The Last Race

The Last Race

      

         I need money, point blank. I exhale and wait trying not to think of all the friends and family who would scream at me for what I am about to do but the truth is I need money. People are gathering with anticipation of what is about to happen but it doesn't matter, either way they're promised to get a show. Money is being collected and handed to the biggest, most buff, black guy I've ever seen. The roar of engines are deafening and they're only getting louder.

         The biggest, most buff black guy I've ever seen points to four others before pointing to me. I'm anxious, nervous, perspiring but that's only because I've not been in this situation in a year maybe two. I slide my car out of park and into D4, driving my car past the crowds to the predetermined line. I look to my left and see a black BMW 3 series with a white boy with blond dreads behind the wheel trying to act thuggish with a silver grill. On the other side of the BMW is a car that I've had history with in the past, a 1995 mercury marauder, driven by a heavy set black guy. To my right is a man I know only as Jones. He's a pimp. A pimp. A real pimp with a hat a fur coat, cane...the works.

       Jones is driving his personal car, a '76 burgundy Cadillac with a white rag top. We lock eyes and instantly I can tell we both recall the day we first met. He knows that I know that he doesn't like me just as much as I know he knows but none of that matters. What does matter is that he and I know each others style of driving and that is a problem. On the other side of Jones is a gold mustang with tints so dark I only see my reflection. Engine noises fill the air, muffling the sounds of cheering people and that's a problem too.

The longer we wait, the more likely someone will call the police. With Mayor Emmanuel in charge there are no room for mistakes, no margins for error. Not that there ever was in this world. I hear music, loud sloppy bass music, coming from nearly everywhere and I know why. The most unattractive woman I have ever seen is walking fifteen feet ahead of us. Her rolls of fat jiggling out of the clothes that are already three sizes too small for her size. In her hand she twirls, what initially I think is an off white napkin. I'm disgusted to see that it's actually her thong.

         What happened to this world I was so accustomed to? I feel old now but only because in my day the hottest woman in the area would be where this mess of a woman is now. But in retrospect I wouldn't be racing on the south side of Chicago with a pimp either. I long for those days when I raced men and women who knew what a real race was. The days when people knew who I was and feared whatever car I got in. Now, among these people, I was no one. A stranger. A joke.

          The sloppy woman turns around and leans forward placing one hand on her knee. Her cleavage is so disgusting I want to vomit. The idea of hitting her with the car brings a smile to my face until I see her swing the thongs above her head. I quickly get serious and raise my windows. The loud fast pace music is annoying, it's making me anxious and I won't win that way. Turning on my radio and selecting CD my car is filled with the soft instrumental music of Beethoven. Amateur racers would laugh, ignorant people would shake their heads but a real racer would either nod or smile with confidence as to the outcome of this race.

The thongs are still in the air when I realize my rear view mirror is still up. With a quick swipe of my hand I pull it from the windshield and toss it into my back seat. I can't have it and I don't need it. Real street racers only move forward. Side to side...maybe, but we never look back. Something that these others beside me don't realize. They're most likely hyped from watching too many Fast and Furious movies. They all want to be Vin or Paul, turning tricks in cars with fine women riding shotgun. Not me. A girl would just add more weight to my car. Can't have that, not for this.

         The thongs come down and for the first time since I can remember I feel a part of me that I thought died years ago. As my hands grip my steering wheel and my foot presses the gas pedal I am not a loving husband and father of two. My best friend is not Maryam or Brandon. I do not hear Vince's prayers or hear my mother's disapproving voice. I do not see Eric crying for me to stop while he secretly cheers me forward. The person I project is now locked away and all that is left is someone who has been screaming in the back of my head for what seems like an eternity.

        Everything is now on the line. The first few seconds are the most crucial, not because you have to take the lead or find your rhythm. Now is when most people make their mistakes so I ease off the gas and let them. Bringing up the rear I'm behind the gold mustang with the tinted windows. He's being sure not to let me pass and I let him think he's doing a good job. We're north bound on Cicero during a shift change at the local police station. The lanes are wide open with the exception for a truck here or there.

         I start making wide swerves and the mustang tries to anticipate my moves. He does this easily and I smile because he thinks he's in control when in fact I now control his car. When I accelerate, he dips in front and slams on his breaks. When I swerve into the next lane he counters so I swing my car into the on coming lane as we are about to drive under an underpass. The light is red, I know this but he doesn't. A truck is coming off I-55 and it has the right of way. I know this, he doesn't. And why doesn't he? Because he's looking at me in the rear view mirror, at night.

        I swerve back into my lane. My timing has to be perfect, it has to be precise, there is no room for error or I've literally given the death it's wish. The Gold Mustang sees me slowing down drastically, by now his face is looking to see what I already know is happening. The truck coming from the I-55 off ramp sees the mustang and is slamming on it's breaks but it's far too late. The two collide and the mustang is no doubt sent into the air. I don't know because I'm far too busy avoiding the same fate.

       My car is drifting sideways toward the back of the moving semi. I try to remember if there were any cars in the on coming lane as my front bumper narrowly misses the back of the semi's trailer. As the truck keeps moving my car is now sliding through the intersection. I see the mustang dancing around in the distance, windows busted, frame bent and I catch a glimpse of the man inside. It's a woman most likely younger than me. Not that it matters, though many will say it does. Although my eyes are fixed on her my hands are one with the car and I already know I've slammed the car into reverse. Throwing my arm behind the seat I turn the wheel around so I'm facing the right way, throw the car back into drive, taking advantage of my momentum. and continue on my way without loosing time.

        The woman in the car is an after thought now. I lost distance playing with her and soon there will be police, ambulances and worst of all...questions. Pushing forward I fall into the “Racer's Daze”. The car is moving in a straight line. Fast. The music is suddenly softer then usual. Faster. The lamp posts that whiz past are moving faster, so fast that they begin making a humming noise. Fastest. The lights from the street lights are blurs and the objects I now fly past are colors of a spectrum unknown to me. A lost feeling washes over me as I feel like I'm falling in love all over again. I want share this with someone, see their face as they experience this drug I have come to know. Some know this but most only pretend to realize what I'm experiencing, the way I'm experiencing it.

      The image of my wife betrays my thoughts. My projected self is trying to come through and it angers me. I angers me to great lengths because I can not do this as me. My Racer's Daze dissipates and with much surprise I'm directly next to a BMW with a white boy sporting dreads behind the wheel. The first thing I notice is his car looks to be in pristine condition. A smile etches across my face as I realize where I am. The turn onto North Avenue is coming up. The driver of the BMW looks pissed and I can guess why.

       Jones or the Marauder must have attempted to do to him what I did to the gold mustang. He'll be more cautious. As North Avenue creeps upon us I'm taking the lead but I'm going to fast to reach the Apex. A word only a real racer would understand. I slam on my breaks and the BMW takes the lead but he too is going too fast. I pop my E-break and spin the wheel, my foot tense with what it must do. As my car drifts around from Cicero onto North Avenue the BMW drifts with me. The driver is determined to make the turn and he thinks he's going to make it but he looses control. The BMW leans too far and begins to flip.

     I see the car turning around as I straighten my car out and pass the smoking BMW before it can come to a stop. It's another long stretch and I'm positive the police in Cicero have alerted Chicago. I'm not sure if the guy driving the Marauder knows the way Chicago police work but I know Jones does. As I speed past Laramie I bring the car to the speed limit and cruise past Central avenue. The police station is near by and the shift change had been altered since the last time I raced this route.

     Now the clock is racing against me for real. The longer I cruise the further my competition gets from me. I play the odds in my head for a moment...and just before I can throw caution to the wind a barrage of squad cars are flying past me. They know. They know the street racers are attempting to regain the streets they lost when the new mayor stepped into office. Now the night has gone from a scene from Fast and Furious to a level in Need for Speed: hot pursuit.

       I ask myself quickly what would Tony do? What would Joe do? The only two men I know that would watch my back and tell me to throw caution to the wind at the same time. I love those guys more then I'd ever admit. So I do it. I accelerate keeping the police within sight but not gaining too far ahead where they notice me on their 6. This in itself is an art but most times police drivers don't look back and I wonder if they're taught not to look back also or are they just that confident? The police quickly swarm around the intersection of North and Oak Park. As I drive around the madness I see the police tasering the driver of the Marauder.

      I laugh because I know Jones is nearby and most likely he knows I'm coming. This is the most dangerous part because if I beat him and he looses face in front of someone he respects he'll come after me and I can't have that. To win I have to play a game of chess while racing a sixteen ton missile. I accelerate and as I past Harlem Avenue I notice the Elmwood Park Police in the area. They know my car all too well so I am forced to slow down to a crawl. Slamming my fist on the steering wheel I let out a multitude of sure words and racial slurs. Common sense has gone from knocking to screaming and my mind's door.

      The music has lost its effect and I refer to my secondary music choice. I turn my Zune one and move to my Need for Speed soundtracks. Maryam is in my thoughts every time I pick my Zune up. Her scolding eyes fixed on me as she prepares to rip my head off with her bare hands, if she knew what I was doing. But she doesn't...I look up after putting the Zune down and smile. The police in the area had also slowed Jones down. Time was short though, soon he'd be passing Thacher and that meant a new police jurisdiction. With his car I could loose him if he passed that road but the police were still driving lazily around us.

     “Fuck it.” I say out loud. The greatest phrase in all the history of man. When in doubt, when in despair, when in utter need of anything that is just outside your grasp... “FUCK IT!” I scream. My car roars to life becoming the beast only I know exists. Her tires grab the hair of the road and pulls back so hard its neck would snap, if it had one. My hand grips the automatic shifter, as if it could do more then what it was already doing and I soar.

      Blue lights ignite all around me as I willingly tell the police that I am the one they are looking for. No, not just telling, screaming HERE I AM, and FUCK ALL OF YOU!!! I lower my passenger side window as I gain on Jones. Matching his speed I turn to him and openly dare him to call my bluff.

     “You ain't got enough!” I scream at him before slamming down on the gas. Angered by my disrespect his car comes alive too and now he is accelerating. The police cross into Melrose Park and I shake my head. They'll be in contact with the local police and give away our description. A helicopter will be dispatched and a real chase will begin. We do not have minutes, we barely have seconds. I have to trick Jones into giving himself up.

     His car and mine are neck and neck but he knows that I know he has more juice under the hood. I notice the lack of blue flashing lights because the bright white light on the passing streetlights have gone off. They know where we are heading, someone has snitched. I know this because the police do not change their pursuit methods unless they know something. I open my moon roof and lower my radio. I think I hear a chopper. The turn off to get onto Mannheim is coming. There's a truck in the on coming lane. I have an opportunity here but the odds are slim and I know it. I turn by car toward Jones' Cadillac but he's unfazed by the move and he knows I know it but he doesn't know I know. I throw my car into the oncoming lane and lock eyes with the truck driver who is on is CB radio. Maybe giving off our position to the police? The driver is spooked enough to turn the truck into what was once my lane. He doesn't get close to Jones but the sudden maneuver from the truck driver has spooked him.

     Jones turns onto the Mannheim on ramp. I throw my hand up and stick out my middle finger. I don't know if he sees it but I pretend he does. As I go under the Mannheim over pass I hear a car crash and I am sorely tempted to look back but I don't and you know why. I quickly slow my car down and make a U turn. Heading back east I take a sharp right onto 40^th street. Going beyond the car's manufactured specifications I make another sharp right onto west Lake street and follow that into the expressway.

     It's easy sailing from here on out. My car arrives at Woodfield mall and I see a crowd of people attempting to disperse as I pull in front of the Jamaba juice. I jump out my car and everyone ignores me and with good reason. The people here know the rules, the police are in the crowd and they're expecting a white car to arrive and here I am. There isn't any time to put my real plates on the car or cool the engine down. The opportunity to make money is gone, the need for survival takes precedence.

     Eyes are on me and for a second I'm frozen looking guilty as hell. I pop my trunk and step out the car. Two guys on bikes are looking at me, no doubt laughing at my misfortune on the inside. I smile back and motion my hands for them to rev their bikes up. My heart is pounding because if they' don't do this for me then I need another distraction. One of the bikers nods and revs his bike and I make my move.

     “Fuck the police!” the other racer shouts as he revs his bike too. Inside the trunk I remove my drill gun and take off the back license plate. I then put my actual plate on and slide the fake under the car parked beside mine. On my hands and knees I bolt to the front of the car and repeat the process before getting into the car through the passenger side and shutting the door. I break the drill gun down and throw it under the seat. I grab my rear view mirror from the back seat when I hear a knock on my window and my heart stops.

Turning my head slowly I see a police woman standing outside my window. Opening the door I look up at her, the rear view mirror in my hand.

     “Ma'am?” I say but the officer looks to be about my age and she...is..FOINE!

     “Sir, could you tell me why you're in the mall parking lot after hours?” she asks and my heart leaps into my throat.

     “Honestly?” I ask, my mind racing though believable lies. She rolls her eyes and motions for me to step out the car. I get out and already I feel caught.

     “Why are you here?” she asks with an attitude. I notice her partner writing down my licensee plate and walking away.

     “Research.” I answer not knowing where I was going with this and instantly I can tell she knows I am giving her the biggest bullshit lie she's ever heard. “I'm a writer. I heard there was a race happening and I was hoping to get some inside knowledge on street races.”

     “May I see your license and proof of insurance?” she asks. As I retrieve them from the glove box she asks me what I write. I quickly throw out my most popular and she shakes her head.

     “Really?”she says with the same attitude. She looks at my Id's and tells me to get back in the car and wait. I'm caught. I'm busted. My wife is going to be pissed that I took one last race. I've failed as a father and a husband. I am a horrible friend and a menace to society. I would cry if I could but I didn't want to look bad for my jail picture. I watch as the crowds of people are pushed away from the mall parking lot and then after what seemed like an eternity the police woman comes back with my ID's.

     “Okay, Mr. Santiago.” she says with a smile. She's smiling because she gets to take me in. Her big collar.            

     “Are you in this are often?” she asks and I quickly shake my head.

     “No.” I answer back and she nods her head.

     “That sucks. My brothers kids are fans of your book Rogue Accord. They'd love a sign copy if you could.” and when she says that I nod my head and smile back.

     “It would be my pleasure.” I answer back.

     “Okay, get out of here.” She says and I quickly start up my car while thanking her. “Oh, one more thing.” she says and I freeze. Is there a catch? What did I miss?

     “Yes?” I ask.

     “The Rake was awesome.” she whispers and I can feel my ears blush.

     “Thanks.” I say avoiding capture.