Slammed

by Patrick Jones

  “You afraid of getting caught?” Ali asked.

  “Doing time wasn’t so bad. I missed Nikki, and seeing your ugly face.”

  Ali didn’t laugh. He wasn’t ugly, but he did have a big scar on his forehead courtesy of a crash. But just because racing hurt you didn’t you mean you stopped doing it. Like LT said once, why not live large in the short term rather than living small for the long term?

  Ali turned the music down as we pulled up in front of a fancy mall near the church I used to attend. He gave me a hard look. “Since you got busted, nobody talks about racing in front of civilians. You got that?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “One more thing. Remember you was gone nine months.” He honked the horn twice.

  “Eight months, why?”

  Ali honked again and got out of the car. A second later I could see it clearly through the tinted windshield: Ali was standing with my Nikki hanging on his arm, like a catfish on the end of the line.

  “We straight?” Ali asked me as soon as Nikki left half an hour later. She hadn’t breathed a word to me until she said good-bye when we dropped her at her big house off Cass Ave.

  “It’s cool, right, DeAndre?” Ali said before I could answer his first question.

  “We good,” I said. Not like I had a choice, but I was going take the full beating like a man. I even moved from the back to the front and sat next to him. “So how’d you two hook up?”

  “Just happened. But there’s one thing I know—I ain’t gonna let happen to me what happened to you.” Ali laughed, while I growled inside like a hungry, angry lion. Nikki was barely inside her house before Ali started texting her. “Gots to keep her on the short leash, know what I’m saying?”

  “Seems like you’re the one she’s got on the leash,” I said and managed a smile.

  Ali stopped the car, backed up, and put it in neutral. He revved the engine three times and then slammed it into gear, leaving a familiar cloud of exhaust and burnt rubber behind. I felt sick about Ali and Nikki, but I welcomed the familiar smell. I breathed in deep and relaxed a little.

  Ali’s phone lit up. LT’s ring. He listened for a second, then started to talk loudly. “You should’ve seen it LT, on the way over, I smoked this lame Acura.” Ali would rather climb a tree to a lie than stand on the ground and tell the truth. He couldn’t snitch, because nobody believes a word he says. Well, most everybody. To LT, Ali’s gold, ’cause he’s a loyal follower and a fool.

  While Ali told his story, I closed one chapter of mine by deleting Nikki’s number from my phone. Then I called the impound lot again. Nikki broke my heart, but the impound fee broke my spirit.

  We pulled into LT’s auto garage, which did legal work by day and turned into chop shop at night. After LT asked about my time at Maxey, I got to the point. “I need two thousand bills to get my ride out of impound.”

  “You left it there when you were inside?” LT asked. Ali laughed. Two of LT’s groupies, Cal and Michael, stopped working on LT’s Mazda RX7 to laugh. “I’ll loan at twenty percent interest,” LT offered.

  I shook my head. “No, I wanna earn it.”

  “How you gonna do that without a car?” LT asked.

  “Win it, bets. I met this guy inside who told me about some hot action downriver.”

  “You gonna race your bike?” Ali asked. Everybody laughed but me.

  “Maybe I could borrow a car,” I said really low, almost a whisper.

  “Not my ride,” Ali said.

  LT hesitated. “I’ve heard about downriver, but it’s a real tough crowd,” he said. “You sure you want to do this?”

  I nodded.

  “You can use my RX,” LT said, to surprised stares. “But you’d better win—without wrecking it.”

  “LT, why you lettin’ DeAndre represent us? That should be me,” Ali said.

  I laughed at Ali. “I ain’t shifted a gear in eight months, and I’m still better than you.”

  Ali stepped toward me, but LT got between us. “You think you’re better than DeAndre? Prove it. Saturday night. We’ll meet out by the closed Kmart and find a place that’s not hot.”

  I just nodded. Ali turned his back to me and popped the hood of his Acura. Just the smell of the engine vapors made my head dizzy with happiness. “Thanks, LT.”

  He nodded and then stared at his RX7 the way I looked at Nikki.

  “You miss racing, LT?” I asked.

  “Every day,” LT said softly. He ran the fingers of his left hand gently over the rims on the custom chrome wheels of the RX and then did the same to the big rims on his wheelchair.

  “Sweet chrome,” some Asian guy said to me.

  “It’s his ride.” I pointed at LT and then went back to work getting his wheelchair out of the backseat. LT moved easily from the car to the chair, chatting with the Asian guy the whole time.

  While LT sat like a proud papa in front of his RX7, I joined in with Michael, Cal, and others walking the circuit. I had my flashlight in hand as I inspected engines of cars I’d never seen before or that had been modified. I wished my old auto mechanics teacher could see the magic we worked on these cars, but I didn’t think he’d appreciate it since most of these modifications were illegal.

  The parking lot of the closed Kmart was an oasis of racers. Not everybody raced. Some guys just liked to show off their cars, and other guys liked to show off their girls. I’d never asked Nikki to come watch me race or to show off like these other guys did with their girlfriends. Ali told me he’d bust her up if she even thought about showing skin like that for anyone other than him.

  My senses were working overtime as I walked around. My ears filled with reverbing bass, revving engines, and challenges issued. My nose tickled with burning rubber from the drifters, the scent of oil and gasoline, and the smell of weed. My mouth tasted of metal.

  “Hey, DeAndre!” I heard somebody shout. I turned. Jordan, from Maxey, stood next to a white Honda. It wasn’t slammed or tricked out, but it still looked like a fine ride.

  “What you doing up here?” I asked.

  “I thought I’d check you guys out. With all that trash-talking you did at Maxey, I figured you’d want to try your luck downriver. So I’m scouting you, I guess.”

  “Luck won’t have nothing do it with—it’s all skill.” I motioned shifting gears. Jordan laughed, and we looked under the hood of his car. I held my flashlight in my mouth so I could touch everything with both hands. Under a hood, I felt like a brain surgeon rather than some D student.

  “You here with your friend? Ali, right?” Jordan asked.

  I laughed. “Racing him tonight. But Ali’s easy to find. Just look for LT’s wheelchair, and Ali is one step behind. If LT stopped too quick, he’d break Ali’s nose, it’s shoved so far up—”

  “Wait, wait, isn’t this guy your friend?” Jordan asked, laughing. “Why you hang with him?”

  I smiled. “He’s more of a rival.” I made no mention of Nikki. “Just old habits, I guess, plus I like LT.”

  “DeAndre!” LT yelled and waved me over. I left Jordan and ran back.

  “I got the spot. We’re lead.” I nodded and then helped him back into his RX. “I’m gonna spread it.” LT started to text, and I knew all over East Detroit, texts were bouncing around letting people know where we’d be racing.

  “Thanks for letting me use your wheels,” I said.

  “Hey, at least I know you follow my rules.” He’d raced for years, and the one time he didn’t follow his code—raced on a busy street—he got hurt. No busy streets with civilians who would get in the way or call the police, and no races until after midnight.

  From the sky, I bet we looked like the world’s longest electric eel as we snaked slowly down city streets. We finally reached a long section of road not far from another closed factory—they lined Detroit like concrete dinosaurs. The racers headed to the south end, while spectators backed in and waited. Somebody marked off the quarter mile, and the racers started to line up.

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nbsp; As we eased our way up the line for our turn, Ali came and helped LT out of the RX. LT wheeled himself down the middle of the road. He was going to spot us.

  As I waited for Ali to get his car into place, I revved the engine. LT had built this RX from scratch after he crashed his old one in that race against Cory. We’d all helped with the physical work, but somehow when Ali talked about it, it was like the rest of us didn’t exist. I guess I always figured that LT would know who did the work and who just took the credit. I had faith in LT, and I hoped he had faith in me. But at the starting line, all I needed was faith in his machine.

  Finally, Ali pulled up at the starting line opposite me. As I stared over at Ali, I didn’t see a friend; I saw the reason Nikki wouldn’t even text me anymore. I’d lost my car and my love, but I would not lose this race. I needed to win. I hated to lose and feel like a loser.

  Just like I’d waited out those last few seconds at Maxey, I bit my bottom lip as I waited for LT to say those three magic words: ready, set, go!

  I revved the engine and waited. My hands white-knuckled the wheel while my feet danced on the floor: left on the brake, right on the accelerator. Before me was open road offering a chance at glory and respect.

  LT sat between both cars, his chair clouded in a mist of exhaust. In the rearview I saw the endless string of phones taking photos or shooting video. LT raised his right hand, paused, and dropped it to his side as Ali and I floored it. LT was the gun, his hands the trigger, and we were speeding bullets.

  My engine roared, my tires screeched, and my heart pounded as I pushed on the clutch, slammed the car into first, and shattered the darkness in front of me. The shift into second hurled me back into my seat like I’d been pushed by one of my mom’s drunk exes. Electricity ran through my veins, and I was part of the machine. I shifted into third. Another push, hoping it got me out in front. I didn’t look to my side; there was no time. It wasn’t about the other racer or the other car. Street racing was about you, your machine, and your desire to win.

  I kicked into fourth, and under the hood, every wire, hose, and part strained under the pressure. LT’s car hadn’t been raced in a while, and when it had been, he’d only let Ali touch it. I wasn’t just touching it; I was owning it.

  My ankle ached as I let out the clutch and pressed the gas one more time, almost forcing it through the floor. Final gear and final seconds. My lungs sucked in fumes from LT’s nitrous oxide-fueled RX like it was life-giving air. And as I crossed the finish line, I heard the sound of Ali’s Acura a microsecond behind me.

  I took my foot off the gas, let my machine coast, and opened the window. For all the heat from the tires, the engine, and the rush, this was the best: the cool of the evening after victory.

  “DeAndre, over here!” a voice called out to me from across the cafeteria on my first day at the Carter Woodson Academy. I pivoted like a point guard. It was Jordan.

  I smiled and walked over. As I looked over some of the hard faces, tatted-up arms, and angry stares I passed, I could tell it’d be best if I stayed low like my ride. I yawned before we fist-bumped. I had to get up an hour earlier to get to school by bus.

  “What you doing here?” he asked.

  “Mom said this was the kind of school I needed to change my ways.”

  Jordan laughed. “Me too, bro, ’cept …”

  “Nothing has changed.” I pointed at our uniforms and laughed. They were almost the same color as the ones we wore in Maxey. I didn’t mind it, actually. Looking like everybody else would help me keep my head down, out of trouble, and focused on graduating. “But school’s gotta be better than at Maxey.”

  He laughed. “I was surprised to see you still racing.”

  “One-time thing,” I lied. Trust on the outs was different than when you’re inside. “I noticed you didn’t race. You downriver dudes scared of some real action?”

  “Fact is, DeAndre, I was just telling stories. I tune, but I don’t race.” I shot him a puzzled look. “I love my ride, but I’m scared of crashing, of dying.”

  I lowered my voice. “Me, I’m scared of not living.”

  “Not living?”

  “Listen, my dad played his whole life safe. While almost everybody else on the block went to prison or worse, he stayed out, got a good job at the Apex Stamping Plant. His brother wanted him to quit the job and go half in on a garage, which ain’t funny because my uncle wasn’t half the mechanic Dad was, or I am. But Dad said no, I want to play it safe. That garage could have been mine one day, but Dad didn’t want any risk. And then, like two weeks later, he’s dead. Crushed by a stamping machine he was repairing.”

  I felt like crying, but I fought it.

  “From the insurance, I bought my Honda. Then I fell in with my crew.”

  Jordan frowned. “I love my CRX too much to risk it. It’s all I got.”

  “I hear people say that racing is risky, but that’s only if you don’t know what you’re doing,” I said, talking too much. “Life is all a risk anyway.”

  He shrugged. “True.”

  In the awkward quiet, I surveyed the landscape. “Say it ain’t so, Jordan.” He looked puzzled, while I shook my head like I’d been punched. “There are no girls here.”

  “Don’t matter to me none. I got plenty back home, like you do. How’s Nikki?”

  More silence, and my broken heart skipped a beat. I decided to tell him the story, but tried not to say her name. When I said it, I heard her voice.

  “But you’re still friends with that guy? Man, you’re one tough mo—”

  “Racing is all I got. So I got nothing to lose.”

  “Except your life, or somebody else’s.” He smiled when he said it.

  “Just mine. People who put civilians at risk are no better than bangers shooting into houses.”

  “We better get to class. You taking the auto mechanics course?” he asked. I nodded.

  “Taking it, even though my dad taught me. He was more like a magician than a mechanic.”

  “My pops was a magician too,” Jordan said. “’Cept his only trick was disappearing.”

  “I have only three rules,” the auto shop teacher, Mr. Roberts, announced at the start of class. I looked over at Jordan, and we both laughed. Three rules was only about two hundred ninety-seven less than we’d had at Maxey. “Show up on time, work hard all hour, and have fun.”

  Jordan raised his hand. “But working hard ain’t having fun.” Some folks laughed.

  Mr. Roberts put his hands on his hips, which was a chore since he had a lot of extra weight to pass by. “I think you’ll find it is quite possible to do both. Fourth rule, don’t use words like ain’t.”

  “So now this is English class too? Do I get double credit?” More laughs.

  “If you want to succeed in this world, gentlemen, you need to learn how to speak and act correctly in society. Talk however you wish with each other, but in here, use proper English. Now, gentlemen, if we’re done talking, let’s get to work. Coveralls in that closet and cars are in the garage behind us. This class is all hands-on. Any more questions?”

  I grabbed a pair of coveralls, slipped ’em on, and waited for Jordan. His didn’t quite fit, which made me laugh, but that all stopped when we stepped into the garage behind us. There were twenty cars, all makes and models, hoods open and ready for work, but my eyes caught something else: around the garage, under lock and key, hundreds of parts on shelves. Jordan must’ve seen the same thing, ’cause he smiled and licked his lips like a hungry man seeing his dinner arrive.

  “Let’s go again.” Ali had been in my face the entire week for a rematch. Cal thought I should give him one; Michael said I had nothing to prove.

  “Ain’t gonna happen,” I said.

  “Man, you wouldn’t even be racing if it wasn’t for me,” Ali said.

  “I don’t owe you anything,” I said and wiped the grease off my hands. I was under the hood of LT’s RX, getting ready to change out the fuel injector for the one he just bought.r />
  Ali turned to Nikki, who was on his arm again. “Did DeAndre tell you all I taught him when he started to hang here?” Nikki kind of shrugged. I’d told her my version of the story—that LT and his crew helped continue my education under the hood after my dad died. I was sure Ali had his own version. “Answer me!” he yelled.

  Nikki flinched, and she started to walk away. He grabbed her by the wrist, hard. Pain shot across her face.

  “Where are you going?” Ali shouted.

  “Let her go,” I said. I stared at her skinny arms covered with welts and bruises.

  “Stay out of this, DeAndre. She’s not yours now, she’s mine.”

  “She doesn’t belong to you.” I knocked Ali’s hand off Nikki’s wrist, which allowed her to run out of the garage. I started to follow, but Ali grabbed my shoulder.

  “You wanna go?” He bumped his chest against mine, even though he was about two inches shorter than me. As he jammed his finger into my shoulder, I knocked his hand away.

  “Ali, DeAndre, enough!” LT shouted as he wheeled up closer. Even though LT was seated, it seemed like he towered over Ali.

  “Whatever you say,” Ali said in the tone of a spoiled child.

  “I’m out.” I wiped my hands and walked out the door. Nikki stood by the street.

  “You okay?” I asked her, keeping my distance. I never asked her why we ended. I figured if she wanted me to know, she’d say something. I learned when my dad died, you can fight ’em all you want, but if you don’t accept the losses, you just lose yourself.

  “I’m fine. I should go,” Nikki said quietly.

  “I’d give you ride, but my Civic’s impounded until I get some cash. Lot of cash.”

  She stared at the street; I took a step closer. “Sorry, about that,” she said. “About everything.”

  “Well, don’t be saying the same thing to Ali. He should treat you better.”