1994 Pontiac Grand Prix
It’s red, red, with black mirrors, and black widows. The inside is tan, with cloth seats, and a black consol, with a black radio. The wheel was low, and through it you could see the gauges clearly, emblazoned with an orange glow from deep beneath the dash. In front of me under the long sweeping hood purrs a fuel injected 3.1L V6. The exhaust runs beneath my feet, and produces a low throaty note behind me. My foot feeds the fuel into the engine and it responds, the power is delivered directly into the front wheels and my vessel moves forward.
Minutes ago I bought it outright for a thousand dollars. I paid cash in twenty-dollar bills. My friend had given me the tip that his neighbour, the previous owner of this machine, wanted to sell. It was Pontiac Grand Prix, a modern muscle car trying to fit into a domestic suburban society. I am happy to rescue it from this falsity.
I pull out of the crescent, and onto the parkway. My hand slides over the wheel, the steering responds instantly as I weave left and right through the slow afternoon traffic.
A week before I made an agreement with my father that I would drive the family van until university. That would have been a good deal if the van actually made it that long. The van was a two-tone blue GMC Rally, with chrome running boards, a roof rack and a special edition grille. It was hard to guess that the old crate had a 350 cubic inch V8 with a stainless steel exhaust. It ran with a loud tick when we bought it used three years ago. We have done a terrible job maintaining it ever since. The tick got gradually worse every time my dad lit up the tires in front of the factory where he worked. Thumbing his nose and the bosses 911 turbo. Then two days ago as I was driving to Orangeville in the high morning heat the engine blew. I lost all power and barely limped it off the highway.
It’s hot. With one touch from my left hand index finger I roll down the window. The hot summer air feels cool as I cruse through town. When I stop at a red light the heat seeps in. I reach down and turn the radio on. I adjust the side mirrors with my left hand, then reach up and position the rearview. The seat is perfect.
We see out mechanic every Sunday at church, I paid for the van to be towed from Burlington back to his shop. It was Saturday and the shop was closed, but he met me there anyways. He popped the hood of the van, and turned the key, after a few tries if fired up. He gave it a listen and turned it off, He looked at me dead straight, “broken piston rod, maybe a cracked manifold” he paused, “it would need a full rebuild maybe a whole new block” thinking, adding, he finished with, “a new engine, before labour, three or four thousand” I knew labour would be at least another grand and he confirmed my guess “Labour would be at least three full days from one man, minimum fifteen hundred”. He had said enough. The rebuild was worth twice what we had paid for it. The Van was dead.
My dad is close behind me, watching, judging, I drive cautiously but efficiently hearing his words echo in my head: “Do as I say, not as I do”. I signal and make a right onto the number 18 concession and drive out of town. The black and white speed limit signs read 80 now and accelerate to suite. I drive west into the hot afternoon sun, flip the visor down to shade my eyes. I’ve never had or appreciated air-conditioning so I open all the windows with my fingers on my left hand. Approaching my turn, I signal left to turn onto Onondaga road, another half mile to our mechanic. My dad pulls up close behind me and sticks his head out the window and yells something. I didn’t hear him. I make the turn and wait for him. He comes close and yells again. This time I hear him, I grin and my foot pushes down on the gas.
“Let her go!”
As I put down the accelerator I watch him get smaller and smaller in the rear view mirror. I watch the Tachometer move through each of the 5 speeds, always shifting effortlessly just before the 6000rpm red line. I look down at the speedometer, mind meets adrenaline and I read speeds I’ve never dreamed of in the van. The car sinks low to the ground hugging the road. The concession bends around a long gradual turn I hold the wheel steady with both hands, cutting inside over the right white line. Confidence builds, coming out of the turn I accelerate again to a higher speed. Pushing the pedal down and I keep finding more power beneath my foot. The engine revs higher. The radio is gone, the engine and the wind is all I hear.
The shop driveway comes up fast and I brake hard to make it. The wheels grip the hot summer pavement, the hood drops, and the seat belt holds me close into seat. I lean in as I jolt the wheel right, pulling into the drive with the smell of hot brakes and burnt rubber close behind me. I leave the keys with the mechanic as my dad pulls up.
The old van is still sitting where the tow truck left it.
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