From 9360e7c511b08b109608ec9c2a70bd18f1d02352 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001 From: "Adam T. Carpenter" Date: Sun, 5 Apr 2026 08:17:50 -0400 Subject: feat: winter court --- posts/2026-01-04-the-convertible.php | 417 +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 1 file changed, 417 insertions(+) create mode 100644 posts/2026-01-04-the-convertible.php (limited to 'posts/2026-01-04-the-convertible.php') 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 @@ +

The Convertible

+
+ +

+Nat1's Winter Court 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 Winter Court: Year One, 2026 here. +

+ +

+Prompt +
+ +A protagonist walks the same route every day; one day, they see a door that hadn’t been there before. +

+ +

+Required components + +

+

+ +
+ +

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.

+

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.

+

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.

+

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.

+

“Aw, man,” he hissed as he looked over his other hand. Brock huffed +and stood up, bewildered. Where’d this even come from?

+

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.

+

Brock got up and, despite his aching knees and palms, half-stumbled +up to the door to peer inside.

+

“Whoa, dude!”

+

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.

+

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.

+

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?”

+

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.

+

“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.

+

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.

+

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.

+

“What’s that one you got there? Whachu doin’ to it?”

+

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?”

+

“Yeah, but what is it?”

+

The mechanic’s gaze softened, but only briefly, before he screwed his +wrinkled face back up again.

+

“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.

+

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.

+

His mind whirred all night with still images: vignettes of hood +scoops and split windshields. His thoughts always returned to the +teal-green Packard.

+
+

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.

+

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.

+

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.

+

Brock knew enough now to know the Packard convertible had a flathead +that needed quite a bit of work (he also now knew that flathead +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.

+

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.

+

A slam and a clunking sound jolted his eyes back up to the mustached +mechanic’s plight.

+

“You dumb-bass!” he cried out from under the car.

+

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.

+

Brock was on his feet in an instant and shouted across the garage, +“Dude! Watch out for that there.”

+

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.

+

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.

+

“You give me dat back,” he growled through gritted teeth.

+

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.

+

“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.”

+

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.

+

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.”

+

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.

+

“Don’ touch the paint, don’ touch the chrome, don’ touch a daym thang +’cept what I tell you!”

+

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.

+

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.

+

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.

+

“Don’ just stand there gawkin’, come gimme a hand,” the mechanic +admonished, his back still turned to the boy.

+

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. Packard was scrawled across the glove box in +flourishing, underlined script.

+

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.

+

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.

+

He squinted his beady eyes at Brock, but his mustache relaxed +slightly. “You ever worked on a car befo’?”

+

Brock shook his head but kept his lips shut tight.

+

“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.”

+

“Cross-what?” Brock interrupted.

+

“Don’ interrupt me. Don’ interrupt me, daym didn’t your daddy ever +teach you manners?”

+

Brock’s eyes trailed the red pool and then held fast to a black paint +stain.

+

“I don’t know my dad. And my foster dad ain’t around much.”

+

The old man just blinked and pocketed the wrench. “Lie down there on +the flo’.”

+

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.

+

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.

+

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.

+

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.

+

“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.

+

“You got a name boy?”

+

“Brock, sir.”

+

“You can call me Ray.”

+
+

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.

+

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.

+

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.

+

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.

+

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 +plod, plod 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.

+

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.

+

“Yo, Ray,” he called out, but got no answer.

+

The shop was quiet, and the old man was nowhere to be seen. Must +be in the bathroom again, Brock figured. He strode over to the tall +red toolbox to see what he could get started on.

+

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.

+

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.

+

“Ray, man where you at?” Brock called again.

+

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.

+

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.

+

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.

+

His throat went dry as he shrieked, “Ray! Dude!”

+

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.

+

“Oh, no. Oh, crap man.”

+

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.

+

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?” the operator coolly answered.

+

“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!”

+
+

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.

+

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.

+

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!”

+

“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.

+

“You mean you got em?”

+

“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.”

+

“Is he gonna be okay though? The old man, uh, Ray I mean.”

+

“He was out when we saw him, but you’ll have to wait to talk to the +doctor, son.”

+

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.

+

“Are you Brock?” she asked softly.

+

Brock lifted his head up off his palm. He straightened up from his +restless slouch.

+

“Yes’m I’m Brock. Is it Ray, is he gonna be okay?” Brock coughed to +settle his voice.

+

“Yes, Mr. Perry is going to be just fine. And he’ll see you now if +you’d like to visit.”

+

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.

+

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.

+

“Take a seat, boy.”

+

Brock did as he was instructed, drawing up a short rolling stool.

+

“You find me lyin’ there? You call dat amblance?”

+

His eyes were penetrating, and beady though they were, behind their +usual intent and purpose, there was a gentle twinkle.

+

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–”

+

“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.”

+

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.

+

“Actually, you did good. You did real good, kid.”

+

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.

+

“Now you take ‘em. And don’ go losin’ em or I’ll bust you up, you got +dat?”

+

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.

+

“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.”

+

Brock grinned and wiped the nearly-dry hair from his eyes while he +stood up.

+

“Yessir, I will,” he nodded as he pocketed the key ring and made for +the door.

+

“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.”

+

Brock could have sworn he saw a smile under the old man’s +mustache.

-- cgit v1.2.3