path: root/posts/2026-01-04-the-convertible.php

<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>