Fall is finally beginning to set in on the Las Vegas valley bringing with it a brisk, biting wind, cooler temperatures with the sky blanketed by the billowy embrace of rolling clouds which kiss the cradle of sin citywith scattered droplets of rain thus bringing about another lazy day at the home of SCW co-owner Christian Underwood. Humming the theme to the Golden Girls softly to himself he toils away in the kitchen preparing the evening meal. He leans over to open the oven door and is met with a blast of hot air followed by the sumptuous aroma of the tuna casserole cooking in an aluminum pan in the center. He peers briefly at the delicately prepared dish checking the gestation of his baking baby and nods in satisfaction, closing the door and turning to other affairs.
Cat Riley, the perpetual houseguest of Christian and his partner Scott Schriener emerges at the threshold leading into the kitchen but is stopped in her tracks by the curly haired blond man’s palm held aloft as a sign.
“I have a problem”, she whines.
“What is today’s problem kitty cat”? He asks, turning to face her. “Though I must say you are overdue, things have been going pretty well lately so it’s about time another catastrophe befell you. What is it”? He demands, leaning against the stove and wiping his hands on the bib of the white Grumpy Cat cooking apron fastened neatly around his muscular torso.
Following her employer and landlord’s hand gesture as she is barred from entering the kitchen Cat shuffles around to the outside of the breakfast bar and plops down onto a stool, propping her elbows atop the Formica counter top and nestling her chin into her hands. “Wow that smells good”, she remarks, taking note of the savory scent emanating from the stove.
“That’s why nobody but me is allowed to work in this kitchen. Now then, what’s today’s issue, are you upset with being matched against Mercedes”?
“Well to be honest I was kind of hoping for an easier opponent but I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge no matter how big and lord knows I have my work cut out for me with her but I have another problem”.
“Go on”, Christian prompts. “You’re among friends so just say whatever is on your mind, unless it’s about my cooking”.
“Ok”, she begins with a snicker. “Like you said, I’ve been doing well lately and you know how bad this city’s public transportation system is, bloody hell it’s a slap in the face that they call that travesty the ‘cat’ bus so I think it’s time for me to buy a car”.
Furrowing his finely trimmed brow Christian asks, “Uhh.., how is that a problem? Just go out and get one”.
“I need a license to drive”.
“Ok fine, take the test, get your permit and then the car, easy peasy”.
“I don’t know how to drive”.
“I see”, he mutters while meandering around to the other side of the breakfast bar taking a seat next to Cat.
“Will you teach me”? She asks, looking up at him through baleful blue eyes, “please”?
“I thought my driving scared you”? He says with a halfcocked smirk.
“It’s funny”, she shrugs her sinewy shoulders over the muse. “I’ve ridden with you so often now that not only have I gotten used to it, I actually like it. I mean, you get around faster than anybody I know and I want to drive like that too”.
“Hah..,” he snorts, dropping his head and erupting into a brief fit of vacillating laughter which brings a veil of dread over Cat’s soft features.
“What’s so funny? She appeals in a choking wail. “This town sucks without a car!”
“Ok, ok”, Christian croaks before regaining his composure. “You’re right, Las Vegas does suck without a car, and I wasn’t laughing at you, I was laughing over this wild turn of fate. I just think it’s funny that with so many people complaining about my driving that I would actually get the chance to teach somebody”.
“So you’ll do it”? She asks, her voice rising with hope. “You’ll teach me to drive”?
“Sure”, he bobs his head in affirmation. “It’ll be fun and when I get done with you kitty cat..,” following a pause he reaches over to pinch Cat’s high perched cheeks and continues, “you’re going to be the ultimate road menace cut from the same mold as me”.
With an excited squeal she leans over clutching Christian in a bear hug. “Thank you! I can’t wait! Thank you so much”!
Breaking from the embrace Christian rises from his leather padded stool, running the back of his hand along her silken blonde mane, “You’re welcome kitty cat. I was planning on playing hooky from work tomorrow and this gives me something fun to do. Now let me finish this meal, Scotty gets cranky when his dinner is late”.
“But he’s always cranky..?”
“Nah, today he’s downright joyful. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him this jovial”.
“Bitch, beer”! The voice booms as a thunderous wave throughout the halls of the custom built Victorian Manor. And make sure the damned top is open this time. You dumb broad, you know I can’t drink it if it’s unopened”!
“Hunh, so much for my paying attention I guess”, she ponders as Christian snatches a Bud Light from the refrigerator and strides towards the living room and the booming of Scott’s throaty baritone accentuated by Carrie Underwood’s new, not so improved rendition of the Sunday Night Football theme. “Maybe I can help you here”? She asks, not much interested in the so-called battle for Texas between the Dallas Cowboys and Houston Texans preparing to kick off.
“Yeah sure, you can help”, his voice trails his fleeting personage giving an inadvertent rise to her hopes, a rise which he quickly quells. “You can help by staying your little butt out of my kitchen”.
Dusk has given way to the inevitable smile of sunlight which beams over the valley illuminating a random smattering of clouds, and shooing the last vestiges of Hurricane Florence further along. The foliage is finally beginning to turn, after nearly a month of autumn with trees casually dropping a small number of leaves on the cool, grey sidewalks. Christian emerges through the covered front porch of the ornately detailed home with its pleated mulberry exterior with eggplant edging which frames numerous windows of various shapes and sizes from round, to rectangular, square and even hexagonal on all sides. The sides rise up two stories high leading to a pitched, angular roof with eggplant tiling. To the left an attached gazebo rises from the second floor into a an angled spire with a small square window providing light into one of two attics. Stepping from the porch and onto the steps, Christian cinches up his mauve suede jacket, shivering as he takes the key fob into his trembling hand to unlock the door to his waiting car. Trailing behind decked out in a simple ensemble of non-descript black sneakers with matching leggings and topped off with a white, short sleeved tee shirt sporting an image of a woman’s nude breasts. She shakes her head with a chuckle as her employer hurriedly opens the door and jumps into the driver’s seat.
“What are you laughing at”? He demands, casting a pointed glare at his snickering co-pilot as she settles into the passenger side. “It’s freezing out here”.
“You think this is cold?” she snorts. “This is swimming weather back home”.
Indeed, the electronic thermostat display on the dashboard reads 63 degrees Fahrenheit, merely a mild day at best in her home country of Great Britain but having resided in the valley for years now Christian’s blood has thinned, as the locals say, in adjustment to the incessant heat for the better part of the year, in short he has grown used to it.
“In that case”, he begins gruffly while twisting the key in the ignition and settling back into his seat as the big V8 engine rumbles to life with a throaty burble. “Our first stop will be the public pool. I hope you brought your pool pony”.
“You know I can’t swim you doofus”, she snaps back playfully. “It’s going to take a lot more than a pool pony to get me in the water”.
The pair buckles their seatbelts while sharing a laugh as Christian shifts the automatic transmission into gear. The tires squeal loudly, echoing through the exclusive upscale community as the 3800 pound metallion reverses out of the driveway with a roar, stopping with another screech before being thrown into drive and launched with a trail of tire smoke and accompanied by two lines of fresh rubber being burned into the asphalt.
The pair engages in idle chit chat as Christian weaves the steel laden steed through traffic. He ignores the blaring horn of a Toyota Corolla after cutting it off and forcing the elderly driver onto the sidewalk to avoid a collision and responds to the cries and shouts of fleeing pedestrians with a single finger salute. Stopping at a light the head of SCW keeps the tires warm with a smoky burnout which serves a twofold purpose; to gain traction for the ensuing launch and to serve as a warning to pedestrians to traverse the intersection as quickly as possible.
“Are you nervous about your match this weekend”? He asks, launching the hefty red dragon from the intersections and sending a police officer in the process of issuing a citation to the owner of a Toyota Corolla ducking for cover as the front wheels lift off of the ground and the traction of the rears send it careening down the road with a bellowing roar. “Mercedes is probably the toughest opponent you’ve ever had”.
Stifling an oncoming yawn Cat shifts deeper into her seat, oblivious to the chaos being sewn on the streets around her and props her feet up onto the edge of the black leather bucket seat. “To be honest I am a little nervous”, she admits. “Almost as nervous as I was before my first match, my debut. I mean, having worked with her in that tag team match against Salco and Steele, I got to see what she’s capable of and just how good she really is and she is bloody good. But I wanted to ask, why did you book me against her”?
“Ours is a cyclical business”, he elaborates while ignoring a red light in favor of getting the jump on the cars behind him onto the freeway. “We go through a bit of a down period between the big shows and we needed something that could put butts into the seats, something that maybe wouldn’t be such a pay per view draw but would serve to spike attendance between them. The fans love both of you but even though they wouldn’t necessarily plunk down pay per view money to see you two go at it”.
“Why not”?
“Pay per view is traditionally sold through grudge matches. That’s what the fans want, they want to see blood, they want mayhem, and they want to see scores settled. You and Mercedes have no issues with each other which would make it kind of tough to pitch on a show teeming with grudge matches. On the other hand, you are two of our best competitors and will undoubtedly put on a whale of a show, so why not save that show for the downtime between super cards? It keeps eyeballs on the set, and in the seats which is precisely what we need right now”.
“Ok, I can buy into that”, Cat concedes while staring out of the passenger side window to the hard hat wearing bright orange vested construction workers diving behind the concrete dividers to avoid the rampaging Chevy barreling towards them. “It makes sense from a promotional perspective, but it doesn’t do much to ease my anxiety”.
“Ah don’t worry about the butterflies kitty cat”, he offers a reassuring pat on the shoulder as he guides the pavement pounding projectile towards an off ramp, weaving in and out between cars content on observing the speed limit. “Besides, if I know Geno, and I do, he’s working on a game plan for you right now as we speak”.
“I assume you’re referring to senior?” she asks. “He’s out of the country and won’t be back until the weekend”.
“Doesn’t matter”, he shrugs with indifference. “He watches film constantly no matter where he is. He carries a digital library with him on his plane; so trust me, there’s plenty of film on Mercedes Vargas for him to watch. She’s been wrestling forever. He’ll have a game plan ready for you, I guarantee it”.
“Why can’t you fill me in on her? You said she’s been with SCW since the beginning so surely you know a lot about her”?
“Oh, I do indeed know a great deal about Mercedes, but it all boils down to this; I booked the match and am actively promoting it so it wouldn’t be fair to her for me to spill the beans on her tendencies to an opponent for a match that I booked her for in the first place. It’s a conflict of interest for which the SCW could be held liable and to be frank, I happen to like her. Mercedes Vargas is a hell of a talent and I want to keep her around. But don’t you worry; if there’s one man who figure her out it’s the Goldenboy”.
“Former roulette champion, three times over, three time tag team champion, two time bombshell champion, former internet champion and a pair of mixed tag team title reigns thrown in for good measure and that’s not including the several other promotions she’s worked for. Ten years of experience behind her and by looking at her performance in that tag team match with Cat she shows no signs of slowing down”. With the humming of four jet engines in the background holding the converted 747 aloft Goldenboy Gene Banton the official manager of Cat Riley pores over his laptop set on a fiberglass table before him. “One hell of a resume”, he says, pulling his eyes away from the glowing screen and rubbing them gently between his thumb and index finger. “I wasn’t expecting Christian to book her against somebody of this caliber. Remind me to give him some lip service over this when we get home”.
“Are you sure? He might like it”. Seated to his right on the leather sectional is Brandi Constantino chuckles, a rangy blonde of nearly the same age; and a former wrestler and rival to some of his star protégés throughout the years cum friend and part time advisor. Looking over his shoulder at the screen she reviews a dossier compiled on Cat Riley’s next opponent. “She seems to favor the luchadora style but appears to be well versed in just about everything”, the veteran kickboxer notes. “And with ten years of experience backing her up Cat could be in for a long night I’m afraid”.
“Not if I can help it”, Gene says sternly, his gaze returning to the screen with fresh eyes. “She’s still human and that means she has a weakness. I just have to find it or something for Cat to exploit”. He scrolls through additional pages looking for recurring tendencies. “She seems to have a habit of self-promotion, more like a flair for it actually. Darn near every interview or social media post alludes to some new accomplishment and she keeps a detailed record of her peers as well; something to compare against I suppose and she does have a knack for using this to try to get into an opponent’s head. She may try to psyche Cat out”.
Having kicked off her white Adidas sneakers Brandi props her feet on the table and fires up a second laptop lying beside her. She listens silently to Gene’s observations while waiting for the familiar tiled windows logo to appear and allow her to connect to the built in wifi system aboard the extravagantly laid out private jet. “That does sound like a legitimate plan”, she offers. “Cat is young and new to the game so it only makes sense to use that against her”.
“It does”, he agrees as a smile slithers across his otherwise stony expression, “But Cat has junior in her corner and nobody is going to psyche him out. That boy is the best at that stuff, but I’ll be sure to alert him to the possibility”.
“I don’t know”, Brandi sighs and scratches her head. “I’m going through matches of Vargas against a variety of opponents; high flyers, technical, brawlers, and strikers and even against people versed in multiple styles but she always seems to be able to adjust and play the same game. She’s a tough nut to crack, like a jack of all trades”.
“Jack of all trades”, Gene repeats, lifting his gaze from the matte black Dell laptop, “Jack of all trades but master of none”.
“What do you mean”?
“We’re looking at this the wrong way”, he says, his voice picking in enthusiasm along with his expression and turns to face his associate, a former world champion in her own right who regards him curiously. “Of course she can adjust and adapt to multiple styles, she has the experience to have plugged the holes in her game long ago so rather than look for a weakness where none seems to exist we force her to prove she’s better at our game than we are. Look, she’s a good technician on the mat, no doubt about it but despite her experience she is still nowhere near Cat’s level because she has so many styles to train in while Cat only has one. Yes, Mercedes is good on the mat; very good in fact but Cat is absolutely world class. That kid has forgotten more submissions than most wrestlers will ever know and there’s no way she can hope to match her tit for tat on the mat for long, certainly not an entire match”.
“Ok”, she nods in acceptance. “But what is the counter to mat based wrestling”?
“Ariel”, he answers, his tone dropping, “something she excels at. However; I’m sure you’ve noted that she has a bit of an ego problem”? He posits and waits quietly for Brandi’s reply which comes by way of a subtle nod. “That ego of hers, combined with her own technical ability will trap her into playing Cat’s game, I just know it. She wants to prove that she’s better than everyone else and can beat them not only her way but at their own game as well. And when things start heating up and she realizes that she’s no match for Cat on the ground she’s sure to try and revert to her luchadora style so..,”
“So while they’re on the mat, Cat focuses on clipping her wings and keeping the fight on her turf”, she offers, finishing his sentence for him.
“Exactly”! He proclaims triumphantly with the glow returning to the surface. Bounding from his seat the brawny former wrestler clenches his fists in excitement, his blue eyes shimmering. He jettisons his light brown sports jacket, draping it over the seat opposite of the one he had previously occupied and runs his fingers through a silken, shoulder length blonde mane and cuts loose a voluminous breath. “This can work, we can use Mercedes’ own ego against her”.
“And the nice thing about this”, Brandi adds while also rising to her feet and quietly relishing the feel of the plush magenta carpeting enveloping her bare feet, “is that Cat already knows the mechanics. You don’t need to teach her a thing”.
“The first thing you want to do is press down and hold the brake pedal with your left foot. I know, most people brake and gas with their right foot but that’s because they’re stupid and don’t know how to drive; by using the left you free up the right to hit the gas at the same time. You can spin the tires and lay down rubber for a better launch”.
From behind the driver’s seat of the big red machine idling with a loped rumble sitting stationary amidst the expansive abandoned parking lot of the closed for the winter Wet and Wild water park on south Fort apache road, twenty minutes west of the Las Vegas Strip Cat familiarizes herself with the controls of Christian’s four-wheeled rocket ship. With the patience of a teacher to special needs children he looks on while she fiddles with the gas pedal and the brakes while placing her right hand atop the smooth chromed handle of the hefty automatic transmission level on the center console.
“Go ahead”, he says, “put her in drive, and just make sure you’re holding down the brake when you do”. He watches and nods in approval feeling the 650 horsepower Camaro try to lurch forward only to be checked by the brake pads. “Good, now just feed it gas while holding the brake pedal until the rear wheels start to spin. You’ll know when you see white smoke all around you and smell the burning rubber”.
Following his instructions Cat applies the throttle little by little until the Z rated 330 Good Year tires break free of the pavement and starts to spin. Peeling against the tarmac the rubber begins to burn, spewing billowing plumes of acrid smelling white smoke which surrounds the madly fishtailing Bow tie.
“Now..,” Christian begins, training his eyes on the pavement before them. “Grip the wheel tightly and hold it straight and then release the brakes”.
Following the instructions of her sensei Cat sidesteps the brake pedal and the tires, half melted from the extended burnout are now effectively glued to the black top causing the car to hunker down on its haunches and lift the front wheels several inches off of the ground; blasting off under the motivation of more than 600 foot pounds of torque. It launches forward, accelerating at an alarming rate and pegs the speedometer in mere seconds as it rockets across the pavement. White knuckled Cat grips the thickly padded leather encased steering wheel tightly while her eyes are locked straight ahead.
“I think I see a speed bump up ahead,” she cries, trying to be heard over the roar of the agitated V8 engine. “What do I do”?
“Floor it”!
Doing as she is told Cat depresses the accelerator to the floor, giving the red and white steel bullet its head and allowing to charge unimpeded towards the speed bump. It hits the wide, low slung speed bump at more than a hundred miles per hour causing the vehicle to briefly go airborne. It crashes back down to Earth with a heavy, metallic thud bringing a broad grin to Christian’s face.
“Alright”, he says. Let off the gas and slam on the brake, bring it to a stop. Don’t worry about the car skidding, it’ll stop when it’s good and ready”.
After skidding and screeching for nearly 300 feet the beast finally comes to a rest, leaving a trail of burnt rubber in its wake and settles into a thumping idle as the gear selector is placed into parking mode. Looking at his student through beaming hazel lenses and grinning madly Christian offers her a high five.
“Yeah”! He exclaims. “Your first time behind the wheel and you’re already airborne. Now that’s driving”! Turning in the passenger seat to face Cat he continues in an animated inflection, “you’re almost ready to hit the streets, but I have to go over the rules of the road before we do that, ok”?
“Alright”, she nods enthusiastically. “What do I need to know”?
“For starters”, he begins, “you have to drive like you are the only person on the road. If you go and start doing stupid things like respecting your fellow motorists, you’ll never get to where you want to go”. Reaching out to the wheel he depresses the horn prompting the car to emit a piercing honk and goes on, “Let’s say you’re in an intersection, the light turns green but there are still people lumbering through. You can’t legally run them over so instead you press the horn and hold it down while burning the tires to give them the message. It works really well, they scatter like roaches when the lights come on and you just let off of the brake and away you go. Now for big crowds of people the horn doesn’t always work because there’s guaranteed to be some dumbass with his headphones on listening to crickets having drug induced sex at ten times speed who won’t hear it so you have to put the fear of God into them”.
“How do I do that”? Cat asks, her mind soaking the information given her and filing it for future reference.
“Turn the steering wheel about 45 degrees, any direction you want, it doesn’t matter”. He watches as his student turns the wheel as directed and nods before continuing, “Now, with your left foot holding the brake, I want you to do a burnout as I taught you and make sure to hold that steering wheel exactly where you have it, it’s important”.
Looking on quietly as Cat applies the throttle and nodding as the rear wheels slowly break loose and start to spin against the asphalt Christian reaches out with his left hand to grip the steering wheel, ensuring that it is held steadily in place. “Now”, he commands. “Hold that wheel exactly where it is and keep it there and let off of the brake”.
As the brake pedal is relieved of its duty to car lunges forward with a deafening roar, and directed by the angle of the front wheels it starts to spin madly in a smoky donut, leaving a circular trail of rubber behind. White knuckled and wide eyed Cat grips the steering wheel tightly, conscious of his admonition to keep it in place while the shrieking Chevy chases its own tail lights. After several moments and pounds of melted rubber he gestures for her to decelerate.
“Let off the gas” he shouts. “Again, don’t worry about the car; just let it stop wherever it wants”. Offering an affirmative pat on the back he asks, “Do you see how that works?”
“Yeah”! Cat cries in an adrenaline fueled pitch. “Not only does it work it’s fun”!
“You’re damned right it’s fun, and not only does it work on large crowds it shuts up those annoying backseat drivers”. Drawing a breath he leans back into his seat and exhales, releasing the last remnants of elation, trying to settle his mind back into teaching his prized pupil. “Now for the rules.., “he begins.
“You may as well throw the book out the window because it’s all wrong. It must have been written by a bunch of third graders strung out on crack after watching an NYPD marathon in super slow motion because nothing in it makes any sense whatsoever. So forget the book, I’m going to teach you the right way. First, always drive in the open lane, even if it’s on the other side of the road. Next, hashed or broken lines mean you can change lanes; solid means just mean you have to do it more quickly. You can use any lane you want to pass somebody,”
“Even the sidewalk”? She says, interrupting. “But what if there are people on it”?
“They have legs”, he shrugs and resumes his oration. “Now, if you see a school bus with that idiotic stop sign just choose the lane where there are no kids and pass it there, and if you see an emergency vehicle, like a cop car or ambulance with the lights flashing get around it as fast as you can before all of the gawkers slow down to a crawl looking for body parts. As for traffic lights; green means go. Yellow means go faster and red means go when there are no assholes in the intersection”.
“Ugh, so many rules”. She scratches her head in frustration trying to sort and file them in the recesses of her subconscious mind. “How am I supposed to remember all of this stupid stuff”?
“Just remember the most important thing kitty cat, you own the road and that means driving them off it if you have to in order to get where you’re going. The rest of it will come in time. The way I see it, if people are doing the speed limit they don’t have anywhere to be because everybody knows it is set artificially low so that the police can catch people. Nine times out of ten you’re going to be the only person on the road who has somewhere to be so it is their responsibility to get out of your way but sometimes you have to give them a nudge to remind them of it”.
“Wow”, she muses with a dirty grin. “I read the instruction manual on the internet last night, but the way you do it is a hundred times more efficient”.
“Like I said, I have places to go, they don’t”.
“How much longer until I’m ready to take the road test”?
“Not much longer”, he says assuringly. “But I still have to teach you how to ski the car up on its side wheels and drive it like that to get through those tight spots like traffic jams”.
“Ski the car? That sounds kind of difficult”, she frowns. “Is it as hard as it sounds?”
“Not really”, he replies while checking his reflection in the vanity mirror. “Skiing the car is a term used by stunt drivers when they put it on its side wheels and as for how they get it up that way, Have you noticed how the sidewalks at intersections are all sloped down flush with the streets at the corners”?
“Yes”, she nods certain of having the correct answer, her memory still fresh from reading the online manual the previous night and to which she promptly announces. “It’s to make them wheelchair accessible”.
“No”, he scoffs. “Screw the wheelchairs they’re not cars, they have no business being on the road. No, those slopes are actually ramps which, if you hit them at the right speed will help you get your car on the side wheels so you can ski and squeeze it through traffic”.
“Ah I get it”. Her eyes beam with the enlightenment of her sensei. “But I’m surprised they actually thought about people trying to get around for once”.
“Yeah”, he snickers, “Me too.”
Shifting to his left to face Cat he eyes her with a mischievous grin and says, “I’m going to teach you how to ski the car now, and then let you drive it on the street to the DMV to get your license but I have to ask one favor of you first”.
“What is it”?
“I want you to take Geno senior for a ride in your car when you buy one and show him everything you’ve learned, he will be shocked at everything you can do”.
“You got it”.
“I don’t get it”. With a furrowed brow Gene Banton senior stares blankly at the twitter feed of Mercedes Vargas, puzzlement etched across his face. “Mercedes is booked to wrestle on Thursday for Dystopia, then again on Saturday for Honor and on Sunday against Cat, why is she stretching herself so thin? The first is a number one contender’s match, the next is a pay per view and then she takes on Cat. She’s taking on three distinctly different opponents in as many days”. He shakes his head in disbelief as Brandi leans over his shoulder to gaze at the screen.
“Hmm, “she licks her lips and then offers a suggestion. “I think you’ve nailed her with the ego”,” she says. “She’s trying to prove everything she thinks about herself to the rest of the world and that’s her weakness. She’s preparing for three opponents at the same time while Cat only has one to worry about”.
Staring at the screen Gene briefly scrolls down the bombshell’s Twitter feed and begins reading aloud some of her more recent tweets to the public, “longest reigning honor champion at 200 days, hash tag the longest, the best, tied super hero Roxi’s record for most wins by a bombshell with the hash tag record breaking, history making, and she keeps track of her record better than most people track their finances”. Pulling his face away from the brightly lit screen he pauses a moment to rub his deep blue eyes between his thumb and index finger and then draws a belated sigh. “She’s more worried about her accolades than anything else, like she’s stockpiling them”.
“A doomsday prepper”, Brandi offers lightheartedly.
“Hunh”, he grunts, shoving the laptop further back onto the table. “Having seen this it only reinforces my belief in the validity of our original plan to make her try to beat Cat on the mat”. Rising to his feet Gene senior stretches his arms outward and cuts loose a heavy, cumbersome yawn. He digs into the right hand pocket of his snug fitting blue jeans to pull out a blue Apple IPhone X. “I’m gonna text Cassie” he says while pacing about the open cabin, “tell her to expect an email with my instructions for the match”.
“What about junior”?
“Ehh, I’d rather not since he tends to ignore them but I suppose I’ll send him a copy any way for the hell of it”. With his fingers walking rapidly over the keypad, he types out his message and presses ‘send’ which he quickly follows up by sending the same message to his son. A bright chirp from the grey rubber encased device informs him of the message’s delivery and is followed by a second in acknowledgement of the second recipient. “I’m gonna call for something from the kitchen”, he says while reclaiming his seat and pulling the laptop onto his knees. “Do you want anything”?
“A veggie burger with all the trimmings sounds great to me”, she answers. “Thank you”.
“Cool, I’ll make it two; it sounds like a winner to me too”.
“Cat, we have ourselves a winner”! The piercing exclamation of Christian Underwood tears Cat from her reverie where she has been running her wracked mind through the gauntlet of the road test which she is about to undertake. Despite the over cast day with a smattering of dark grey clouds beginning to lumber in from the south west his upbeat inflections is enough to line the cloud consuming her thoughts with silver as he joins her in leaning against the passenger side fender of the resting red leviathan. “I managed to get the same guy who gave me my road test years ago, you’re gonna love him”!
“Really, that’s awesome”! She chimes happily while craning her neck towards the door of the biscuit hued single story building; past a young man of roughly 17 sporting a scruffy, dark neckbeard practicing his parallel parking between four bright yellow plastic barrels and past the two stall canopy of the emissions testing station to the double glass doors where a steady stream of people filter out almost single file. A young woman joyously inspects her new license, the plastic still warm to the touch from the printer while an older woman fumbles about her purse for some unseen object. She is followed by an elderly man wearing a grey wool fedora with a full sleeved white button down shirt and black necktie with matching slacks and slowly ambling towards them with the aid of an aluminum walker with a pair of tennis balls shoved onto the business ends of the front legs to the apparatus. “Is that him, the old man? She asks, casting a nod in the direction of the old man who has now separated himself from the pack. Christian nods with a grunt but sudden gust of dread deflates her sails as a frown rambles in. “Aren’t older people stricter? She asks, “They are back home, especially my uncle Ernie”.
“Don’t you worry kitty cat”, he replies with a reassuring pat on the back. “Mr. Jackson is the best, he gave me my test”.
“He’s awfully slow”, she observes, noting the short length of his steps coupled with a penchant for resting every 20 or so feet. “You’re sure about him”?
“A hundred percent and hey, you’d be slow too if you were 104 years old”.
“Wow”.
Several more minutes pass as Mr. Jackson makes his way to the waiting couple with Cat and Christian passing the time with idle chit chat which ranges from the weather to politics, to life on other worlds and nearly everything in between with Christian sharing an anecdote about his partner Scott failing his road test six times. Finally, and without any fanfare the elderly test instructor arrives at the car and glances expectantly at Cat through a pair of thick bi-focal glasses.
“Are you the one driving today”? He asks in a gravelly voice.
Cat dips her head nervously. “Yes, sir” she replies.
“Alright”, he begins, leaning against the walker and gesturing to the passenger side door. “Show me how to open the passenger side door”.
She throws an apprehensive glance in Christian’s direction as her boss then bobs his head and flashes thumbs up while backing away from the vehicle. Pulling on the latch Cat opens the door and the centurion ambles in. With a sigh he removes his hat and hands his clipboard to her with an instruction,
“Now go ahead and fill this thing out, I need to rest a while”.
Shutting the door behind him Cat scrolls down the paper attached to the plywood board and shrugs, looking up from behind a veil of bewilderment to Christian. “This is the checklist for the test”, she says as he reaches over to take it from her.
“I’ll fill it out for you”, he offers, pulling the pen from behind the aluminum clip. “Just take the car out for spin now”.
Walking around the hood towards the driver’s side she casts another bemused glance to her driving instructor seated in the passenger seat with the fedora nestled into his lap, head resting against the pillar and eyes tightly closed.
“He’s asleep”, she mutters out loud.
“Don’t worry about it, just drive the car around for a few minutes and we’ll wake him up when you get back”.
“O… k…” Shrugging helplessly she brings the beefy V8 engine to life with a flip of the wrist and tucks the seatbelt under her tush and out of the way as Christian had taught her to do with the federally mandated annoyance. With the term at the forefront she glades to her right, a quick glance to see if her driving instructor had awakened yet but the elderly man’s snoring provides the half expected answer. She shifts the automatic transmission into drive and begins to power brake, bringing the engine speed up to the point that forces the rear wheels to break loose into a blustering spasm of smoke which draws the attention of various pedestrians; onlookers, employees, testing students and then forcing a young woman, no more than 16 with curly blonde hair and black rimmed glasses nervously guiding a Prius into a stop sign as she releases the brakes and careens through the parking lot prompting some of the onlookers to shout in consternation,
“Go back to driving school, you idiot”!
“Way to fail, dumbass”!
“You’re a road menace”!
“Somebody should lock you up”!
Their less than kind words are not lost on the pilot of the irresistible force, despite the cacophonous roar of the engine and with a quick snap of the steering wheel the metal maniac has turned its attention to them and barrels across the lot. An assortment of debris, primarily small rocks and dirt is kicked up by the whirling wheels of death chasing a flock of birds settled on the branches of a nearby tree into frenzied flight. Making her way towards them Cat suddenly jams on the brakes and snaps the steering wheel hard left which kicks the rear end out at them and sends the gawkers scrambling for cover behind a pair of parked econo boxes a red Fiat 500 and a white Smart car, a mail box, a light pole and even behind a large man whom she estimates at over 4oo pounds in weight while Christian watches from the other side and cheers her on enthusiastically.
“That’s my kitty cat, way to go”! He cries with clenched fists, looking on in satisfaction as the beast fishtails out of the parking lot and into the street. “I’ve outdone myself with her”.
With her adrenaline flowing following the chaos in the DMV lot Cat finds herself getting more and more into the moment as she guides the errant missile westbound on Sahara Avenue. The jitters fade as her thoughts turn to the realization that she is finally driving a car for the first time in her life and the experience is living up to everything she had hoped it to be. Steering the car onto the sidewalk to escape a white Ford Taurus with its hood propped open and hazard lights flashing in front of her and subsequently sending a trio of missionaries fleeing in terror, causing them to drop their Bibles as they scatter and swerving back onto the street she starts to wonder if this drive truly qualifies as her first solo trip. Christian had always been with her before and even though Mr. Jackson is with her, technically at least, he remains fast asleep. She peeks over to the man snoozing peacefully for confirmation. So he is with her in body, but nothing else, so is it a solo trip? Unable to decide she turns her attention back to the road just in time to recognize construction crews busily jack hammering away in the middle of the street, their work space cordoned off with a trail of bright orange cones. Picking up speed she plows over the cones, reducing them to a mangled heap of rubber and turns left onto Maryland parkway, preparing to return to the DMV station.
The return trip is brief and relatively uneventful; the two taxis driven into a tree and a ditch not withstanding as Cat guides the Camaro at violent velocity back into the lot, sending a mail man ducking behind a tree, dropping his satchel of letters and packages as she slams on the brakes allowing the car to skid to a stop. Breathing a sigh of relief as Christian approaches sporting a wide eyed grin, she grabs the handle and flings the door open.
“How did I do”? She asks.
“I thought you did awesome”, he replies. “But his is the opinion that matters”, gesturing to the still dozing DMV associate. “Let’s wake him up and find out”.
After several minutes of vigorous shaking and two packs of smelling salts the old man slowly starts to come around. His eyes flutter open followed by a mournful yawn as he stretches his limbs and looks over to Cat.
“That was a nice, relaxing ride”, he says. “I haven’t slept that good since my divorce. I could swear you’ve done this before”. He misses his test subject shaking her head no, reaching through the passenger side window to Christian for the clipboard. “Ok”, he exhales and reapplies his glasses. “Let’s see how you did”.
Holding her breath Cat looks on anxiously at the instructor as he scans over the checklist, her heart hammering away at the walls of her breathless lungs.
“Turn signals, proper braking technique, speed, control of the steering wheel, presence of mind, paying attention to your surroundings..,” he rambles off the itemized list in a sleepy drawl as she prepares to exit. “You scored a hundred percent, very impressive”. Reaching over the older man gently pats her on the knee in approval. “Let’s go inside and take your picture for your new permit”.
Excitedly Cat leaps into Christian’s arms, wrapping her arms and legs around him in a massive bear hug squealing gleefully. “Thank you”!
“Haha you’re welcome kitty cat”, he laughs. “I had fun doing it”.
The pair walks slowly behind the tester as he ambles along with the aid of his walker towards the building, their feet scraping against the hot pavement having difficulty adjusting to the stagnant pace set for them. Reluctantly Cat turns over the key to Christian, her thoughts fluttering in transitory with her attention turning to her scheduled match this weekend in Scottsdale Arizona. She sighs.
“If only Mercedes could be so easy”.
