《Driver Mach 1》


 Wall of Death

    My name is Lorean Michaels. I¡¯m a stunt driver for the movies.


    A pounding heartbeat thudded in my throat. I gripped the wheel, watching the Director just off to the side. He held his hand high and we waited for the crew to take their places. Twisting my gloves, I could feel their leathery squeeze cut the tension in the air with a crinkling sound.


    ¡°ACTION!¡± the Director fired out.


    I hit the accelerator and let the car¡¯s muscle¡ªthat was, in fact, a V-8 engine under the hood of a standard grey Chevy Impala¡ªrip and roar to life. The back end fishtailed and swayed as the positraction differential kicked in and sensed which wheel had the greatest grip to the street. I felt the G forces anchor me like I was in a centrifuge.


    ¡°We ride together, we die together,¡± I said in my best Bad Boys II impression.


    The scene was simple. Barrel down the abandoned post-apocalyptic highway road and position my right passenger wheel over the ''car flipper,¡¯ which was a device comprised of a steel plate attached to a lever that would rocket 2500 psi of force into a hydraulic ram cylinder.


    Depending on how I positioned the car over the hydraulic ram, it would flip my car twenty feet into the air. My goal was to get the right passenger wheel atop it, and then the stunt team would fire away to push up onto the frame of the vehicle.


    The car flipper was moments away. I peered into the side-view mirror, making sure the coast was clear. My eyes appeared stern, exposed only through the visor of a helmet. I was ready to take the hit. Soon I would be tossed high into the air and onto the topside.


    THUMP!


    The excitement waned. I looked down at the teensy speed bump under the small truck I was driving. Okay, so I wasn¡¯t some big Hollywood stunt driver, but I had wanted to be. And like all things in my life, I¡®d somehow derailed what Iset out to do with my life and picked up a mundane job: a truck driver in Thailand.


    On my venturing out to California, I¡¯d hung with an eclectic bunch of friends, waiting tables and working at minor jobs while trying to break into the movie industry. But when the opportunity to travel to Thailand to work a ¡®stunt driving¡¯ gig presented itself, I couldn¡¯t resist.


    Sure, I might have not told my father what I was doing, but I saw it as a short detour to the bigger picture. I would learn some stunt skills, then return to Hollywood, qualified to take on the biggest of movie shows. But like anywhere, I just needed to be given the chance to succeed.


    I set the truck into gear, making sure I didn¡¯t lose the trailer I hauled behind me that was full of tourist trinkets and teeny replicas of the Wall of Death. Against the Wall, the stuntmen had lined up the modest motor bikes along with a small stunt car.


    The large motordrome was a circular wooden track thirty feet in diameter with forty-five-degree banking corners, acrylic load-bearing columns, and seating for five thousand. Made of nailed-together rickety boards, the track was like driving on the inside of a lousily put together wooden barrel. Below, another rider would drive on a small motorcycle, keeping his equal distance from the car and the ground.


    This was the Wall of Death.


    Above, a drunken crowd of traveling tourists and Thai locals would cheer from a ramshackle stage as the team kept up their momentum. Hazy exhaust would sputter from the ill-kept cars and waft into the viewer¡¯s face, ignoring the toxic fumes of the seldom-held event. This was what I sought-after: high octane, thrilling speed, and a roaring fandom.


    The Wall of Death was the latest attempt to bring back a daring stunt from the early nineteen hundreds. Management¡¯s goal was to invigorate the sales of the local Chang Mai Massage Circus; it was the place for tourists to witness death-defying stunts and exotic animal tricks. You could get a small Thai woman walking on your back while laying stomach-side to watch the show.


    I pulled up my rig to the gate lit by an overhead tungsten blaze. Today was different. A hefty man stood alone smoking from a hand-rolled cigarette.


    For six months I had driven this piece-of-shit truck up and down the winding roads of the back country for him. Most of the friends I had traveled here with had already lost interest and returned home or gone to other countries. But I have been working on cars for my associates for weeks, and today was the day I would finally decide to ask the owners if I could take a chance on the Wall of Death.


    The hefty man was a supervisor and despite having an English name, everyone around the circus called him ¡®Gau¡¯ for short. He was an asshole and one enema away from losing his shit. Ever since I had started here he¡¯d had a sore eye for my presence and wasn¡¯t afraid to let me know. I glanced around for his partner Tep. Tep was the only person on the team that had the decency to treat me like a human being.


    ¡°Aye, what you looking around for, boy?¡± Gua asked me. His raspy voice followed the lingering smoke that trailed from his teeth, which were black due to years of smoking.


    ¡°Hey, Gau,¡± I said, trying to keep a positive tone despite the dislike I had for the man. ¡°Have you seen Tep?¡±


    ¡°Why you look for him?¡± Gau asked, taking another drag from the soggy cigarette.


    ¡°I wanted to see about my training on the Wall this week.¡±


    Gua erupted in laughter, then started choking on the puff of smoke he inhaled. I cringed at the sight of tobacco trapped in his teeth from the splintered end of the cancer stick.


    I was tired of his shit and ready to give him more than my ¡®two cents.¡¯ More than anything, I wanted to tell him that experience was the best teacher, and that was what I needed, but his demeanor just aggravated me more.


    I pursed my lips and narrowed my brows. ¡°What¡¯s so funny?¡±


    ¡°I just heard from Bo that you done with the truck driving. They have you scheduled on the Poo Poo Paper booth.¡±


    The Poo Poo Paper booth was as bad as sounded. It was a booth on the outside of the circus where the attendant would gather dung from the adjacent Elephant Show. From there, the custodian would process the feces for its bamboo content. Then, one could make paper from the fibrous leftovers and sell it to the na?ve tourists.


    It was a crap job. Literally.


    ¡°Bullshit,¡± I barked.


    ¡°No¡­ Elephant shit,¡± Gau fired back with a guffaw.


    Anger swelled inside me. I couldn¡¯t believe what I was hearing. My friends were right for leaving this hellhole. They¡¯d warned me the owners would fuck me over, but I held onto the dream, displaying hard work met with a persistence to succeed.


    Gua stepped back, stomped out his cigarette, and waved me though the gate. I eased the wagon past him, trying to disregard his snickering as I drove away. After I pulled up to my usual parking spot, I waited for the locals to unload the truck and take away the hoard of trinkets in thin boxy crates. Leaning against the rig, I reflected on Gua¡¯s words.


    There¡¯s no way I¡¯m going to work the Poo Poo Paper booth, I thought.


    A local walk past me and chuckled. I knew the small man from my past daily rounds. He grabbed a crate from the back of the truck. I squeezed my eyebrows together and burned with fury.


    ¡°What the hell is so funny?¡± I said.


    ¡°You make poo poo paper with me,¡± he said in a thick Thai accent.


    I couldn¡¯t take it anymore. I pushed myself off the truck and narrowed my eyes. Full-on tunnel vision hit me with only one object in my field of vision: the small stunt car parked near the bikes. Tired of the bullshit, I would show them once and for all the able driver I was.


    The car¡¯s door was windowless and didn¡¯t open. In all actuality, it was welded shut, preventing one from falling out during the death-defying feat. I pulled myself up and slipped my stocky frame into the driver''s seat. What sounded like short yells from far away turned out to be just that. The panic ensued.


    I pushed in the clutch and the brake and started the engine. The vehicle roared to life.


    Just as nearby locals ran to intercept me, I slammed the car into reverse and released the clutch, throttling the engine with gas to send me screeching backward. The car whipped around, and then I pummeled the transmission into first gear. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    The motor rumbled to life. I balanced the clutch and gas evenly. The Wall of Death was just ten feet away when I grabbed the emergency brake and pulled as hard as I could. Cinching the steering wheel around, I swung the back end around, coasting me into the entrance.


    There was no one inside, as the stunt was in between sets. I hit the accelerator and picked up my speed. Around the track I went until the speedometer read thirty miles an hour. In passing, I had swamped Tep with questions about the stunt. He always said ¡®Thirty makes you a Birdie¡¯.


    The right passenger wheel struck the lip and began thudding in a consistent pattern as it passed over each board. This allowed the cars to start the climb and keep up the speed. For a second I caught the glimpse of a gathering crowd above, and my heart soared with joy.


    There was nothing left but to prove myself. I yanked the steering wheel right, and the car climbed up on the wall. Without lifting my foot from the accelerator, I coursed around the drum-like side. With every revolution I made, I rose up the wall, and then saw a small motorcycle enter the arena.


    It was Tep. And for a moment, what I thought was rage blanketing his face turned out to be a gunning smile. I waved at him with the same expression, showing him I could perform this stunt with aplomb. He knew I had years of experience on the go-kart track at my father¡¯s house. Fixing cars and driving them was my forte. They just need to give me the chance.


    Tep met my speed like a pro and climbed his way just under me. The momentum was dizzying.


    ¡°Lorean! Keep your speed up,¡±a voice called out into my helmet¡¯s earpiece. Tep¡¯s Thai accent was thick, but clear to understand. The car I handled clung to a vertical surface by sheer friction and centrifugal force. I maneuvered the boxy stunt car with a quick tug of the steering wheel and climbed even higher up the wall.


    ¡°I got it, Tep. I got it,¡± I said as G forces dug me even further into my bucket seat. ¡°You just stay under me and keep your distance.¡±


    Performing the risky stunt must have been quite the sight. The unsteady slats sounded off in a repeated pattern like shots from an automatic weapon. And with each pass around the annular track it seemed like I was stationary, watching the incomplete. The world tumble around me.


    Acclamation from the feverish spectators reverberated into the canister of a track and whipped my vehicle higher, closer and closer to them. I turned my head to my left, looking back down to see Tep watching me and with a high octane grin. I knew I was overstepping my boundaries, but this was what the crowd paid for.


    They wanted a show.


    Thailand was the go-to place for these kinds of motordrome racing tracks and stunts. Prohibited in the U.S. in the previous century, it was a sport that reached this culture with delight. And with the lax regulations on safety, Thailand was the perfect breeding ground for the infamous stunt to flourish.


    I pulled higher, watching the red-and-white-striped guard markers whip by the edge of the car. The pattern they created from the motion was almost epilepsy-inducing, repeating in a pulsating fashion. My driver-side mirror scraped along the markers and snapped off. The crowd ooh¡¯d and ahh¡¯d at the danger¡ªfor the show I gave them.


    ¡°Damn it, Lorean!¡± Tep yelled into his helmet¡¯s mic. ¡°You will get yourself killed.¡±


    ¡°They don¡¯t call it the Wall of Death for nothing, Tep,¡± I said with a chuckle.


    I couldn¡¯t quite place the words in the correct order to grasp their meaning. In that moment I was lost to the deluge. The-dozen-Thai-women-scantily clad in spaghetti strap bathing suits. All of them were holding signs that read my name. It was the action, the fame, and the danger that exhilarated me. And you can¡¯t make an omelet without breaking some eggs. I wanted the crowd to remember me¡ªremember my stunts. The town needed a better dog and pony show, and I would give it to them.


    My helmet rang out another sound, but this time it wasn¡¯t the high-strung voice of Tep. Instead, it was the familiar ring of a telephone. I looked down in between the console of my two seats to see my phone lit up with an incoming call. I peeled my eyes back to the track and concentrated on the moment.


    The incomplete roof above swirled in my vision. An extruded section connected from one side of the stadium to the other part formed a makeshift bridge. Excitement came over me just thinking of the possibility of completing a loop de loop on it. It would be the cherry on top to the already sought-after known as the Wall of Death.


    My phone rang again.


    The sudden sound threw me off my groove. I ignored the call, but then the front of the automobile hit the outer lip of the track. Thunderous applause roared in the stadium and I couldn¡¯t help but look at Tep. His face was pale as a ghost, wide eyed and stricken with panic. Wait till they get a load of what I do next.


    I dove the car down the side toward Tep, who reacted and pulled away closer to the ground to give me space. That allowed just enough cornering room for me to rip back up the wall, climb up the acrylic guard rail, and head onto the ceiling. Speed would a factor here, and I just hoped this jury-rigged box car that Tep had helped build was fast enough to keep me on the roof.


    ¡°What are you doing?¡± Tep yelled out, but then saw what was going for. ¡°You idiot! Don¡¯t even try for the roof. That¡¯s no Indy car!¡±


    My tires screeched. The forces were tremendous on my body. I climbed up, just missing my fender getting clipped by a hanging light. At full throttle, the praising crowd recollected in my soul. I felt the centrifugal force pull me to the roof¡ªdefying all gravity. The crowd would call me something else from now on.


    ¡°Success,¡± I murmured to myself.


    The roof strained in noise, almost buckling out from the car¡¯s downforce pushing onto it. The exhilaration shot through my body, which was weightless at the moment. But then everything began to float upward. My arms were light. My phone rose in the air. The car pulled away from the ceiling. My insides rose from the fall and sank at the same time from the realization. I was falling down. I was again, making my descent toward the grounded Earth that wanted to hold me so close to it.


    BOOM!


    * * *


    I cracked open my eyes only a slight bit, letting in the blinding light. The scintillating feeling of being alive permeated my soul, and I took a deep breath. The air smelled of antiseptic and sterilized metal. I discerned an ominous beeping sound and a muffled conversation just outside my room.


    I was glad I survived.


    Moving past those dreary thoughts and onto the present, I tried to replay the series of events that had occurred before I got here. There was the Wall of Death and then Tep riding after me. Then, there was my crazy move of becoming the top billing spectacle by driving on the roof and falling to my demise. Great one, I thought.


    I rose my head up to see that the modest room was a curtained-off section to a much larger facility. I picked up the voices from afar, and they grew louder as they approached my makeshift cubicle. Tep¡¯s tone was the only one I could perceive until they were right outside the curtain. And then I discovered another familiar voice, but this one was raspy, yet bellowing, and louder than Tep¡¯s. Which led me to believe it was Tep¡¯s asshole brother, business partner, and manager of the Chang Mai Massage Circus, Bo Yilmaz.


    Bo Yilmaz was a tyrant. Entrusted with running their family firm since the passing of their father, Bo and Tep were the last ones to take the reins of the infamous traveling circus. I had always respected both Bo and Tep, save for the way Bo treated Tep. They were brothers, and they didn¡¯t hold back their wicked tongues when they argued. Like they were doing now. Outside of my hospital curtain.


    ¡°Then you fucking tell him,¡± Bo whispered, trying to restrain his anger.


    The white curtain swished back, and it drew more ambient light in. I saw three figures, all short in stature. The center person stepped forward, which highlighted her sleek features and dark skin in the light. She wore a silvery-white coat that seemed to cling to her body in ways that stressed her walk. The stethoscope around her neck dropped between two full, gorgeous breasts. It further reinforced the sexy-doctor stereotype I had seen so many times on T.V. Brilliant white stalkings lined her legs and ran up to a tight miniskirt.


    Bo and Tep were behind her and stepped into the light. Tep was in his usual crimson tight khakis, white v neck t-shirt, and a black leather jacket. It was like he was trying to imitate the ¡®coolness¡¯ of nineteen-sixties greaser. I mean, he was a greaser, but his style of clothing were super dated. All of Thailand felt that way sometimes. The result was a hodgepodge of assorted styles that ascended through the decades of showed all their colors here.


    Bo was no different. His tan boxy three-piece suit screamed business mogul. He had owned the Chang Mai Massage Circus for a little over a year. Wanting to double the company¡¯s worth, he had set out to make his family house one of the biggest in Thailand. A real P. T. Barnum, save for he wasn¡¯t even going to bring elephants on the circuit. It had proved to be a PR nightmare for animal activists. So instead he presented human lives at risk in the Wall of Death.


    I smiled, recognizing the two brothers. Tep wore a smile as he approached my bedside. His brother Bo was less than thrilled to be here as usual. He hated me and the fact he had to pay for my healthcare. And it¡¯s not like he was spending copious amounts of money on my well being. This was Thailand, not the U.S., and we had agreed when I started that they would only cover emergencies.


    ¡°Mr. Michaels, you are lucky to be alive,¡± the smoking-hot Thai doctor said, cracking what looked to be a half smile from her thick bee-stung lips.


    Was the nurse checking me out? My heart fluttered while lost in pure fantasy. ¡°It will take a lot more than that to finish me off.¡±


    ¡°What were you thinking?¡± Tep asked. ¡°No one has ever tried to cross the sky bridge. That car could never achieve enough speed to create the downforce to defy gravity completely.¡±


    I fumbled my words, reflecting on the rusty physics Tep was referring to. ¡°I¡¯m tired of waiting on the sidelines. You had me doing truck driving and maintenance for weeks on those cars. It was my time to drive, Tep. You heard that crowd cheering for me.¡±


    ¡°No, it¡¯s simple. You are an idiot,¡± Bo sniped. His inflection delivered a more irritated tone. ¡°And you would be shoveling elephant shit for next two months if your uncle didn¡¯t¡ª¡±


    Tep scolded Bo with a look of disdain. I could tell the insult was not sitting well with the young Thai man I knew as my friend. Tep had always looked out for me, despite my brash and idiotic ways. We had gotten to know each other over the last six months. Coming to Thailand was a huge culture change from growing up in the suburbs of Chicago and the big city of L.A. And he¡¯d accepted my dumb Midwestern ass with open arms.


    ¡°We have bad news, my friend,¡± Tep said somberly.


    And here it was. I had been riding the line at Bo¡¯s company for a while now and I¡¯d known he wouldn¡¯t put up with my shenanigans for much longer. Getting fired from a job was hard. I had experienced it before. This conversation with Bo and Tep would be no different. So, I awaited for the heavy words to come.


    Tep reached into his pocket and pulled out a small device I recognized as my smartphone. The cracked screen illuminated as I raised it up. Two messages popped on the screen and I swiped it open. When the screen unlocked, I was able to read the full content of the messages. I recalled hints of receiving messages just before my accident.


    The first message was short and from my uncle, Pete. It read:


    Lorie, please come home.


    My eyes fell sharply on the next set of words. Lorie is my family¡¯s nickname for me.


    Tep put his hand on my shoulder. I swiped to the second message and read:


    Your father has passed away.

 Chicago

    After two connecting flights, one in Shanghai and Seattle, I was on my way back to the Midwest. Waiting in my seat while the passengers deplaned left me with only thoughts in my head. Thoughts of my father and what his life amounted to. To me, the American Midwest had always represented the place where people give up on their dreams. Sure, Chicago was a bustling metropolis, but in the suburbs of Evanston, Illinois, where my father had settled his family, it was not a place to make a name for yourself.


    That was why I had moved to California. I still remember the day I¡¯d said goodbye to my dad almost four years now. Torn by my decision to head west, he knew I was finished being a grease monkey. I wanted more than the life he had. I recalled being proud of him when I was smaller. People held him with high regard as the local race car driver competing at NASCAR, but that alluring track of success disappeared when he found out he had a kid coming; me.


    Too many times I had seen it happen to those around me in the small town where I grew up. Why they would sacrifice their dreams for their children baffled me. I mean, I get it. The children were the future. But what prospect could you give them by barely scraping by? Sometimes I even felt like my arrival ruined my father¡¯s career.


    The seat belt sign above me rung and the warning light deactivated. It was time for my seat row to exit. I grabbed my bag from the overhead bin and easily walked down the aisle. My legs seemed like Jello as I took a step. A fourteen-hour flight took its toll on my body. I was thoroughly rested because of sleeping most of the way on the leg from China. Jet lag would soon set in, but not as badly as it would if I hadn¡¯t got some shut eye.


    Chicago¡¯s O¡¯Hare Airport was a sight to see. Over the last year I had grown accustomed to the smaller Thai airport of Chang Mai, but O¡¯Hare dwarfed it by comparison. Contemporarily decorated under grandiose fluorescent wavy lights above, the airport was like a museum in itself, signifying the societal struggles through urban art. The neon lights pulsed-on-and-off changing various colors like an EDM music venue on acid.


    I found my way to the lower part of the airport where the blue line ¡®L¡¯ was located. ¡®L¡¯ stood for ¡®elevated train¡¯ and was one of the best metro systems I had experienced in the U.S., running just behind New York, London, and Paris. From there, the Blue Line would take me to downtown, where I could transfer to the Red Line. At the end of the Red Line, I would be just a few miles out from where I grew up¡ªjust north of Roger¡¯s Park in a city called Evanston.


    The Blue Line train pulled up and swooshed open its aluminum doors. I stepped on, smiling in nostalgia. I hadn¡¯t seen this type of train car in a few years. The smells were overwhelming and struck a fancy with me as I took in the cool oil aroma mixed with the latest passenger¡¯s perfume scent. They were probably rushing to catch a late business flight, I imagined.


    As the train pulled out from the station I watched the bustling of people in the surrounding suburbs around the airport. Small people living out their small lives for another dollar. It was something my father was proud of, but I never could adapt to that mentality. I wanted to do something more with my life and not waste it.


    I remember what my mother had told me before she passed. ¡®Put your mind to it and you can achieve anything, Lorie.¡¯ For longest time I¡¯d had that sentence drilled into my head. She was unhappy with my father when I was growing up. Too many bills to pay and not enough income from the go-kart track. She was displeased with my father¡¯s content on having a modest lifestyle.


    My thoughts then turned to a dark place. The little white lie that was snowballing into an avalanche. I had been lying to everyone back home. All this time they had thought I was driving for Hollywood. Starring in movies and driving stunt vehicles for A-Listers cast in the latest zombie picture. I might not know everything about racing, but I could handle a vehicle like it was an extension of me. I swished my windswept wavy brown hair back like I was ready to sub in for Brad Pitt himself.


    After a quick transfer, I was on the Red Line. For many years I had taken the train downtown from Rogers Park with my friends. The smell of cold air and carcinogens filled my nose every time the doors rolled open.


    Early spring was an amazing time in Chicago. Gone were the snow drifts and sub-zero temperatures, making room for the new spring-green colors to flourish.  The city came alive in the summer too. Park concerts featuring top headliners were swarmed by crowds set against a magnificent cityscape backdrop, and sandy beaches overlooking Lake Michigan. The grandiose sights were nothing short of awesome¡ªespecially the lake, almost mimicking ocean waves, crashing onto the murky shores.


    I missed home so much.


    I heard a slight humming noise, as construction season was starting. The noise reminded me of the buzzing drone-like sounds I would hear from the emerging cicadas. These infamous bugs of the Brood Thirteen hatch emerged in 2007, only to spend a majority of their lives underground. My father hated the sound and quickly compared it to razor blades running up guitar strings. The noise was wretched. Seized by a thought, I quickly googled their next emergence.


    2024. They were coming this year.


    As I walked from the station, I threw my bag over my shoulder and headed to the main throughway of Clark Street. The buzzing noise grew louder, and then it faded as I passed some construction. My father had worked construction after he quit racing. I remembered how happy he was to retire and open up Banana Peel Go-Kart arena on our property.


    The promenades of fast-food franchises, twenty-four-hour gyms, and grocery stores soon gave way too few industrial companies separated by large plots of land. Tree orchards ran their length and reminded me of the days when I was younger and had to help the neighbors clean up the fallen fruit during summer. One of these plots, wedged in between the old canning factory and an abandoned sheet metal shop, was my father¡¯s land.This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    My uncle sat on the porch, coffee cup in hand as he tipped himself back in his chair. As I walked down the long dirt driveway I made out what looked like a small book in his hand. However, the small book turned out to be a large flask. He poured the flask into the cup he held and sipped it. It looked like he hadn¡¯t slept a wink for days.


    My Uncle Pete had moved in when he found out my mom died. He stayed for summers helping with me as a child while my dad had worked mobile construction projects. The season boomed during the summers. I felt bad for him, having to work during the warmest times of year. It sure didn¡¯t help the kids had that time off either.


    Uncle Pete was cool, laid-back, and one of those guys you would mistake The Dude for. When my dad retired, Pete had moved in for good and helped the family open Banana Peel Go-Kart track. They were both greaser heads at their core. To them, a car was not just an object you operated but a living, breathing entity. It was an extension of your very soul or something like that.


    He stood up from the porch, sipped his drink one more time, and sat the mug down. He stepped into the sun, shielding his eyes from the light with his hand. His wrinkles had grown since the last time I¡¯d seen him. Framed between long blonde locks like a Viking, he pulled me into a hug.


    ¡°Lorie, I¡¯m glad you came home,¡± Uncle Pete said somberly. ¡°What the hell took so long? LA is only a four-hour flight.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, sorry,¡± I said, thinking quick. ¡°Had to do some pickup shots¡­ for a movie.¡±


    In filmmaking, a pickup shot was a relatively minor process filmed after the fact, to add to footage already recorded.


    ¡°Well, thanks for coming, Lorie. With no other family around it¡¯s been tough to¡­¡± he trailed off, seemingly to be overwhelmed in thought.


    ¡°Handle the affairs,¡± I said, finishing his sentence.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Uncle Peet said, grabbing me by my shoulder and pulling me onto the porch. ¡°And thank the Lord you are here now.¡±


    I walked inside my old home, trying to shake off the thick cigarette smell and coffee.  Uncle Pete tugged me to the kitchen past the lengthy armoire. Standing atop the shelf were multiple framed pictures of me and my dad.In addition, pictures of rolling film credits with my name circled sat framed under a thick layer of dust. Uncle Pete needed my help with the house, I thought.


    Uncle Pete had never been a very responsible adult, some would say. Wasting what money he made off of Banana Peel Go-Kart, he spent his nights in those silly bars posing as a ¡®delicatessen¡¯ in the local strip mall. Follow the smoke and the sounds of video poker originating from them and you would find Uncle Pete.


    He had piled chaotic stacks of papers up on the kitchen table. And since the funeral was the next day, a range of legal notices were piled up. I took a guess it was not shy of outstanding debts, funeral expenses and power of attorney paperwork. My poor uncle was up to his neck in ¡®affairs¡¯. I shuffled through the sheets and confirmed my suspicions.


    I looked at his crooked half smile, almost seeing my father within it. I wanted to hug him once more, but he broke the ensuing awkwardness by turning on his heel. Rustling through the cupboards, my uncle pulled out the blackest cast iron pan I had ever seen.


    ¡°We can talk business later,¡± Uncle Pete said, throwing the pan on the stove and firing up the gas burner. ¡°For now, we need pancakes.¡±


    ¡°Breakfast?¡± I asked. ¡°It¡¯s the middle of the day.¡±


    ¡°And?¡± Uncle Pete asked. ¡°What''s that got to do with it? You can have pancakes any damn time of the day you want!¡±


    * * *


    I gobbled up my uncle¡¯s affectionate concoction of pillowy goodness trying to contain my words. The moist, syrup-soaked quick bread met my unaccustomed mouth with satisfaction. I didn¡¯t realize how much my palette had acclimated to the Asian region. In most of Thailand, they ate savory dishes in the morning, but the pancakes I was eating were just like Roti Canai, a wonderful pancake-like fried bread street food topped with banana and egg. After a drizzle of condensed milk, the finished product was amazing.


    I licked my lips and scraped up any remaining sweet cake remaining. Quaint views of nostalgia filled my head when I glanced outside the back door, leading from the kitchen. The dirt track I spent many years whipping around in a go-kart was still there meandering in an infinite loop.


    ¡°How¡¯s the business?¡± I asked, finishing the last bite, but not before I took a final swab around my plate with a forked pancake piece.


    ¡°Business hasn¡¯t been the same since you left, Lorie,¡± he said.


    I knew what he was getting at. Before leaving for Hollywood to follow my dreams, I had operated the track on my weekends. In all honesty, it was fun, and I¡¯d learned how to become a hell of a driver, but it would never lead to what I wanted in life. For every hour I spent felt working that go-kart track felt like I was wasting away. I couldn¡¯t wait to strap in and let loose on the streets. I¡¯d had to get away and make a name for myself or I would be trapped just like my father had been.


    ¡°Well, Uncle Pete, I had to leave. You know¡­¡± I tried to explain.


    ¡°Yeah, I know.¡± He agreed, and then his crooked smile bloomed again. This time I could make out one of his front incisors missing. ¡°Well, we are proud of you. We look at your IMDB page all the time. So many movies you have worked on.¡±


    My stomach sank. Internet Movie Database, or IMDB, was the website hosting facts, production trivia, and movie casts. I had learned anyone could add their name to movies to get credit. After many unsuccessful attempts and removal by admins, I would list my first movie credit. Then I started adding my name to other features. Moderators would catch some, but others would slip through the cracks. Before I knew it, I had a steady flow of movie titles added to my roster.


    Of course, they could just go see the movie for themselves and check for my name, but they weren¡¯t hurrying out to the local theater. They would rather spend their nights watching reruns of Top Gear, throwing back Chicago dogs while drinking a cool Miller Light. And now that I think of it, my father had grown distant over the years since I left. What started as regular phone calls soon turned to months of not speaking and then years of silence. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. The IMDB credit was the way to make him proud. And now, he¡¯s gone. I never told him the truth.


    ¡°Uncle,¡± I cautiously said. ¡°I have something to tell you.¡±


    Uncle Pete never hiccuped in his movement. He continued to wash the dirty dishes and load them into the dishwashing machine.


    ¡°I know, I know,¡± he said. ¡°You feel guilty about leaving.¡±


    I paused, unsure of what to admit to.


    ¡°Well, don¡¯t,¡± Uncle Pete reaffirmed, pointing to the lengthy armoire in the hall chock-full of action movie titles my father and I used to watch together. ¡°Those movies over there are the bond you and father had and he was most proud watching you follow your dreams.¡±


    My mood rose, and then the sadness sank deeper. I knew the truth.


    I ran my hands over the stacks of papers, thumbing through the many bills, entitlements, and financial documents. One stood out, displaying a keen graphics logo that looked like a ¡¯T¡¯ colored in bright red. I looked closer and recognized the name under it. Tesla. Not only was this a Tesla document¡ªit was a purchase receipt. Under that paper was another receipt. One from a DeLorean Motor Company. What the holy hell? No wonder he has no money left.


    ¡°A Tesla and a Delorean?¡± I blurted out to my uncle.


    He stopped from scrubbing the dishes, raised his head, and cracked a half smile like my father would. As he turned his head, he said, ¡°Do you want to see it?¡±


    ¡°You mean them?¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡±

 Chicago

    After two connecting flights, one in Shanghai and Seattle, I was on my way back to the Midwest. Waiting in my seat while the passengers deplaned left me with only thoughts in my head. Thoughts of my father and what his life amounted to. To me, the American Midwest had always represented the place where people give up on their dreams. Sure, Chicago was a bustling metropolis, but in the suburbs of Evanston, Illinois, where my father had settled his family, it was not a place to make a name for yourself.


    That was why I had moved to California. I still remember the day I¡¯d said goodbye to my dad almost four years now. Torn by my decision to head west, he knew I was finished being a grease monkey. I wanted more than the life he had. I recalled being proud of him when I was smaller. People held him with high regard as the local race car driver competing at NASCAR, but that alluring track of success disappeared when he found out he had a kid coming; me.


    Too many times I had seen it happen to those around me in the small town where I grew up. Why they would sacrifice their dreams for their children baffled me. I mean, I get it. The children were the future. But what prospect could you give them by barely scraping by? Sometimes I even felt like my arrival ruined my father¡¯s career.


    The seat belt sign above me rung and the warning light deactivated. It was time for my seat row to exit. I grabbed my bag from the overhead bin and easily walked down the aisle. My legs seemed like Jello as I took a step. A fourteen-hour flight took its toll on my body. I was thoroughly rested because of sleeping most of the way on the leg from China. Jet lag would soon set in, but not as badly as it would if I hadn¡¯t got some shut eye.


    Chicago¡¯s O¡¯Hare Airport was a sight to see. Over the last year I had grown accustomed to the smaller Thai airport of Chang Mai, but O¡¯Hare dwarfed it by comparison. Contemporarily decorated under grandiose fluorescent wavy lights above, the airport was like a museum in itself, signifying the societal struggles through urban art. The neon lights pulsed-on-and-off changing various colors like an EDM music venue on acid.


    I found my way to the lower part of the airport where the blue line ¡®L¡¯ was located. ¡®L¡¯ stood for ¡®elevated train¡¯ and was one of the best metro systems I had experienced in the U.S., running just behind New York, London, and Paris. From there, the Blue Line would take me to downtown, where I could transfer to the Red Line. At the end of the Red Line, I would be just a few miles out from where I grew up¡ªjust north of Roger¡¯s Park in a city called Evanston.


    The Blue Line train pulled up and swooshed open its aluminum doors. I stepped on, smiling in nostalgia. I hadn¡¯t seen this type of train car in a few years. The smells were overwhelming and struck a fancy with me as I took in the cool oil aroma mixed with the latest passenger¡¯s perfume scent. They were probably rushing to catch a late business flight, I imagined.


    As the train pulled out from the station I watched the bustling of people in the surrounding suburbs around the airport. Small people living out their small lives for another dollar. It was something my father was proud of, but I never could adapt to that mentality. I wanted to do something more with my life and not waste it.


    I remember what my mother had told me before she passed. ¡®Put your mind to it and you can achieve anything, Lorie.¡¯ For longest time I¡¯d had that sentence drilled into my head. She was unhappy with my father when I was growing up. Too many bills to pay and not enough income from the go-kart track. She was displeased with my father¡¯s content on having a modest lifestyle.


    My thoughts then turned to a dark place. The little white lie that was snowballing into an avalanche. I had been lying to everyone back home. All this time they had thought I was driving for Hollywood. Starring in movies and driving stunt vehicles for A-Listers cast in the latest zombie picture. I might not know everything about racing, but I could handle a vehicle like it was an extension of me. I swished my windswept wavy brown hair back like I was ready to sub in for Brad Pitt himself.


    After a quick transfer, I was on the Red Line. For many years I had taken the train downtown from Rogers Park with my friends. The smell of cold air and carcinogens filled my nose every time the doors rolled open.


    Early spring was an amazing time in Chicago. Gone were the snow drifts and sub-zero temperatures, making room for the new spring-green colors to flourish.  The city came alive in the summer too. Park concerts featuring top headliners were swarmed by crowds set against a magnificent cityscape backdrop, and sandy beaches overlooking Lake Michigan. The grandiose sights were nothing short of awesome¡ªespecially the lake, almost mimicking ocean waves, crashing onto the murky shores.


    I missed home so much.


    I heard a slight humming noise, as construction season was starting. The noise reminded me of the buzzing drone-like sounds I would hear from the emerging cicadas. These infamous bugs of the Brood Thirteen hatch emerged in 2007, only to spend a majority of their lives underground. My father hated the sound and quickly compared it to razor blades running up guitar strings. The noise was wretched. Seized by a thought, I quickly googled their next emergence.


    2024. They were coming this year.


    As I walked from the station, I threw my bag over my shoulder and headed to the main throughway of Clark Street. The buzzing noise grew louder, and then it faded as I passed some construction. My father had worked construction after he quit racing. I remembered how happy he was to retire and open up Banana Peel Go-Kart arena on our property.


    The promenades of fast-food franchises, twenty-four-hour gyms, and grocery stores soon gave way too few industrial companies separated by large plots of land. Tree orchards ran their length and reminded me of the days when I was younger and had to help the neighbors clean up the fallen fruit during summer. One of these plots, wedged in between the old canning factory and an abandoned sheet metal shop, was my father¡¯s land.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    My uncle sat on the porch, coffee cup in hand as he tipped himself back in his chair. As I walked down the long dirt driveway I made out what looked like a small book in his hand. However, the small book turned out to be a large flask. He poured the flask into the cup he held and sipped it. It looked like he hadn¡¯t slept a wink for days.


    My Uncle Pete had moved in when he found out my mom died. He stayed for summers helping with me as a child while my dad had worked mobile construction projects. The season boomed during the summers. I felt bad for him, having to work during the warmest times of year. It sure didn¡¯t help the kids had that time off either.


    Uncle Pete was cool, laid-back, and one of those guys you would mistake The Dude for. When my dad retired, Pete had moved in for good and helped the family open Banana Peel Go-Kart track. They were both greaser heads at their core. To them, a car was not just an object you operated but a living, breathing entity. It was an extension of your very soul or something like that.


    He stood up from the porch, sipped his drink one more time, and sat the mug down. He stepped into the sun, shielding his eyes from the light with his hand. His wrinkles had grown since the last time I¡¯d seen him. Framed between long blonde locks like a Viking, he pulled me into a hug.


    ¡°Lorie, I¡¯m glad you came home,¡± Uncle Pete said somberly. ¡°What the hell took so long? LA is only a four-hour flight.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, sorry,¡± I said, thinking quick. ¡°Had to do some pickup shots¡­ for a movie.¡±


    In filmmaking, a pickup shot was a relatively minor process filmed after the fact, to add to footage already recorded.


    ¡°Well, thanks for coming, Lorie. With no other family around it¡¯s been tough to¡­¡± he trailed off, seemingly to be overwhelmed in thought.


    ¡°Handle the affairs,¡± I said, finishing his sentence.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Uncle Peet said, grabbing me by my shoulder and pulling me onto the porch. ¡°And thank the Lord you are here now.¡±


    I walked inside my old home, trying to shake off the thick cigarette smell and coffee.  Uncle Pete tugged me to the kitchen past the lengthy armoire. Standing atop the shelf were multiple framed pictures of me and my dad.In addition, pictures of rolling film credits with my name circled sat framed under a thick layer of dust. Uncle Pete needed my help with the house, I thought.


    Uncle Pete had never been a very responsible adult, some would say. Wasting what money he made off of Banana Peel Go-Kart, he spent his nights in those silly bars posing as a ¡®delicatessen¡¯ in the local strip mall. Follow the smoke and the sounds of video poker originating from them and you would find Uncle Pete.


    He had piled chaotic stacks of papers up on the kitchen table. And since the funeral was the next day, a range of legal notices were piled up. I took a guess it was not shy of outstanding debts, funeral expenses and power of attorney paperwork. My poor uncle was up to his neck in ¡®affairs¡¯. I shuffled through the sheets and confirmed my suspicions.


    I looked at his crooked half smile, almost seeing my father within it. I wanted to hug him once more, but he broke the ensuing awkwardness by turning on his heel. Rustling through the cupboards, my uncle pulled out the blackest cast iron pan I had ever seen.


    ¡°We can talk business later,¡± Uncle Pete said, throwing the pan on the stove and firing up the gas burner. ¡°For now, we need pancakes.¡±


    ¡°Breakfast?¡± I asked. ¡°It¡¯s the middle of the day.¡±


    ¡°And?¡± Uncle Pete asked. ¡°What''s that got to do with it? You can have pancakes any damn time of the day you want!¡±


    * * *


    I gobbled up my uncle¡¯s affectionate concoction of pillowy goodness trying to contain my words. The moist, syrup-soaked quick bread met my unaccustomed mouth with satisfaction. I didn¡¯t realize how much my palette had acclimated to the Asian region. In most of Thailand, they ate savory dishes in the morning, but the pancakes I was eating were just like Roti Canai, a wonderful pancake-like fried bread street food topped with banana and egg. After a drizzle of condensed milk, the finished product was amazing.


    I licked my lips and scraped up any remaining sweet cake remaining. Quaint views of nostalgia filled my head when I glanced outside the back door, leading from the kitchen. The dirt track I spent many years whipping around in a go-kart was still there meandering in an infinite loop.


    ¡°How¡¯s the business?¡± I asked, finishing the last bite, but not before I took a final swab around my plate with a forked pancake piece.


    ¡°Business hasn¡¯t been the same since you left, Lorie,¡± he said.


    I knew what he was getting at. Before leaving for Hollywood to follow my dreams, I had operated the track on my weekends. In all honesty, it was fun, and I¡¯d learned how to become a hell of a driver, but it would never lead to what I wanted in life. For every hour I spent felt working that go-kart track felt like I was wasting away. I couldn¡¯t wait to strap in and let loose on the streets. I¡¯d had to get away and make a name for myself or I would be trapped just like my father had been.


    ¡°Well, Uncle Pete, I had to leave. You know¡­¡± I tried to explain.


    ¡°Yeah, I know.¡± He agreed, and then his crooked smile bloomed again. This time I could make out one of his front incisors missing. ¡°Well, we are proud of you. We look at your IMDB page all the time. So many movies you have worked on.¡±


    My stomach sank. Internet Movie Database, or IMDB, was the website hosting facts, production trivia, and movie casts. I had learned anyone could add their name to movies to get credit. After many unsuccessful attempts and removal by admins, I would list my first movie credit. Then I started adding my name to other features. Moderators would catch some, but others would slip through the cracks. Before I knew it, I had a steady flow of movie titles added to my roster.


    Of course, they could just go see the movie for themselves and check for my name, but they weren¡¯t hurrying out to the local theater. They would rather spend their nights watching reruns of Top Gear, throwing back Chicago dogs while drinking a cool Miller Light. And now that I think of it, my father had grown distant over the years since I left. What started as regular phone calls soon turned to months of not speaking and then years of silence. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. The IMDB credit was the way to make him proud. And now, he¡¯s gone. I never told him the truth.


    ¡°Uncle,¡± I cautiously said. ¡°I have something to tell you.¡±


    Uncle Pete never hiccuped in his movement. He continued to wash the dirty dishes and load them into the dishwashing machine.


    ¡°I know, I know,¡± he said. ¡°You feel guilty about leaving.¡±


    I paused, unsure of what to admit to.


    ¡°Well, don¡¯t,¡± Uncle Pete reaffirmed, pointing to the lengthy armoire in the hall chock-full of action movie titles my father and I used to watch together. ¡°Those movies over there are the bond you and father had and he was most proud watching you follow your dreams.¡±


    My mood rose, and then the sadness sank deeper. I knew the truth.


    I ran my hands over the stacks of papers, thumbing through the many bills, entitlements, and financial documents. One stood out, displaying a keen graphics logo that looked like a ¡¯T¡¯ colored in bright red. I looked closer and recognized the name under it. Tesla. Not only was this a Tesla document¡ªit was a purchase receipt. Under that paper was another receipt. One from a DeLorean Motor Company. What the holy hell? No wonder he has no money left.


    ¡°A Tesla and a Delorean?¡± I blurted out to my uncle.


    He stopped from scrubbing the dishes, raised his head, and cracked a half smile like my father would. As he turned his head, he said, ¡°Do you want to see it?¡±


    ¡°You mean them?¡±


    ¡°Nope.¡±