Fastback Beach

by Shirlee Matheson

  “Well, now!” Mr. and Mrs. Barnier flash twin-beam smiles. “Is there anything in particular you like to fix?”

  “I’m good at motors,” I say. “But I’ve also fixed appliances, fridges, lawn mowers, even some old radios and TVs.”

  “What about cars?”

  “We worked on an old Ford pickup, a junker, in shop class, got it running pretty good.”

  “You worked on a Ford truck engine?”

  Mr. Barnier’s onto something, but I don’t know what.

  “I’d like you to start your hundred hours of service by doing something rather ordinary,” he says slowly. “Would you mind cleaning out my basement? When you finish that, you can start on the garage.”

  I look over at Ms. Kirkpatrick. I know I have no choice.

  “I’ll pick you up at 4:00,” she says. “After today you can figure out bus schedules and get here on your own.” She thanks the Barniers and leaves.

  Hour one, only ninety-nine left to go.

  Mr. Barnier takes me downstairs, not to a musty basement but an old-fashioned family room. Shining pink and gray square tiles cover the floor. “No carpets — we like to dance!” Mrs. Barnier says brightly. Knotty-pine walls. A U-shaped bar at one end, and an ancient stereo that plays those big long-play records. I laugh out loud, imagining these old fogies waltzing around to Glenn Miller’s band. Or whatever they play.

  “Here’s your job for today, Miles,” Mr. Barnier says. “See these boxes? They’re full of magazines. I’d like you to sort them by date and by title. They go back to 1953: Hot Rod, Rod and Custom, Car Craft.”

  He goes upstairs and I kneel down to open the first box. A smell of old paper. Weird old cars. Articles like “Chopping a Deuce Three-Window” and “Open Drive-lines for Your Old Ford” and “12-Volts for Flatheads.” I look at the dates, 1953 to 1969, all mixed up. I start a pile for each year, then make piles below that for each different title, but they’re mostly Hot Rod.

  I recognize some of the magazines. Suddenly I’m a little kid again, sitting in the shop watching The Team build stock cars — my dad, or Duke as they called him, and his buddies Crock, Jazzman and Butch. The cars were similar, but the hot rods in these magazines were built for drag racing while Duke’s team was into stock cars. But the love of machines and speed was the same.

  When Mr. Banier opens the door and comes down, I smell food. How long have I been here? It seems like just a few minutes.

  “Hey, Miles, it’s lunchtime. Are you hungry?”

  I wipe my dusty hands on my jeans and smile. “Nope, never thought of it!” I say, and I’m being honest. This is the first time in my life I could have skipped lunch and not missed it.

  Mr. Barnier kneels down, nearly losing his balance for a moment. He grabs onto a table and slowly settles himself on the floor beside me. “Stroke,” he says, smiling a bit crookedly. “Had a stroke a year ago. I’m in pretty good shape now, but I can’t do what I used to.”

  He picks up a magazine. “I remember buying this issue new — seems like just last week. Buzz Lowe and his dad Dean were a hot team.”

  I look at their pictures — dad and son, both with military haircuts, looking like marines.

  Mr. Barnier points to a photo of a car. “Buzz Lowe’s roadster pickup went in the 12s, and only 283 cubes. Pretty hot for those times.”

  “What does that mean, the 12s?”

  “That’s the elapsed time from a standing start in a quarter mile. Zero to 110 miles per hour in twelve and one-half seconds. This old hot rod would leave your five-liter Mustangs and Z-28s like they were tied to trees.”

  “I’m impressed,” I say.

  “I was a hot-rodder all my life,” he says. “Built my first rod in 1957 when I was sixteen.”

  I feel as if Mr. Barnier doesn’t know, or care, that I’m in the room. He’s talking to himself, or to the memories pictured in the magazines.

  “ … a ’39 Ford coupe, full-house flathead, had it real low, loud pipes, painted it black with some amateur pinstriping. That car had no trouble attracting female riders — and the law.”

  “Was it like these cars in the magazines?”

  “You mean you never saw a hot rod?”

  “Oh yeah! I know this guy, his brother has a Trans Am. It’s pretty hot.” I don’t tell him how “hot” it really is and that it belongs to Spider’s brother. Spider told me that most of the parts on it were stolen, everything from the stereo to the wheels.

  “A Trans Am!” Mr. Barnier spits the words. “I’m talking real hot rods! The cars that started it all, the roadsters and coupes. The ones that used to race on the dry lakes in southern California. That’s where all these street machines came from.”

  “What kinds of cars?”

  “I guess the first hot rods were Model T roadsters with souped-up four-bangers. Then came the flathead Fords, then the overheads.” He looks at me. “You like working on engines?”

  “Yeah, but I never had a chance to do too much,” I say. “At school, in shop, we worked on single-cylinder Briggs and Stratton engines.”

  “They’re for lawn mowers and compressors. You said you worked on a truck engine.”

  “We found an old V-8 from a ’63 Ford truck. We hauled it to the school shop from the junkyard. We got two of them, in fact, and scrounged parts from one to fix the other.”

  He laughs. “What did you do to the engine?”

  “Pulled it apart. It was seized up and we had to free it. We didn’t have any money so we had to take parts off the other engine and mix them up to get them to work. I did the heads — the valve job — I ground valves and lapped them in.”

  “That’s a fairly technical operation. What kind of a machine did you use?”

  Mrs. Barnier calls down from the top of the stairs. “Come and eat before every-thing’s cold!”

  “Okay, Ma!” Mr. Barnier calls. He turns back to let me answer his question.

  “We had a Sioux grinder at the school shop. I hand-lapped the seats with compound and a suction cup.”

  “Well, seeing how you’re such an expert on valves — I need to do the heads on my engine. Maybe someday we can ask permission from your teacher and use the school’s shop facilities.”

  “Sure.”

  “Your dad ever teach you mechanics?”

  “Yeah, he did.”

  Duke Derkach, my father, was a “racing wrench” in the days before racers had big sponsorships. Two or three guys built the car, and the best man drove. Perhaps it wasn’t the best place for a kid to hang out, but nearly every weekend Dad would take me to the shop where I’d hand out tools or beers and drink pop and munch potato chips. That’s where I got handy fixing things.

  Dad and his friends always acted like big-time racers. They called themselves The Team, with Crock as crew chief, Jazzman the engine specialist, Butch the body fabricator, Dad the mechanic and me the mascot whose presence was supposed to bring them good luck.

  Mr. Barnier waits in silence as I, like he’s just done, lose myself in memories.

  “Yeah,” I say finally, “my dad taught me a bit about mechanics. He was a stock- car racer.”

  “What track? I might know him.”

  “Here, at Speed Boss, but he moved to Toronto and then to the States,” I say hurriedly. “I don’t know where he’s racing now.” I stand and offer Mr. Barnier my hand. He takes it to pull himself upright.

  “I’m hungry,” he says quickly.

  “Me too.”

  We go upstairs and dig into big bowls of homemade soup, a heaping platter of sandwiches and warm peach pie.

  Chapter Six

  At 4:15, Ms. Kirkpatrick dumps me off at home and I saunter into the house. Mom is home, which is fine, we get along okay most of the time. But today, drinking coffee at our kitchen table, is Mr. Right, also known as Jeff.

  Jeff is the head accountant for some oil company. Button-down shirt, color-coordinated tie, $500 suit, pants pressed to cutting edge, shoes shining like mirrors. What does she s
ee in this loser? Probably a backlash against Dad, like one of him was maybe enough. Jeff stands when I enter and extends his hand. I still haven’t shaken my nice-guy personality from being at the Barniers’ all day so I grab it and smile. Mom raises a surprised eyebrow.

  “How did your day go?” she asks. Her tone is guarded like she’s pleading with me to say “Fine” and leave it at that.

  “Fine,” I say and head over to the fridge.

  “You don’t need to eat. Jeff is taking us out for dinner.”

  “Sorry, I’ve got plans.” I keep my head in the fridge. I don’t want to catch Mom’s eyes.

  “This is important, Miles,” she says. “We have something to discuss that you might find interesting.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Not here.”

  “Why not here? This is home, ain’t it?” I can feel Mom wince. My grammar is usually pretty good. She knows I’m just playing up for Jeff.

  Jeff clears his throat. “Miles, how about chicken ‘n’ ribs at Swiss Chalet?”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  “We can invite Kenny to join us,” Mom says.

  “She’s busy. I’m meeting up with her later.”

  I go into the living room, pick up the phone and punch the Lark’s number.

  “Hey, Lar.”

  “Hey, bro. Was that you in the Mercedes? That hood emblem would make a great belt buckle.”

  “Yeah, that was me. Thanks to you and that bug you hang out with.”

  “Who? Spider? He’s okay when you get to know him. He says you’re a real ace guy for taking the rap. Don’t worry, he’ll make it up to you.”

  I decide the less I tell Larry about my assignment, the better. He has a way of showing up at the wrong place at the right time. Most of the things the Lark does are wrong, come to think of it, but he’s been my closest buddy since grade school. He knows about my dad and all, but he’d never tell my personal business to other people. He just mentioned the stock-car racing bit in front of Spider so I’d look cool.

  “So, what’s up for tonight?” I ask Larry.

  “It’s gonna be a good one, man! Megan’s having a party.”

  “Sounds great. Pick me up. Now.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  I hang up. Mom follows me down the hall and into my room before I can close the door. “Okay, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell me about the community service.”

  “This old couple have got me cleaning out their basement, sorting magazines, that kind of stuff. I’ll get through it.”

  Mom is leaning with her back against my door, blocking any escape. “I had a long talk with Ms. Kirkpatrick and a police officer today. Final conclusion: your behavior is going to improve starting right now. That’s what we wanted to discuss with you. Jeff has some positive ideas. But since you won’t listen to him, you’ll listen to me!”

  Her voice rises as she builds up steam for the power push. “Whatever it takes — me quitting work to baby-sit you twenty-four hours a day, a group worker assigned to monitor you, sending you to an Outward Bound program — I’ll do whatever it takes to straighten you out.”

  She pauses for breath. “The first thing you’re going to do is find some new friends. I don’t want to see that scamp, Larry Lowisky, around here ever again. You hear? He’s nothing but trouble.”

  I grab my jacket and stuff a pack of smokes into my pocket. Mom doesn’t say anything as I walk down the hall. Jeff stands up as if to block my way, then wisely steps aside.

  “Your mother wants to talk to you, Miles,” he says.

  “She just did.”

  I hear the Lark pulling into the driveway with the old smokin’ beast. Perfect timing.

  “Hey, Miles, what’s happening?”

  “Trouble, Larry.”

  Chapter Seven

  The Lark and me are definitely due for a major discussion. Let’s see, where should I start? What kind of a friend takes off and leaves you for dead in a stolen car? What kind of buddy gets you involved in stealing a car in the first place? The Mustang owner’s insurance company will likely try and nail me for damages. Larry the Lark owes me, big time.

  We cruise the drag but nobody’s around at this hour. We pull into the A&W.

  “ … so I got these BMW hood ornaments and I try to trade two of them and an Alfa Romeo for one Ferrari, but think Spider will go for it? No way! So I sweeten the deal, offer him a … ”

  His words drift in and out of my head. I’m thinking back to the covers of those dusty old Hot Rod mags. One from 1964 shows Don Garlits driving the Swamp Rat dragster.

  “ … and so I tell him to put it where the sun don’t shine, I’ll find some other fence … Hey! You’re not listenin’!”

  “Sorry, Lar.” I take a pull on my milk shake. Get brain freeze.

  “What are you thinking about? Anything I should know?”

  Should I tell? He’s interested in cars.

  “At this old guy’s place where I was today, he had a pile of old hot-rod magazines. I was just thinking about some of those cars.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like ‘Big Daddy’ Don Garlits breaking two hundred miles per hour in a quarter mile with a dragster called Swamp Rat in the early ’60s!”

  Larry looks doubtful. “And he turned two hundred in the quarter, way back then? You sure? What did he use for power?”

  “A 392-inch hemi out of a ’57 Dodge truck, totally modified.”

  “What’s a ‘hemi’?”

  “It’s a special way Chrysler made heads. I read that they stole the design from Zora Arkus Duntov, the guy responsible for the Corvette. The ‘Z’ in the Z-28 Camaro comes from Zora.”

  “Hey!”

  “Swamp Rat ran on these humungous Racemaster drag slicks. The engine was super charged, fuel injected, with a Crower roller cam.”

  “What language are you talking, man?”

  I laugh. “Mr. Barnier, the dude I’m working for, he’s a hot-rodder from way back. He tells me all about these cars. He’s a cool old guy.”

  “He have a rod?”

  “I dunno. He wants to do the heads on something that’s in his garage. I said I could probably grind the valves for him at the school shop.”

  “Getting in good with the boss?”

  “He’s okay. This hundred hours is going to be easy time.”

  “Find out if he’s got a rod,” Larry says. “It could have parts worth lifting.”

  “No.”

  “No what?” The Lark leans towards me in his seat, staring. I stare back.

  “Look, Lar, this last bit, with the Mus-tang, you and Spider running off and letting me take the rap — I could have gone to the joint!”

  “Hey, man, Spider got nabbed on that theft charge two months ago and right now he’s on bail. He couldn’t stick around! And if I break my probation I’ll get time for sure. I knew you’d be okay.” Larry pops a fry into his mouth. “And you aren’t exactly havin’ a rough time over there at that old man’s. You said yourself this hundred hours’ community work is goin’ okay.” He leans towards me. “Me and Spider are grateful, man.”

  “I could have lost my driver’s license.”

  “Aw, you got nothing to drive anyway. Come on! Let’s forget it — get ripped at Megan’s bash, be somebody.”

  “I don’t feel like it.”

  “C’mon! Don’t play dead. Give Kenny a call. It’s time we had some fun!”

  Larry crunches up the papers and napkins, all that’s left of his huge order, and flicks on the headlights for tray pickup.

  Sure. I’ll call Kenny.

  Chapter Eight

  Megan is a Space Cadet. She used to do drugs but then she got involved with this club that turned her on to a new world. Now she loves the Space Channel. She’ll get up at four in the morning to watch astronauts suit up, walk out and get strapped in for their shuttle launches. Then she yawns all day in school. She says it’s good to be focused
on something. Her shrink says she has an obsessive personality.

  Larry and Megan have been hanging out for almost a year now. Megan has long straight blonde hair, usually with pink, purple or green streaks depending on what galaxy she’s in.

  The Lark, Megan and I pull up to No. 17 Green Forest Acres. Larry and Megan stay in the car with the motor running because it’s hard to start. I sprint up to the door and ring the bell, which chimes something classical.

  Mr. Morash answers.

  “Come in, Miles. Kenny’s nearly ready.” He looks out to the smoking ’72 New Yorker that’s brought me to his door. “Tell your chauffeur to head down to Midas Muffler — he’s losing a tailpipe and you’ll all be asphyxiated.”

  “Yes, sir.” I grin and he smiles back.

  When I first met Kenny’s parents I was real nervous — especially after Mr. Morash’s first comment.

  “Miles Derkach,” he said slowly when we were introduced. “I know Duke Derkach from the Speed Boss Racetrack. Any relation?”

  “Uh, yeah. He’s my dad,” I said, expecting to be thrown out of the house. “How did you know him?”

  “My father, Aesop Morash Sr., started the family garage business and worked me like a hired hand,” Mr. Morash replied. “I wasn’t allowed to go racing. How I longed to be at the track with guys like your dad.”

  “Daddy, Miles doesn’t want to hear your life history!” Kenny interrupted, with a cute grin. Her dad smiled back. You could see they were close.

  “I do want to hear about it, Mr. Morash,” I said.

  “Call me Ace,” he offered. “All I wanted was to be like the Duke. His team would come into the shop to get sponsorship money. We’d give them parts and some cash for gas and they’d be off again. He lived the life I dreamt of.”

  Good old Dad. The man in the photo album wearing the double-breasted suit, holding up racing forms and “lucky” tickets, in a picture taken somewhere in the States. The man in the T-shirt and jeans, mechanic’s cap on backwards, grease all over his hands and face, holding up a beer.

  “I lost track of your father,” Ace said, “although I often wondered about him.”