Chapter 1: Young as the Night

Track 1: Young as the Night – Corey Cox

I tilted backwards, reclining the bucket seat as far as it would bend, nestling into the headrest with my watermelon-pink toenails perched on the steering wheel. I looked up through the roof of my t-top and squinted as the hazy July sunset blurred my vision, making my eyes water. I wiped the salty tears from my cheeks with the hem of my t-shirt and closed my eyes shut. I relaxed as the summer breeze danced across my face, passing through the passenger side window and out the other, cooling me just enough to cause goose bumps to invade every surface of my exposed skin. I took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of the coconut hibiscus air freshener I had purchased a few hours earlier from 7-11, now dangling from my rear-view mirror.

That afternoon I cashed in my entire life savings for freedom. Every last hard-earned penny.

Some might say the dented tin exterior was not the midnight black I had dreamed. The faded cloth seats had rips and stains that were beyond mending and removal, the tires made a rickety-sound when I accelerated and the tailpipe trumpeted louder than the horn-section in the varsity marching band. Dad argued it had no more than 10,000 miles left, so I bet him $20 bucks - that I didn’t have - hopeful I wouldn’t be the one settling up. “Double or nothing it won’t even make it home,” he proposed. I playfully agreed, knowing full well that was his way of covering my first tank of gas.

To me, it was flawless. I couldn’t see the exterior from the driver’s seat anyway, so the colour really made no difference and it was only a matter of time before my friends would pile in the seats and add further legions and scars to the fabric. By my calculation, 10,000 miles extrapolated over 6 more weeks of summer meant just enough distance to fulfill my adventures.

My ‘89 Pulsar was paid for with a $1,050 bank draft made possible by the countless hours of babysitting I had logged with the neighbourhood hooligans and the crisp bills tucked into birthday cards I had deposited over the years from my doting grandparents. Add to that, six months earlier I began writing for the local newspaper, banking $50 an article, tasked with covering the entertainment section mainly consisting of high school football games, rotary ‘Rib Fest’ fundraisers, and an Elvis impersonation concert at a seniors home. Pumping out two articles per week brought in just enough to meet my goal.

A week ago, I began scouring the classifieds in search of the unknown. My hands were still smudged with ink from circling the translucent black and white pages, trying to decipher the abbreviated lingo. Where on earth to start. I was no car fanatic. If you asked me my dream car, I would describe Marty McFly’s supped-up time machine, minus the manic inventor. That was a car. If you asked me the difference between a Pinto and a Plymouth, I was clueless. All I knew is that I would know perfection when I saw it.

My dad took me to see the first of my top picks. An ‘89, FSH, auto trans, r/h/r, pwr steer, BPA. I was convinced BPA stood for ‘best price accepted’, so we saw that one first. We exchanged niceties with the owner and I walked the perimeter of the vehicle, pretending to inspect the hunk of metal like one would a Hertz rental, taking inventory of every blemish and fault. I tried with all my might to apply a critical eye and negotiate from a position of strength as my dad had instructed. “Don’t show any emotion, Annie. I want you to walk away, no matter how badly you want it, you need to walk away.” With my notebook and pen in hand, I lapped the car more times than an Indy 500 driver, compiling my laundry list of critiques; but the moment I sat in the passenger’s seat, I surrendered. No dents or squeaky breaks would supersede my need and desire to make it mine. I chewed them down by $150 - I guess I was right about BPA. To dad’s displeasure and to my satisfaction, I sealed the deal with a handshake and the exchange of my entire liquidity, becoming the owner of the most significant purchase of my being and the proud owner of my independence.

The radio was busted, and the cassette player was jammed, so I laid back in my seat and placed the round foam pieces of my disc-man into both ears, picking up where I had left off. I pressed play and hummed along to the latest tracks I had recorded from the radio, mesmerized by the words and tapping my fingers against my thighs along to the beats. I drifted off for what felt like no more than a brief moment when I was startled by a knock at my windshield.

I sprung my seat up-right and jolted forward, awkwardly stuck in a scissors position with my legs still stretched over the wheel and my knees nearly brushing my nose.

“Does this thing go?” asked a deep voice I did not recognize. I pulled my legs forward and adjusted myself to a normal human being position – or so I attempted – looking up to see his face.

“Are you going to drive this thing or are you camping out for the night,” the voice spoke again.  

I tightened my ponytail and rubbed both middle fingers underneath my bottom lashes to remove any reminisce of mascara from my leaky sun-scorched eyes, grasping for words. “Uh, no…yeah…it runs,” I blurted as I mumbled, squinting to meet his gaze - an outline of a teenage boy with a beaming smile.

“I’m Andy,” he introduced, extending a handshake which I obediently accepted like a start struck boy-band groupie. “Can I come in?” he asked, walking towards the passenger door, one foot on the floor mat before I could respond.

“Sure…I guess,” I barely managed as he buckled his seat belt, hat flipped backward in a tight black tee that outlined muscles and highlighted tattoos no 16-year old boy I knew possessed.

I stared at him without eye making contact, aiming to process who he was and why he was in my car. Had I truly bought a time machine or some form of a knock-off version?

I then recognized him as the new neighbour boy who had moved in a few days prior, from what I could tell. I had watched from my bedroom window, taking notice as he unloaded his car - don’t ask me what he drove, whatever it was, it was way cooler than mine – him gripping a guitar case, making his way inside the Saunder family’s former residence.

As if I was a teenager moonlighting as a taxi driver, I turned the key over and looked over at him and asked, “Where to?” So much for my attempt to act like a normal human-being. Annie, you are a real mess.

He leaned over to peer at the gas gauge, brushing my shoulder. “Your favorite spot,” he said as he took one end of my disc-man and placed it in his left ear, handing the other end to me and setting the device in the cup-holder that divided us.

Chest pounding and stomach full of butterflies, I maneuvered the car into reverse and made my way down the driveway out of our neighborhood along a back road leading to the only place I knew.