There was a subset of students from all grade levels in The Big Brown Box who were really into fast cars. In another day and age they would have been called hot-rodders or something like that, but they tended to dress more like greasers from the 1950s, with leather jackets, white T-shirts, and hair combed straight back. I thought it was a pretty neat retro look, even if I didn’t want to look like that myself. They didn’t build their own cars like the hot-rodders of old, back when you could fix cars with just a screwdriver and a pair of pliers, but still they fawned over their vehicles almost as much as I fawned over The Movie, assuming of course that was actually possible.
Dave and I were out shopping for Christmas gifts for our families at the last possible moment, the afternoon of Christmas Eve. That was something of a tradition for us, wandering the crowded store aisles with all the other frantic last-minute shoppers, getting elbowed and crushed, picking stuff up and considering it as a gift then putting it back because it was either too expensive or maybe a little too tacky. We repeated that process store after store until—out of desperation—we finally bought something for everyone on our lists because time was running out, not because the gifts were perfect or even all that great.
It was hardly a perfect system, but we stuck with it because it got the job done.
Onion wasn’t with us because she was way more organized than we were. She had all her Christmas shopping done ridiculously early, like September or something, and she bought nearly everything online so she didn’t even have to break a sweat.
“You know, that’s cheating,” Dave said as we waited in a long checkout line in an overcrowded store. “If you’re not angry and miserable by the time you’re done shopping, you’ve really missed the whole Christmas spirit thing.”
As soon as we were finished, Dave and I stopped at the local drive-in for a quick bite to eat before heading home to wrap our gifts in a mad frenzy, just hours before they were to be opened.
The drive-in parking lot was full of shiny muscle cars, hoods open, with greasers milling around. Some of the cars were bright colors with racing stripes as if to draw the maximum amount of attention, while others were dark and stealth-like, as if trying to avoid detection.
“Awesome,” Dave said, as we drove up in his old beater.
A few of the greasers pointed and laughed at Dave’s car. He backed up and parked next to a shiny, low-slung car that looked fast just sitting still, then reached down and pulled the lever to pop his hood open.
“Are you serious?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said. “My car is the comic relief here. We’ve got a few minutes. Let’s go.”
We went inside and bought something to eat. By the time we got outside, I was surprised to see nearly every greaser surrounding the front of Dave’s car, looking at the engine.
“Oh, wow,” Dave said, clutching his sack of food and oversized soda. “And here I thought I was only kidding.”
As we approached the group, one of them waved us forward.
“Is this your car?” he asked.
“Sure is,” Dave said, taking a sip of his drink. “Is there a problem?”
“Problem?” said the greaser. “Do you know what you’ve got here?” He pointed under the hood.
“A fuel-sucking engine?” Dave replied.
“Do you know why it’s fuel-sucking?”
“No, not really.” Dave took another sip from his drink. “I seldom look under the hood.”
The group stared at him with identical stunned expressions.
“Guy,” the greaser said. “This is the big-block supercharged engine. Special ordered from the factory. Hardly any were sold. We’ve never seen one before. Do you know what this means?” He held his hands out, imploring Dave for the answer.
Dave gave a weak little shrug. “It can go really fast?”
The greaser’s face brightened and he raised his arms in the air.
“Right! When this car was new, it could do zero to sixty in under four seconds. Nobody could touch it. It’s probably still fast, even though it doesn’t look like you’ve taken very good care of it,” he looked down at the engine with some dismay as he slowly shook his head. “Man. This was back in the day when the average Joe could afford a car that roared, full of fury and fire in its belly. Now they just purr, kitty-cat like, as weak as they are meek.” His expression turned wistful.
I found that surprisingly profound, even poetic, and understood his sense of loss.
“Well, gosh and golly,” Dave said, shattering the mood. “That’s great to know. Excuse us now, gentlemen. We’re kind of in a hurry since it’s almost Christmas Eve and all that.” He stepped forward and closed the hood.
The group looked disappointed that they couldn’t continue to gawk at Dave’s fast engine.
As they all stood up straight, I noticed that the greaser who spoke to Dave was quite a bit taller than the rest, which made me wonder if that was why he seemed like the alpha dog of the pack and did all the talking.
“Wait!” the greaser said. “I’ll race you. I gotta know if I can beat your car.”
The others in the group stood behind him, faces serious, waiting for Dave’s response to the challenge.
“Sorry, gents. Duty calls. Besides, I don’t race.”
“Why? Are you too chicken?”
Dave looked scornful. “Come on. You’re not gonna shame me. I just don’t have the time, that’s all.” He pulled out his car keys. I went around to the passenger side door to wait to be let in.
“What’s your name?” the greaser asked Dave. “You look familiar. Aren’t you on the football team?”
“Not anymore. I’m . . . Dave.” He sounded reluctant to reveal his name.
“I’m Johnny.”
“Nice to meet you, Johnny. Take care now.” Dave unlocked his car door.
“Wait!” Johnny said. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
He pulled a surprisingly huge wad of cash out of his pocket, holding it up for Dave to see.
Dave stared at it, silent a moment. “How much?”
“Tell you what. If I win, you pay me nothing. If you win, I’ll give you a hundred bucks.”
Dave took another sip of his drink, contemplating the offer.
“Make it two hundred and you got a deal.”
“Dave,” I said, more than a little alarmed. “I thought you said we didn’t have the time?”
Some of the other greasers glared at me.
“Deal,” Johnny replied.
“And fifty bucks for my friend.” Dave pointed to me.
Johnny’s face contorted a second, and then he looked resigned. “Fine. And fifty bucks for your friend. Follow us.”
Dave opened his car door, got in, and unlocked the passenger door.
“Are you out of you mind?” I said, scrambling into my seat. “You’re going to get us killed! What do you know about drag racing? Besides, it’s illegal! Do we really need more trouble?”
The greasers all piled into their own cars and started them up. With a collective rumble, they poured into the street. Dave’s was the last car out.
“What’s to know? You mash the gas pedal and drive straight ahead until you cross the finish line. Simple. Besides, it’s two hundred bucks if I win. That’s just about what I spent today. It would be nice to get that back.”
“Why do you do these things to me? What am I supposed to tell my dad? ‘Sorry I missed Christmas Eve, Dad. I was out drag racing with Dave.’”
“Relax. This shouldn’t take too long. You don’t even have to ride with me and you’ll still get fifty bucks if I win.”
We followed the muscle car caravan out of the city limits to the middle of nowhere where the roads were most flat and straight. The caravan parked on the side of a deserted road as if this were their usual place to start a race.
Johnny pulled over to the left lane. He was driving a yellow car with black racing stripes that made it look like a gigantic bumblebee. Dave stopped next to him on the right.
Dave looked at me. “You can bail if you want. I understand.”
I took off my seat belt and reached for the door handle. Dave looked at me with a weak little grin.
“Just be careful. Okay, you big dummy?” I said.
“Sure,” was all he replied.
I stared at him a few seconds more, wondering if this was the last time I was going to see Dave alive. Then I got out and stood next to his car a short distance away.
One of the other greasers came over to talk to Dave.
“Here’s what you do. You step on the brake and rev the engine when I raise my arm. When I drop my arm, take your foot off the brake and punch it. The finish line is the red one we drew across the road about half a mile from here. We’ll be waiting there to see who wins. Got it?”
“Got it,” I heard Dave say over the noise of Johnny already revving his engine.
The caravan pulled out and headed down the road.
As the greaser who gave Dave the instructions took his place between the two cars, I felt this growing anxiety not for Dave, but for having abandoned him. It was like I was despicable, the worst friend ever. There I was, hoping to find a friend as loyal as Filby someday, and I couldn’t even manage to show some loyalty of my own to one of the friends I did have.
I let out the deepest heartfelt sigh I could, then got back into the car against my much better judgment.
“You sure, man?” Dave asked as I hurried to put my seat belt on.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I mumbled, angry now for risking my own life, too, yet feeling like I had little choice. “This is the stupidest thing we’ve ever done. Ever.”
“And we’re doing it together!” Dave said with a fist pump. “Yeah, baby!”
“Yeah, great. We’re gonna die on Christmas Eve. Terrific.”
The greaser in the middle of the road raised his arm. Dave revved his engine with his foot on the brake. Both cars bucked like large animals pawing at the ground, ready to leap.
The greaser dropped his arm.
I was immediately pushed back in my seat, astonished by the acceleration. Both cars gave off throaty roars as they sped side by side. Soon we were going faster than Dave had ever driven me before, faster even than on the open highway. Dave’s car continued its impressive acceleration as the other car seemed to sputter and falter a bit, as if trying to catch its breath. It gradually fell behind.
“We’re winning! We’re winning!” Dave repeated over the engine’s roar. He sat hunched over the wheel, focused on the road ahead.
I turned to watch Johnny’s car and saw it begin to sway side to side then rise up in the air, nose first, as if the bumblebee had decided to fly. We zoomed across the finish line just as Johnny’s car did a kind of graceful mid-air pirouette.
“We did it!” Dave shouted over the noise.
As Dave slowed, pumping a fist in victory, I watched in horror as Johnny’s car came plummeting down into the ditch on the side of the road. There were loud metallic booms as the car tumbled end over end, ripping itself apart.
“Stop!” I yelled at Dave, who seemed oblivious to the destruction behind us.
Dave braked hard. His car squatted down as the tires screamed on the pavement. Even before we came to a complete halt, I jumped out and ran to the scene of the accident.
Johnny’s car was unrecognizable except for a few parts—a door, a fender, the trunk lid. Pieces were stretched out in a long line, some of them smoldering although there was no fire. I picked my way through them, looking for Johnny, afraid of what I was going to find.
I stopped.
He was at the bottom of the ditch, away from most of the wreckage, flat on his back with his arms and legs outstretched and his head turned to one side, eyes shut.
“Oh, no,” I said.
I hurried closer, wondering what I should do.
“Call an ambulance!” I yelled toward the finish line, wondering if anyone heard and if it wasn’t already too late.
I got on my hands and knees next to him and peered into his face.
“Oh, no,” I said again, unable to think of anything else to say. “Johnny.”
With that, his right hand twitched and his eyes sprang open as if I had summoned his return. Startled, I fell backward.
“Oh, man,” he said, and sat straight up. “That was something.”
I scrambled back as he stood up and stretched as if waking from a peaceful slumber. Surrounded by pieces of his wrecked car, he pulled out his comb from his back pocket and started combing his hair as if that were the most important thing he had to do.
“What?” he said down at me, arms outstretched, as I sat there in amazement that he was not only alive, but apparently just fine.
“Nothing,” I said, still disbelieving what I was seeing, as if I were staring at the greaser ghost of Christmas present, our very own Christmas miracle.
He reached down and flicked a little piece of dirt off his otherwise spotless T-shirt, then finished combing his hair.
There was the sound of rapid footsteps, and then Dave appeared. He came up to us warily, looking from me to Johnny and back again.
Dave stood there wordlessly, mouth slightly ajar.
“I know, I know,” Johnny said. “You won.”
He took his wad of cash out of his pocket and pulled some bills from it.
“Here. Two hundred bucks for you and fifty for your friend over there, just like I promised.”
Dave made no effort to take the money.
“You were driving,” Dave finally said, pointing to the wreckage, “that car.”
Johnny glanced behind him. “Yeah. So?”
“Nothing,” Dave said, and took the money.
“Hey! It’s six o’clock,” Johnny said, glancing at his watch. “We better get going. It’s Christmas Eve, you know.”
Dave nodded slowly and we followed him up out of the ditch to the road.
The caravan of muscle cars had reformed and was driving toward us. Johnny waved them down. They beeped their horns as if nothing unusual had occurred.
“Hey, Mikey!” he said as the first car drove by slowly. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas,” Mikey said.
“Merry Christmas, Tommy!”
“Merry Christmas,” Tommy said as he drove by.
“Merry Christmas, Jimmy!”
“Merry Christmas,” Jimmy said as he drove by.
“Merry Christmas, Billy!”
“Merry Christmas,” Billy said as he drove by.
“Merry Christmas, Joey!”
“Merry Christmas,” Joey said as he drove by.
“Merry Christmas, everybody!” Johnny said to all the other drivers as they paraded single file down the street.
“Oh, good. Bobby! Merry Christmas! I need a ride.” He opened the door of the last car in line. He looked back at us. “Have a merry Christmas, guys.”
“Wait!” I said, before he could get in Bobby’s car.
He looked at me, puzzled. “What?”
I opened my mouth to ask if this sort of thing happened all the time, and what we should do about the wreckage, and why he wasn’t upset about what just happened to his car along with a dozen other questions that were all begging to be asked, but the late hour and the annoyed look on Johnny’s face told me they didn’t really matter.
“Nothing. Merry Christmas, Johnny,” was all I said.
He smiled and gave me a little punch on the arm.
“Merry Christmas . . . you,” he said, and then got in the car.
The caravan sped away, leaving me and Dave by the side of the road.
And the smoldering wreckage behind us.
We turned around and looked at it. Neither of us spoke.
“So what exactly happened?” I finally asked, hoping Dave knew.
Dave looked down at the money in his hand. “Don’t ask me. I just work here.” He peeled off fifty dollars and stuffed it in my shirt pocket. “Let’s go.”
We walked back to his car and got in. As Dave swung his car around and drove past the wreckage, he pulled over and stopped.
“Wait right here,” he said, and got out and ran down into the ditch. When he came back, he was holding the steering wheel from Johnny’s car.
“Here’s a memento for you,” he said, handing it to me. “Merry Christmas, Georgie!”
I stared at the steering wheel, wondering what I was supposed to do with it.
“Well, thanks . . . Davey. Merry Christmas.”
By the time I got home, my dad and Kenny had eaten Christmas dinner without me. I found my dad in the kitchen, cleaning up.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said sheepishly. I held the packages in their shopping bags in front of me along with the steering wheel.
Busy loading the dishwasher, he barely looked my way.
“That’s all right. I figured you were still Christmas shopping. You really should start doing that days earlier, you know. I don’t know why you always wait until the last possible minute.” He shook his head.
He froze, dirty plate in hand, when he finally noticed the steering wheel I held with the bags of gifts. “Where did you get that?”
“Huh? Oh.” I held it up to look at it again. “Dave gave it to me. It’s . . . a memento.”
“Oh,” my dad said, as if that made sense even though it didn’t. “Well, dinner’s in the refrigerator whenever you’re ready.”
“Thanks.” I turned to go wrap the gifts, then stopped and turned back around. “Oh. One more thing.”
“Yes?” he said, putting the last cup in the dishwasher.
I held up the steering wheel. “Merry Christmas . . . Daddy!”
He gave me a bright smile as he closed the dishwasher door. “Merry Christmas, George!”
And I headed to my room, still marveling at the Christmas miracle both Dave and I had witnessed and still wondering what exactly happened.