Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ Worthless ❯ Speed 3: Influences ( Chapter 3 )

[ T - Teen: Not suitable for readers under 13 ]

By: MellyN

Worthless

By: Melissa Norvell

Speed 3: Influences

"You're a muscle car. I must say that I'm shocked to see one of your kind around here," the car next to me told me. I was pretty sure that it never would have dreamed to wake up next to me; of all of the cars out there that was more than likely a better choice.

One of my kind?

"What do you mean?" I questioned more confused than offended.

"Ever since Gary was killed in that stock car accident five years ago, there hasn't been a muscle car or sports car here of any kind. The last sports car here was a 1968 Chevelle. My master's husband really loved that car and we spent a couple of years together here until it went up for sale. That was a year before you showed up. After that, he swore that it would be over his dead body before another sports cars' tires touched the cement on this driveway," the Nash told me. "Maybe he changed his mind, but it's hard to believe that."

"Well, I'm not really his car, I belong to Blake," I informed, even though I had previously introduced myself as Blake's car, maybe the haze of sleep hadn't worn off enough for the Rambler to make a connection.

"You must be the car he talked about, this dream car of his. I saw you quite a few times when I was on the road, but I hardly thought you'd make it here. It does make me a little relieved, though. I heard my master call something a green death trap and I was afraid she might be talking about me." We were both green so I could see the confusion, although Nash was green and white and we were completely different shades.

"I don't think you have anything to be afraid of," I comforted the old car. "They haven't gotten rid of you yet." Out of all of the cars the Seinsigs have owned, Nash probably outlasted them all.

"That's true, I've been in this family since Mr. and Mrs. Seinsnig was married." It reminisced on a time long ago in its life. It was very wise, and if anyone knew Gary's story, Nash was definitely the car to ask.

"I heard them mention someone named Gary-" Before I could even finish bringing the subject up, I was cut off.

"Gary Seinsnig…I miss him," Nash sighed to itself in dejection. "He would have been twenty six at the end of this week."

"Could you tell me more about him?" I asked, interested in the subject, especially since it was talked about so often.

Nash knew Gary all of his life, from birth to death. He was such a good boy and he really loved cars, even at a young age. Nash would watch him playing in the side walk with his own toy cars. His father was his biggest inspiration. When he grew up, he wanted to be just like him and that inspiration never went away. Gary was determined to follow in his father's footsteps. As he got older, he took a more active role towards his dream and began to work on cars with his father. They both restored the Rambler as a project. At the time, they were thinking about just getting rid of it. Nash was showing its age, and it was so very tired until they completely rebuilt it. Nash was so grateful to them. It thought that the only reason the Seinsnigs haven't gotten rid of it was because it was the last thing Gary worked on before he died or so the story went.

So, that was the reason Nash lasted so long. In a way, it was a memento from Gary. It was a cold, hard truth it told, but Gary had saved it from being scrapped, or worse.

"There were three other cars in here at one point in time. Number 52, Gary's modified race car; a 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air, which was Mr. Seinsnig's personal car; and his own race car, a 1953 Maserati a6gcm, who called itself Number Seven."

"So, you're pretty used to being surrounded by race cars," I had found it interesting that a car like Nash wouldn't find itself the odd one out in that crowd. "Did you ever feel like you didn't belong?"

"Not at all," it was quite content with its answer. "I loved hearing about their racing and hot rod tales. Number 52 and Number Seven were great entertainment, and they never treated me as if I shouldn't belong. I was around before all of them, so they looked up to me. We all had special license plates, so it wasn't as if I felt of lesser value. The Bel Air's plate was HOT57 and I just called the race cars by their respected numbers. It was too bad they got rid of Hot57, it was one interesting car." Nash trailed, looking rather downcast about the subject. It made me wonder exactly what happened to the Bel Air. The old SUV made it seem rather grave.

"What happened to them all?" I dared to ask. My transmission fluid nearly froze at the thought of the possibility of whatever fate they underwent. Mine could be pretty bad if I ever did anything to push my master's parent's buttons.

"Hot57 was sold to a family friend, who moved out of state. I never saw it again…Number Seven was killed in the same crash that killed Master Gary." So, Number Seven went down with its owner? How tragic. I felt the sinking feeling from listening to that story.

"The crash must have been horrible," I was a little downcast about it myself as a glanced to a nearby shelf, full of dusty trophies. Above them was a picture of Mr. Seinsnig and, who I assumed to be Gary. Behind them were two cars, Number 52, who was a bright blue and black, and Number Seven, who was red and black. They all looked so happy. Now they were nothing but a memory.

"The worst in that racing circuit in a while. It was Gary's miscalculation that sent him tumbling across the track. Number Seven burst into flames and collided with another car. They tried to free Gary but it was too late, and Number Seven was upside down and on fire. The other driver got away safely, but their car obtained too much damage and died as well." That news only made me sympathize with Gary's mother. I sadly understood why she hated me. Even if it wasn't anyone's fault, two cars and one human had died.

However, there was one question that remained. "What happened to Number Fifty-two?"

"Number 52 was donated to the racing circuit's Hall of Fame. It doesn't compete anymore. It does do special ceremonies and things like that. Master Seinsnig talks about it every now and then. It was hard for Number 52 to take the rejection. After Gary died, Master Seinsnig neglected it and left it in the garage with a tarp over it. He didn't want anything to do with Number 52 or the races. I felt pretty bad for it. It was so horribly depressed, guilty and hurt that its master would treat it in such a way."

I couldn't fathom what Number 52 must have felt. It was bad enough that Number Seven and Gary died, but Number 52 had to deal with Mr. Seinsnig basically disowning it and abandoning it. I bet Number 52 lived for the times it shared with its master. It's such a shame that it couldn't even race anymore. I wonder if it was happier in the Hall of fame, where it was regarded as an idol to the other up starting racers.

"Do you think it likes it better at the racing circuit?" I was curious enough to test the question.

"Well, I'm not sure. Even if it isn't exactly happy with its position, it's taken care of and admired. Every race car wanted to be in the Hall of Fame for retired racers. A part of me would like to think that Number 52 is happy with achieving that goal," the Rambler was hopeful on the subject, or maybe it was just wishing for the best for its friend. "It was a good car, and extremely faithful to its master."

"Aren't cars supposed to act like that?" Wasn't it our function to be loyally tied to our masters? I've always had such a picturesque vision of what a car's life should be. Were the cars at the dealership flooding my engine with lies?

"The human world is cruel, and the mechanical world is far crueler. Even people like our masters would throw us away with ease if they were to find one thing wrong with us that would prohibit us from functioning in the way they saw fit. Nothing lasts forever, and they won't keep you just because you think you're special." I had never heard such words before. To think that a car could think so lowly of itself like that. What was this car's malfunction? Did its transmission slip or something?

"Your master loves you. Why would you say something like that?" I couldn't believe what the old Rambler would say such a thing, no matter what I just heard. The car's real opinion on its owners shocked me. It was…so jaded.

"I am sixteen years old. I have seen many things. You don't have to agree. I am simply offering a warning. You've existed for a year but you act like you just came off the assembly line," Nash tried to explain its reasoning to me and I wished I would have listened to it. It would have been some of the best advice I had received. But instead, I believed myself to truly be special and above succumbing to the fate of normal cars. So, of course I denied Nash's truthful depiction of reality.

"I can't believe you," I stated in monotone. Nash looked at me in disbelief. It seemed to hold sympathy for me in its headlights. I'm sure it pitied me for being so naive.

"By the way, you can call me Nash," it changed the subject to avoid any further tension between us. "Until you get a license plate of your own, what do I call you?"

"I've been given a lot of names- bad boy, green thing, green death trap…" I trailed; the only one of those that I personally liked was bad boy.

"Well, I don't intend on calling you anything offensive," Nash was trying it's best to be humble. "I'll just call you Superbird for now. I hope that's fine with you."

"I don't mind," I agreed half-heartedly, still stuck on the advice Nash had given me. I just didn't want to believe that something that dark existed. The green and white SUV felt bad that it either made a bad impression with me or that I didn't listen to it when it tried to give me heart-felt words of wisdom.

The garage was pretty silent after that. Only the sound of the pattering rain could be heard. Hours passed until we both fell asleep.

The next morning I woke up to see that there was another car accompanying the two of us in the garage, parked behind Nash. It looked to be a 1958 Nash Metropolitan. I was officially the youngest car in the garage. I didn't say anything for a while, until the Metropolitan spoke to me in a peppy voice.

"You must be the new car. It's nice to meet you!" The red car beamed. It had quite a different personality than Nash. It was upbeat, while Nash was quite different. I wasn't used to such a behavior. Especially considering that I always thought I was pretty down to earth, myself.

"Yes, I am. I haven't seen you around. Who do you belong to?" I questioned respectfully. Since it was parked in the garage like I was, I assumed that perhaps it belonged to Mr. Seinsnig.

"My master is Mr. Dave Seinsnig. I was getting repaired at the shop. Nothing major, I just needed a tire rotation and an oil change. Now I feel new again. By the way, I'm Metro, what's your name?" I was about to introduce myself, until Nash cut me off.

"It doesn't have a name. I just call it Superbird," the sleepy voice intoned from beside of me.

"Well, welcome to the family, Superbird. Don't worry about not having a name. I'm sure that you'll get a proper name within the month. Then we can call you by your real name. I was surprised that Mr. Seinsnig got any kind of sports car. I remember the way he felt about Number fifty-two-"

Before Metro could go on its shameless rant any longer, I cut it off. "Did you know Number 52 also?"

"No, but I've heard so much about it. It was my master's pride and joy until his son was killed. After that Number 52 only reminded him of the painful loss he suffered, so he covered it up and refused to look at it, because it just hurt him," Metro expanded on the story that was previously told to me by Nash. I glanced over to the old SUV, who looked down at the pavement with a sad expression. It almost looked as if it were weeping. I don't know what kind of past it had with Number 52 but I could tell that they were close.

"I could only imagine how depressed Number 52 was about all of that. I'm sure it was hurt badly to know that it was frowned upon for something that wasn't its fault. I remember a point in time where 52 wanted to stay under the tarp, ashamed and disgusted with itself. It often told me that it didn't deserve to see the light of day. It even wished that Master Seinsnig would send it to the hammer mill once. It didn't see a purpose in existing if it couldn't perform outside of the garage," Nash explained what its old friend had gone through on its last days in the Seinsnig's ownership. That was the first thing that made me consider rethinking Nash's advice. Fifty-two had probably thought that it would never be reduced to a memoir of races long gone. I wondered if it was still depressed, being in an environment like that.

"That's terrible!" Metro exclaimed, as if it has heard the story for the first time. I agreed, no car should have to sit around idly, and become a symbol of sorrow for its master. Fifty-two was truly a reminder and example of all of the things something didn't want to become, even if it did have a bittersweet ending.

Over the three years, I had gotten to know Metro and Nash very well. They became very familiar, and more and more like family. I admit that I was a little closer to Nash than I was to Metro. Metro was a good companion when I needed something to cheer me up and pal around with, but Nash was the car I sought advice in. In many ways, Nash's advice was hard to take, but harshly true. Nash had been around a long time and not only that, but it's been through everything, or at least it seemed like it had.

As much as I didn't take a lot of it into consideration, the thought of such things shot fear through my injectors.

As time passed, we spent many moments together simply talking about all types of things. There were moments that I would spend with Nash privately, when Metro was gone with Mr. Seinsnig. We spoke of personal problems and remedies to various things that bothered us. The old SUV was very insightful, and I had learned a lot about other cars that had passed in and out of the Seinsnig's lives. I also learned quite a bit about Mrs. Seinsnig and later, I learned about Mr. Seinsnig from Metro.

Metro and I had many happy times together, but there were certain things that I had noticed about the red car that slightly made me weary of it in ways. I guess that is rather humorous, considering I had a much larger frame than the small coupe. It was not anything that was presented physically that made me weary of it; there were things that it had said that made me rather iffy about it.

Much like the Seinsnigs, Metro seemed to hold anger towards sports cars, and while it held no ill feelings towards me in particular, there were times that made me inwardly say, 'hey, I'm a muscle car, you know.' I held back any comments on such material, for fear of having a bad relationship with it.

After all, Metro was family.

My master and I also became close, and he spent a lot of time paying attention to me. I was polished, possessed fancy hubcaps and given the best treatment inside and out. I was clean and my body was straight and free of injuries. I was washed once a week, and waxed to perfection.

Whenever my master went anywhere with a lot of people and cars around, he would park far away from them so my doors wouldn't get hit or my body scratched and dented.

The love of a master is a wonderful thing. The feeling that you get is hard to describe. It's a warm, wonderful sensation, like getting a fresh oil change, or a new set of rims. It made you know that you were being of use. There were times when Blake would just stare into my polished paint job at his reflection and smile. I was very appreciated by him, always complimented and patted.

He told me what a good car I was, how he was happy that he bought me and that I lived up to his expectations as his dream car. I was his prized possession- his favorite car.

Whenever he drove me around town to hang out with his friends, they were impressed with me as well. When they first saw me, they looked as if they couldn't believe their own eyes.

I rolled up in the parking lot of a store that they had agreed to meet at to see two boys the same age, if not a little older than my master. Accompanying them was a red 70's model Plymouth Barracuda. I could tell right off that it wasn't in the same condition as I was.

It was a little dirty and had a couple of dents and scratches. The two boys had looks of shock on their faces when they realized that my driver was Blake. I heard him call the two by name- Jordan and Ken.

Jordan was tall, skinny and wore holey jeans, round-framed, dark glasses and a head band. He had shoulder-length dark hair and stubble on his face. He had a very laid back and carefree demeanor. Ken strolled up beside of him to take a closer look at me.

"Whoa, dude what an awesome car!" Jordan exclaimed as he tipped down his glasses to examine me.

His shorter friend walked around me. Ken was dark-skinned with chin-length hair and long bangs that were parted in the middle. He wore bell-bottom, washed out jeans and a blue shirt with red, short sleeved and a red number two on the chest. "It sure is," he sounded impressed as he made his way back around me. "Where did you get it from?"

"My father let me buy it from the car lot. You know that green car that I showed you guys? The one that I told you I'd kill to get?" Blake asked his friends with a smile as their faces lit up in realization.

"No…way!" Jordan exclaimed. He looked as if he couldn't believe it was he glanced back and forth between Blake and I. The Barracuda sat idly, simply listening to the chatter. It was a very observant machine and much like me, it was very curious about the situation.

"I thought your dad hated muscle cars," Ken seemed confused.

"Trust me, it was hard enough to talk him into it, much less get him to approve and mom was another story." Master Blake sighed.

"Did she give you hell?" Ken asked.

"Oh yeah, she never lets me live it down. She calls my car a green death trap and tells me that I should send it straight to the scrap heap." My internal workings locked up at the horrible name his mother bestowed upon me. My master wasn't too fond of it either. I then heard the three of them talking about where they wanted to head off to for the day.

I looked over to the Barracuda, who sat patiently in its spot. After a few moments, they decided to discuss plans at a local diner. Blake hopped back inside of me and Ken and Jordan took the Barracuda to a small diner nearby. It was a quaint little place, but it had a large crowd with several cars parked outside in a small lot. I was shocked that they could fit that many people into such a small building.

We parked on the outskirts of the lot, away from the mass of cars. The Barracuda and I were parked beside of each other as our masters hopped out and strolled inside.

"Seems like we'll have a chance to have a bit of a chat," the red car told me in a unique voice- young and raspy, much like a rock star's voice that would sing on the radio. I could tell that it was a wild one just by the way it sounded. It also had a blower on its hood, clearly used for a high powered racing engine. I couldn't be too sure, but I would assume that it was a sooped up street racer.

I hadn't met any cars like that before.

"It's nice to meet you," I curtly showed my respect. "What type of car are you, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Certainly not, I'm a 1973 Plymouth Barracuda, a street racin' machine from Missouri." It introduced itself shamelessly.

"I thought you might be. You seem like you've seen a lot of races."

"You seem like you could use a few,” it smiled confidently. "Too bad that master of yours is leery about racing, but loves racing types like you. A car isn't worth much if all they do is sit there and look nice. Leave that to the vintage models, you were born to race."

"I don't blame my master for not wanting to race me. His brother died in a car race." It wasn't that I didn't know my purpose, but I respected my master's wishes. After all, it was strict enough at that house. I didn't want to push it and end up back at the dealership…or worse.

"Too bad, we could be racing partners. I'm king of the street races around here. I haven't met a car that I couldn't beat. I've heard a lot about you Superbirds, but I've never had the opportunity to race any of you. You're supposed to be a real challenge," it was excited about challenging one of my kind to a race. Maybe some other Superbird, certainly not me.

Then again, we are both Plymouths. That made us like siblings. If its words were correct, then I was sitting beside of a car of prestige. It made me feel a little sub-par.

"I'm guessing your dents and scratches just means that you've been through a lot of races," I commented on the car's condition.

"Somewhat, I have had some parking lot mishaps with doors. To me, they're just battle scars. Proves I can go through a lot and still remain a tough guy." It admitted its flawed body was nothing to be ashamed of and seemed to wear its damage proudly with what it's accomplished. I can't say that I wouldn't feel the same way. "If you were ever dented from taking on another car in a race and nicking yourself with a few rocks, you won't feel so bad about it. You seem like you'd be an excellent racer, especially with a license plate like yours," the Barracuda remarked, referring to the word XPRESSO which was written on my new, personalized license plate.

…To Be Continued