getting turndowns put on it, so it’ll be even louder. Like yours should be, if you ever start the thing.”
“Well if you weren’t here distracting me,” I mumble, and open the door of the car. It squeaks in protest, like an old man’s knees on a cold morning. “Damn thing is gonna fall off now, watch.” Ernie laughed as I put the key in the ignition. “Here goes,” I say, and turn the key to “Start.” The engine turns over and over, but still doesn’t start. Then I realize I had forgotten to turn on the fuel pump. I flip the switch on the dash. “Fuel would help too,” I say and roll my eyes at my forgetfulness. I try to start the car again, and the big block engine roars to life after two rotations. Exhaust roars from the tailpipes, and the engine comes to a low, loping idle. The engine makes the entire car shudder, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up. The smell of fuel-rich exhaust reaches my nose, and I step out of the car.
“Sounds nice!” Ernie says, having to raise his voice over the thunder coming out of the exhaust pipes. I grab a screwdriver from the tool-cluttered ground, and lean back into the engine compartment to adjust the carburetor. I turn the adjustment screw until the idle smoothes out, then start to pick up the mess of tools on the ground. Ernie helps me put the tools in the old, beaten-up toolbox in the garage, and I close the garage door.
“Let’s go for a drive,” I say with a smile as I slam the hood closed. He and I get in the car, doors squeaking all the way. I push the brake and clutch pedals to the floor, and release the emergency brake. I let off of the brake, and the car rolls backwards into the street. I turn the cracked old steering wheel and face the car down the street. The wheel requires a bit of effort, due to the lack of power steering. The car is shaking with the engine, and I push the shifter into first gear. I look over at Ernie with a grin as I push on the gas pedal while releasing the clutch. I accidentally give it too much gas and let the clutch out too fast, and spin the tires a little bit. “Oops,” I say as we both laugh at me, and the car speeds down the street. The wind rushes in through the open windows, which blows through the hairs on my arms that are raised on the goosebumps. I get chills from the feeling of having hundreds of horsepower at my command, and from the special connection between man and machine.
I make the turns to get out of my neighborhood and reach the freeway. I give the car full throttle on the onramp, and the engine screams as we’re forced backwards into our seats. My heart is pounding, and I feel euphoric. I shift gears and watch the speedometer needle climb so fast that it scares me. I realize that I’m going 30 miles per hour over the speed limit, and let off of the gas pedal. I shift into overdrive and cruise down the freeway at a safer speed.
I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket, and I fish it out. I open the clamshell-style phone, and the screen tells me that it’s my ex-girlfriend Natalie calling me. This gives me mixed feelings. We’ve had a long and tumultuous relationship, and our feelings for each other are complex, to say the least. I press the green OK button on the phone, and bring it to my ear.
“Hello?”
“Hi,” she says. The sound of her voice triggers emotions in my mind, some good, some bad.
“Hi. What’s up?”
“Just bored. What are you doing?”
“Driving my car with Ernie.” I look over to him and he gives me a look that seems to say, “Hey, you know what she does to you, why are you still talking to her?”
“Oh, you got it running finally? You hafta come over and let me see it.”
“Oh, I guess,” I mutter.
“So you comin over now?”
“Sure, I guess.”
“Kay, I’ll see you in a bit. I love you,” she says. I slightly hesitate to reply, unsure of myself and how sincere these words are now.
“Love you too.”
“Bye.” She hangs up, and I close my phone. I look at Ernie, and he looks out of his window.
“Shutup,” I say to him, and he just laughs. “She wants to see the car now that it’s running.”
“Oh,” he says. He sticks his arm out of the window and lets the wind blow his hand up and down. “Why do you still talk to her?”
“I dunno. I mean, I love her to death, that’ll never change. She just gets pissed at me for such stupidass things, so I get pissed at her, and we’re always arguing. I love being around her when we’re not fighting, just makes me feel happy and wanted.”
He just nods his head, as if to say “I see.”
I get off of the freeway at the exit to go to Natalie’s. While stopped at a stoplight, a guy in a riced-out Honda pulls up next to me. He has the typical erector-set wing, fart-can muffler, ridiculously huge tachometer, and false sense of speed. I look over at him, and he revs his engine at me. Both Ernie and I laugh at him, and I rev back, the thunder of my engine drowning out the flatulent sound of his. I yell at him, “Sounds like you’re missing a few cylinders there, big guy!” He doesn’t respond, simply scowls at me and stares at the red light. I look at Ernie and hit him in the chest with the back of my hand in a “watch this” gesture. The light turns green, and he takes off. I decide to be nice and give him a little head start, then drop the clutch and take off of the line. The car feels like it’s been shot out of a cannon, and the engine’s roar is nearly deafening. I fly by the Honda like it’s standing still, and as I pass him, I lean out of the window and act like I’m paddling a canoe past him. After going nearly twice the speed limit, I let off of the gas, and a few seconds later the Honda flies by. Ernie and I are still laughing at him as I turn onto Natalie’s street. I coast down the street because most of the people who live on it are old people, and they don’t take kindly to people hot-rodding it through their neighborhood. We pull up in front of Natalie’s house, and I give the engine a few shots of gas to get her attention. I shut the car off and we get out to walk to her front door. The front yard has a few garden areas, and her mom has stuffed them with various flowers and other plants. Her house looks a lot better than mine, which has more weeds than actual plants in the garden.
Natalie opens the door and comes out to greet us. She’s in her typical around-the-house look; gym shorts and a tank top, hair in a ponytail. While not as attractive as she is when she’s dressed up, I’m still awed by her beauty. This is one thing that makes it so hard to move on and let go of our failed relationship.
“Well it still looks like crap, but at least it runs,” she says.
“Thanks,” I say and roll my eyes at her typical comment. She comes to me and hugs me, and it feels good. The embrace reminds me of good times, of times past.
