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diff --git a/posts/2026-01-04-the-convertible.php b/posts/2026-01-04-the-convertible.php new file mode 100644 index 0000000..418ffa0 --- /dev/null +++ b/posts/2026-01-04-the-convertible.php @@ -0,0 +1,417 @@ +<h1 id="the-convertible">The Convertible</h1> +<div class="description"> + +<p> +<a href="https://nat1publishing.com/wcwc/">Nat1's Winter Court</a> is a prompt-driven writing challenge! The goal is to write a short story with specific parameters once a week throughout January. This is my first submission. Get your copy of <em>Winter Court: Year One, 2026</em> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/gp/aw/d/B0GRGCJXL8?ie=UTF8&dib_tag=se&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.P6OQNY7CnMVR1NvzlNriw55uoLAqWRgKV7YvnNSTlblycrsGvTmM1qr-W4MubFtYqZrLQlTiNcPsR3lrwwYhgQKvldz63JOVkJ3POEFphu3Kz8-FqWYsru2H2Q09Zt_980GMbqJ8caQYwac5YZw54nxAGdHSoxK6feTaJfu2WXfa6dM_Wen2eAwcXlbCY66hEGs8YChjKd9ARRXos6xPTgVM5piP1XNkQ2sn0gNJXm0.pK7Qt86-fJhop6akBeOXQ27ioBaO9IRTLun4nzj22BE&qid=1772932438&sr=8-1">here.</a> +</p> + +<p> +<em>Prompt</em> +<br> + +A protagonist walks the same route every day; one day, they see a door that hadn’t been there before. +</p> + +<p> +<em>Required components</em> + +<ul> +<li>The color verdigris</li> +<li>The word "borrowed," used in dialogue</li> +<li>A feather</li> +</ul> +</p> + +</div> + +<p>Brock trudged along the alley, paying little mind to the worn, faded +red bricks except on the frequent occasion that he stumbled over one on +his oversized feet. Pink, black, and yellow graffiti was splattered +across sooty, cracked concrete and fogged windows. Iron door frames and +braces added trails of rust, which leached out of the tired warehouses +like tears.</p> +<p>If he could help it, Brock ignored the bleak surroundings of the +vacant lots and dilapidated buildings between his high school and his +foster parents’ apartment. The first day of school was bleak enough +without remembering where he lived, where he ate, or how he existed. +Instead, he plunged all of his meager attention and mental effort into +his phone. He scrolled through reel after reel on every social media he +had an account on. Often, he let out a small exhalation of breath +through his nose in place of a laugh if he saw something funny enough. +Rarely did he invest the muscle capacity to upvote or downvote whatever +he deemed worthy of the additional effort.</p> +<p>His stomach lurched as his right foot caught thin air, his left toes +curling under him as he tripped. His whole body was flung forward with +momentum, aided by the jerk in his knees when he realized he was no +longer on level ground. Before he could catch himself, he tumbled into +the driveway, just barely putting his hands out in front of his face +before he planted them roughly onto the pavement of the alley with a +smack.</p> +<p>Thin, red lines broke out across Brock’s fingers and knuckles on his +left hand. His right hand clutched his phone, now with a seriously +decimated screen. It resembled a haphazardly arranged spider web, and +the facets that remained each showed small slivers of popular videos and +curated ads.</p> +<p>“Aw, man,” he hissed as he looked over his other hand. Brock huffed +and stood up, bewildered. <em>Where’d this even come from?</em></p> +<p>It was a freshly paved driveway, not gum-spotted like the rest of the +street. It must have been laid down over summer break. His eyes followed +it up into the old wall of the warehouse, one he’d passed by twice every +single day throughout high school. Where there had been cracked brick +and acrylic tags, there was now a freshly fabricated garage bay door. +The rolling chain-link barrier was down, but the gaps were wide enough +to see through and allowed air to circulate.</p> +<p>Brock got up and, despite his aching knees and palms, half-stumbled +up to the door to peer inside.</p> +<p>“Whoa, dude!”</p> +<p>The speckled gray concrete floor was swept clean and supported a herd +of whitewall tires. Each set, in turn, supported a colorful antique +automobile, each different from the last. There were reds, yellows, and +blues, all the old-world subtle colors that nobody painted anything +anymore because it wasn’t silver. Each car was curvy and heavily laden +with thick chrome emblems, bumpers, and visors. Some had skirts on the +rear, and a couple had their hoods up, exposing engine compartments that +looked more like jewelry boxes full of silver and gold than dirty, +mechanical necessities.</p> +<p>Brock continued gawking at the shimmering display of rolling +Americana. The sound of a toilet flushing preceded the opening of a door +in the back corner. A short, hunched man stepped out, wiping his hands +on his denim coveralls. His dark skin was dotted with shiny grease spots +and patches of dirt. His palms looked leathery and well-used. His face +was serious, the wrinkles and dull eyes unforgiving yet determined. His +block-shaped, graying mustache flared and twitched as he nervously +puckered his lips, thinking. Above his peppered-gray eyebrows sat a thin +straw hat boasting an even thinner brown feather sticking out of the +ribbon.</p> +<p>He looked up, locking eyes with Brock for a brief moment before +resuming his work. Brock pointed through the rails of the door at the +nearest car and called out, “Yo, old man, what year’s that Chevy?”</p> +<p>The man spun his head around from under the teal-green hood of the +furthest car, screwing his eyes into a mean and penetrating gaze.</p> +<p>“You git your finger out of that door befo’ I pull it off. Dat’s a +Stude ya dumb-bass. Daym kids and dey big empty heads,” he trailed off +into a string of discontented mutterings that filled only the cavernous +engine bay.</p> +<p>Brock quietly retracted his hand but didn’t move from his vantage +point. Instead, he shuffled to the side and stood on tiptoes for a +better look at what the old man was doing.</p> +<p>His hands were busy fussing under the hood of that verdigris +convertible. From his distant vantage point, Brock saw it was adorned +with a regalia of fog lights, wire wheels, and a boatload of bright work +trim. The white interior reflected the dim overhead lamps, giving off a +soft glow that bounced back up onto the ceiling and provided more +usable, soft light in the room. It gave the whole car a glowing, angelic +effect. Between the wide white walls a small puddle of oil leeched +across the concrete in search of new patches to set stains in.</p> +<p>“What’s that one you got there? Whachu doin’ to it?”</p> +<p>The engine bay emitted a grunt, and the man’s head emerged briefly to +snap, “I’m fixin’ it what de hell does it look like I’m doin’ in here +wid all dese tools ‘n’ shit?”</p> +<p>“Yeah, but what is it?”</p> +<p>The mechanic’s gaze softened, but only briefly, before he screwed his +wrinkled face back up again.</p> +<p>“A Packard, dat’s an orphan car. Now you git before I call da po-lice +to come grab ya and send ya back to your parents,” he said while +gesticulating with a tightly-gripped monkey wrench.</p> +<p>Brock snickered at the hollow threat, but backed away from the door +all the same. He had no interest in dealing with his foster parents +tonight any more than he had to. Instead, he shouldered his backpack and +finished the walk home from school, paying attention to the dotted +bricks and uneven curbs as he did.</p> +<p>His mind whirred all night with still images: vignettes of hood +scoops and split windshields. His thoughts always returned to the +teal-green Packard.</p> +<hr> +<p>As the school year progressed deeper into fall, Brock struggled +harder and harder to concentrate in final period. He’d watch the +electric clock up high at the front of the room in between long gazes +out the leaky windows. Instead of focusing on lectures, he fantasized +about the swoops and spokes of the old cars in that warehouse +garage.</p> +<p>Each day when the bell rang, he hustled out of class and half-walked, +half-ran his route home. He always passed by the garage to see what the +old geezer was working on. Brock’s foggy breath would puff out while he +warmed his hands by the exhaust hoses pumping sweet-smelling fumes out +from the engine of the convertible.</p> +<p>Invariably, he’d get chased away by the old man after spending too +much time lingering by the chain-link door. At the very least, they were +now able to exchange a few phrases before the gentleman’s temper rose +high enough to shoo Brock away.</p> +<p>Brock knew enough now to know the Packard convertible had a flathead +that needed quite a bit of work (he also now knew that <em>flathead</em> +meant the valves were in the cylinder block). It no longer leaked oil, +but it didn’t run or drive either. Occasionally, Brock felt brave enough +to shout out ideas or diagnoses, only to be shooed away even more +fervently than the previous night for tempting involvement.</p> +<p>One particular fall afternoon, Brock swung by the shop, and the old +convertible was up on jack stands. The old man lay beneath it, straining +and swearing away. Brock sat down on his backpack as he watched. The +sound of heavy breathing was truncated by the interjection of banging +metal reverberating off the walls. Sockets clattered out from under the +car, rolling away across the floor of the garage. One of them popped +over the threshold and right up to Brock’s shoe. He surveyed it, noting +the “1/2” markings and the patent stamp proudly declaring the tool was +made in Toledo.</p> +<p>A slam and a clunking sound jolted his eyes back up to the mustached +mechanic’s plight.</p> +<p>“You dumb-bass!” he cried out from under the car.</p> +<p>What looked like the transmission had slumped off the wood blocks +supporting it and tumbled onto the floor. It made a nice chip in the +concrete when it landed.</p> +<p>Brock was on his feet in an instant and shouted across the garage, +“Dude! Watch out for that there.”</p> +<p>The mechanic shot out from under the Packard, clutching his wrist and +wincing. He flexed his arm, testing his muscles. All fingers appeared to +work.</p> +<p>With much effort, he got to his feet and forced his backbone to +straighten out. Still rubbing his wrist, he noticed Brock, almost with a +start as if he’d forgotten he’d been standing there. He eyed the socket +Brock absent-mindedly turned over with his thumb and forefinger.</p> +<p>“You give me dat back,” he growled through gritted teeth.</p> +<p>He fixed his straw, feathered hat with one hand and reached for the +socket through the steel links of the bay door with the other. Brock +snatched it closer to his chest and took a step back.</p> +<p>“No way, dude, you’re gonna get killed like that. You want it back, +then you let me in, and I help you. You open the door and let me bench +that up into the car with you so you don’t smash your dome in.”</p> +<p>The old mechanic’s eyes lost that sheen of rage. For just a moment, +Brock was sure he could see through them rather than right up against +them.</p> +<p>He continued, “Look old creep, I can help. You can’t lift that up +there by yourself. And besides, if it crushes me, then I won’t be +bothering you anymore, will I? Now let’s get to work and get it done +already.”</p> +<p>The mustached man turned up his sour lips again, curling his facial +hair into his characteristic disappointed twist. He pointed his finger +right at Brock’s chest through the door.</p> +<p>“Don’ touch the paint, don’ touch the chrome, don’ touch a daym thang +’cept what I tell you!”</p> +<p>He reached down to his cracked leather belt and jangled loose a +massive keyring, cursing as he did. Brass, nickel, and other assorted +keys all shook and shimmered as he flitted through them for the door. +Brock’s heart leapt. He scrambled to shoulder his bag as the man heaved +the door up, clanging away as it rolled toward the ceiling.</p> +<p>For the first time, Brock stepped over the threshold of the door that +hadn’t existed last year. Just a few feet in it was already warmer than +the curb. He had a better view of the cars now, too. He could see +scalloped leather upholstery and massive steering wheels in black or +white plastic. Shields and emblems adorned door cards, radios, and gauge +clusters. He could smell them too: old lacquer paint, small drops of hot +oil, and the kind of warm musty smell of aged rubber.</p> +<p>The old man stomped straight back toward the verdigris convertible. +He turned his back to Brock and started slamming open drawers on a tall, +fire engine red toolbox. The clicking of ratcheting wrenches trickled +back to Brock’s ears before the drawers were slammed shut again with +even more ferocity.</p> +<p>“Don’ just stand there gawkin’, come gimme a hand,” the mechanic +admonished, his back still turned to the boy.</p> +<p>Dropping his bag, Brock hustled over to the driver’s side of the +convertible. His eyes slipped over its interior. The two-tone +teal-and-black upholstery was broken up by polished stainless steel +stripes. <em>Packard</em> was scrawled across the glove box in +flourishing, underlined script.</p> +<p>Outside, beneath the driver-side door was a jack handle and the bulky +head of the transmission, which appeared at first to Brock to be +bleeding sticky maroon blood out onto the concrete floor.</p> +<p>The old man whipped around from the toolbox and set his sights on the +teen. He stretched out his hand, his leathery palm opened up. It was +hardened with calluses and wrinkles. Brock placed the socket into it, +and the mechanic quickly snapped it onto an extension.</p> +<p>He squinted his beady eyes at Brock, but his mustache relaxed +slightly. “You ever worked on a car befo’?”</p> +<p>Brock shook his head but kept his lips shut tight.</p> +<p>“Alrigh’, then here’s what we gon’ do. You’re gon’ listen’ good and +do everythin’ I tell you and nothin’ I don’. We’re gonna git dat tranny +back up in there an’ bolt up the cross-member.”</p> +<p>“Cross-what?” Brock interrupted.</p> +<p>“Don’ interrupt me. Don’ interrupt me, daym didn’t your daddy ever +teach you manners?”</p> +<p>Brock’s eyes trailed the red pool and then held fast to a black paint +stain.</p> +<p>“I don’t know my dad. And my foster dad ain’t around much.”</p> +<p>The old man just blinked and pocketed the wrench. “Lie down there on +the flo’.”</p> +<p>He did as instructed and stretched out under the convertible while +the mechanic knelt and gave him a lesson. He pointed out all the braces, +frame rails, and cross-member bolts. He walked Brock through hooking up +the transmission to the flywheel and explained that they would need to +stabilize the trans and move the jack into place. Then they set to +work.</p> +<p>Brock helped the old man lower the jack and roll the transmission +back onto the block of wood it had been precariously perched on. He kept +it from rolling as his aging companion jacked it back up again, roughly +into position. Then, with two hands, Brock helped jostle and jimmy it +forward. Up a little, forward a little. Up a little, forward a +little.</p> +<p>Once it was in place, he held it there while the old-timer rolled out +from under the car and grabbed a squarish metal tube with boltholes in +it. He quickly cinched down two bolts and slid the wrench over to Brock +while he took a hold of the jack and transmission himself.</p> +<p>Brock fumbled with the socket, which slipped off twice and even +reversed direction on him once. Eventually, he was able to confidently +snug up the bolts. The old man lowered the jack and rolled it out from +under the car with a rattle.</p> +<p>“Ah-hah, dat’s how you do it! Dat’s how you git dat dumb-bass in +there!” His whiskers were turned up into a grin, old off-white teeth +beaming out from under it. Brock met his grin, wiping his hands off on +his shirt.</p> +<p>“You got a name boy?”</p> +<p>“Brock, sir.”</p> +<p>“You can call me Ray.”</p> +<hr> +<p>Work on the Packard continued. For the first few weeks, Ray seemed to +forget all about the transmission and Brock’s help. He would just stand +outside and talk through the door until Ray ran into a job that was too +frustrating to do alone. Then the old man would gripe and cuss and roll +up the big door again.</p> +<p>After a month, the door was already rolled up when Brock arrived +after school let out. Every night was a lesson in how the parts of the +car went together, which tools did what, and how they were supposed to +be used.</p> +<p>The hood stayed open on the Packard while Ray showed Brock how to +tune up the old flathead, the sweet burning smell of the exhaust +tingling their noses and eyes. The carb sucked in air, and the tailpipe +burbled like nothing the teen had ever experienced. It had the soul of a +boat in the skin of a car, the promise of crossing a sea of asphalt to +fantastic, unexplored places.</p> +<p>For his part, Brock grew to enjoy the old mechanic’s company. He was +still grumpy and stern-looking most of the time, but there was a clear +wisdom. Years of knowledge had been carefully curated by experience and +distilled into simple lessons that he couldn’t forget if he wanted to. +What Ray thought of Brock never came up.</p> +<p>As winter waned and the first spots of spring began to warm up the +city, Brock had to hustle through still-cold rain to get to the garage. +Today was particularly stormy and, although the hours grew longer, the +promise of later daylight was dashed by thunderheads and downpour. Every +<em>plod, plod</em> of his footsteps dumped yet more water into his +sneakers. Using his hoodie as an umbrella, he tried to keep at least his +shirt dry. Ray would never let him near the car if he was soaking +wet.</p> +<p>He rounded the last corner and skipped up the curb to the garage. The +chain-link door was already rolled up, and the warm incandescent glow of +the lamps kept the dim gray at bay. He ducked in and threw down his +backpack and hoodie against the wall.</p> +<p>“Yo, Ray,” he called out, but got no answer.</p> +<p>The shop was quiet, and the old man was nowhere to be seen. <em>Must +be in the bathroom again,</em> Brock figured. He strode over to the tall +red toolbox to see what he could get started on.</p> +<p>Curiously, more than half of the drawers were cracked open or piled +with a random assortment of tools such that they wouldn’t shut. Brock +never knew a day when the meticulous and ornery Ray failed to slam shut +every drawer or cabinet door with all the strength left in his arms.</p> +<p>Upon closer inspection, some key tools were missing completely. Ray’s +good Snap-On set, which Brock was seldom allowed to use, was gone, along +with torque wrenches, tachometers, and a battery tender.</p> +<p>“Ray, man where you at?” Brock called again.</p> +<p>No answer came, not even a crotchety admonishment from the bathroom +stall. The hood was still open on the Packard. He stepped quietly over +to the convertible, the glossy verdigris paint shimmering under the +overhead lights.</p> +<p>Something crumpled under Brock’s sneaker. He stepped back and peered +cautiously at the crushed straw hat, and what was left of its ruddy +feather, the plumes mussed and destroyed.</p> +<p>Brock knelt to examine the straw shrapnel. On the other side of the +car, past the white walls he saw a slumped pile of coveralls and a dark, +leathery hand.</p> +<p>His throat went dry as he shrieked, “Ray! Dude!”</p> +<p>He wheeled around the bumper to find the mechanic collapsed, his face +down on the hard floor and his fingers balled into fists. Brock rolled +him over and saw a huge gash in his forehead.</p> +<p>“Oh, no. Oh, crap man.”</p> +<p>Brock reached into his back pocket, yanking out his phone. His face +burned as his heart pounded out of control. His fingers swiped furiously +across the cracked screen, catching on the spider-glassed edges. He +punched in 9-1-1, tapping on Ray’s chest with his other hand. Ray’s +chest rose and fell, but otherwise he didn’t move.</p> +<p>“9-1-1, what is your emergency?” the operator coolly answered.</p> +<p>“Yo, hey, you gotta get an ambulance here right now, I’m at the auto +shop by Pier 14, 301 West Brooke. Please you gotta hurry Mr. Ray got hit +or something, he won’t wake up!”</p> +<hr> +<p>The responder stayed on with Brock while he tried to bring Ray +around. The old man was still breathing but unconscious when the +ambulance rolled over the driveway, and the EMTs unloaded their +stretcher.</p> +<p>At the hospital, the teen sat alone in the waiting room, shivering. +The place felt air-conditioned despite the weather outside, and he was +still mostly soaked through. After waiting around for almost an hour, a +couple of cops walked in and asked him to make a statement. Wanted to +know how Brock found Ray, how he knew him, and all that.</p> +<p>Over and over he repeated, “Someone hit him, I just know it, there’s +tools missing, and he usually locks the place up. You gotta find +em!”</p> +<p>“Son, settle down. We got em, we just wanna know how you found him so +he can press charges,” the taller deputy said, scanning his notebook in +between glances at the worried teen.</p> +<p>“You mean you got em?”</p> +<p>“Yeah, pawn shop two blocks down got a big drop of tools, battery +charging kit, couple of gauges. Owner said he recognized the Snap-Ons +and called it in. Sounds like the guy went in there a lot looking for +old tools.”</p> +<p>“Is he gonna be okay though? The old man, uh, Ray I mean.”</p> +<p>“He was out when we saw him, but you’ll have to wait to talk to the +doctor, son.”</p> +<p>The electric clock up high at the front of the room seemed frozen, +just ticking back and forth without making any progress. Another hour +could have passed, maybe two, maybe none, before a woman with dark hair +and tan skin approached Brock. She was wearing a white coat and blue +scrubs and held a gray plastic clipboard in both hands.</p> +<p>“Are you Brock?” she asked softly.</p> +<p>Brock lifted his head up off his palm. He straightened up from his +restless slouch.</p> +<p>“Yes’m I’m Brock. Is it Ray, is he gonna be okay?” Brock coughed to +settle his voice.</p> +<p>“Yes, Mr. Perry is going to be just fine. And he’ll see you now if +you’d like to visit.”</p> +<p>She led Brock back through the hall of clean white exam rooms and +gave a soft knock on the last door. The stainless steel panel gave way +to a pinkish room with a large electric hospital bed. The curtain was +drawn open, and under a blanket sat the grumpy old mechanic, his back +and head resting elevated on a pillow. The doctor gave a small wave and +stepped back out of the room.</p> +<p>Ray rotated his head to look at the door and Brock. He had a large +wad of clean cotton gauze taped across his forehead. A few wires ran +from a finger clamp on his left hand. His eyes were as stern as ever, +his mustache turned up in another one of his sour grimaces. Brock would +have chuckled at the familiarity of the sight had the circumstances been +less serious.</p> +<p>“Take a seat, boy.”</p> +<p>Brock did as he was instructed, drawing up a short rolling stool.</p> +<p>“You find me lyin’ there? You call dat amblance?”</p> +<p>His eyes were penetrating, and beady though they were, behind their +usual intent and purpose, there was a gentle twinkle.</p> +<p>Brock shifted in his seat, and words started tumbling out unfiltered, +“Yessir, I came by after school and found you lying there. Cops said +they jumped you and got away with your tools, but they got ’em–”</p> +<p>“Don’t you hear good boy, I asked you one question and now you +startin’ jabbin’ away like a daym fool again. Daym right they got dem +dumb-basses, nobody stealin’ from me.”</p> +<p>He heaved himself up higher in the reclined bed, as if he couldn’t +contain himself from leaping out of it and whooping the first person he +got his hands on. Instead, he cleared his throat and dropped his sour +look.</p> +<p>“Actually, you did good. You did real good, kid.”</p> +<p>Ray rustled his right hand under the cover and, with a jangle, +produced his large keyring. He sifted through it, flipping old tarnished +keys over and over until he found the one he was looking for. He held +the ring up by it and outstretched his arm toward Brock.</p> +<p>“Now you take ‘em. And don’ go losin’ em or I’ll bust you up, you got +dat?”</p> +<p>Puzzled, the teen took the key ring and studied it. The one brass key +stood apart from the rest, tarnished as it was, there was a shiny wear +mark where a thumb regularly polished it. The teeth gleamed like they +were brand new. He looked back up at Ray, whose face was calmer and +older somehow. Without their usual ferocity, the wrinkles didn’t make +him look scrunched up, just wrinkly.</p> +<p>“Dat choke is stuck on da Packard. You go git dat fixed. And do a +lube job on the Stude, den pick up parts at Waller’s. I’m gonna be in +here ’nother day, so you git to work.”</p> +<p>Brock grinned and wiped the nearly-dry hair from his eyes while he +stood up.</p> +<p>“Yessir, I will,” he nodded as he pocketed the key ring and made for +the door.</p> +<p>“And Brock! Dem keys is borrowed, you got dat? You go make a copy o’ +dat one cuz I ain’t leavin’ the door unlocked no mo’ like a daym +fool.”</p> +<p>Brock could have sworn he saw a smile under the old man’s +mustache.</p> |