Chapter Two
Living next to the apartment of Mac was a couple of siblings that didn?t quite look relational on the outside, but very much so on the inside. These were the Andrews siblings?Sean and Alissa. Sean was a friendly, smart, generous, and handsome young man in his early twenties, who was often the one to take care of his older sister, even though she was five years older than him. Alissa was just like her brother, only she was a thousand times much friendlier, smarter, and beautiful, so much so that Sean had to keep her from being overly sensitive to the slightest stranger.
On that very afternoon they joined Mac to help Frankie and friends search for a new car for Frankie, the siblings knew that the afternoon would be quite enjoyable.
As the sign in front of the local VW-Porsche dealership loomed larger ahead, Frankie started to swerve in its direction, much to the surprise of Mac and the Andrews siblings. ?Wow, Frankie! You?re getting a Porsche?!? Mac exclaimed.
Frankie was about to happily answer Mac?s question, until her grandmother slapped her against the side of the head and answered for her. ?No, she?s not! And she?d better drive away from that shop, before she?s got no hands left to steer the wheel with!?
As Frankie veered at the last moment back into the northbound lane, she wondered why in the heck that she brought her grandmother along with Eduardo, Wilt, Coco, Bloo, Mac, and the siblings on their mission for a new car. As a matter of fact, she didn?t even remember seeing her come on the bus with them?almost as if she had slept there the entire week just to be ready for Frankie. It was her grandmother that was always saying, ?Keep the bus! It?s a company vehicle, and we need to advertise as much as we can for the friends! Don?t replace somethin? that ain?t broke, dearie!?
But as much as Frankie loved to help advertise the business with the
Foster?s bus, she knew in her heart that it was time for her to get her own car?something that she could drive on her off days (when they rarely came). However, she also knew that Madame Foster would?ve never approved of her getting one, unless it cost less than four thousand dollars and came from ?Bobby Bolivia?s Auto Resale.? Bobby Bolivia?s place was the last one that Frankie had ever wanted to go to, because the cars there were cheap, smelly, and?well?pieces of pure crap. Unfortunately, it was exactly where they went, on the suggestion of none other than Madame Foster.
Gazing morosely at the train wreck of a selection on offer, Frankie was hard put to decide if the name of the shop referred to the owner?s patrimony or to the country from which the vehicles on display had been imported. The venerable machines packed too closely together facing the street were a long, long way from those shining on the lot of the Porsche dealership they had passed.
Standing out front on one side of the main driveway was a man in a clown suit. The suit had seen better days, and so had its occupant. His amateurishly applied face makeup was melting in the hot sun. Employing both gloved hands, the clown held up a sign that read, ?Cheap Wheels 4 U.? As Frankie and the others pulled into the lot, the clown flipped over the sign. The reverse declared, ?I?m not clowning around!?
?Man! Does this look like the most boring place in the world or what?!? Bloo exclaimed.
Frankie let out a deep sigh. ?I?m aiming for ?Or what?.? She turned to Madame Foster with a pleading look on her face. ?Grandma, this is the one in a lifetime opportunity for me to start driving something
really cool. Something to show my friends that I?m not just some underpaid girl who can?t afford a stylish new model Nissan instead of some piece of crud.?
?Dearie, when I was your age, I would?ve been glad just to have had four wheels and an engine! You oughta count yourself lucky. You?re gonna get one with a roof, and windows, and maybe even a radio.? Madame Foster sternly told her.
?But you own something far greater than all that. You own a late-70s Pontiac Trans Am!? Frankie exclaimed.
?That?s because I?m old and I earned it! When you reach 78 and worked your fingers to the bone, you can buy one of the sportiest cars the world?s ever seen. But for now, you?re startin? from scratch!?
Frankie then said in a low tone, ?Yeah, and I bet these cars been
scratched pretty darn good.?
As Frankie had parked the bus, Alissa approached her and said, ?You know, Frankie, our family has quite a motto that I think would work well for you in this situation.?
Sean rolled his eyes in exasperation. ?Oh, no, Allie. Not the family motto.?
?Hey, it?s gotten us through several worse case scenarios, and it could get Frankie through her dilemma right now.? Alissa said. ?What our family always says is ?No sacrifice?no victory?.?
Frankie took in the motto quite well, pondering over its value to her ?dilemma? as Alissa so wisely referred it as. But it wasn?t helping her out as much as Alissa hoped it would?ve for her. She felt twice as dismal as she had when they arrived at the shop, and she didn?t dare let her grandmother see how much she was, as they unloaded from the bus. Had she become an Andrews instead of a Foster, Frankie would?ve accepted that motto with open arms. But the fact of the matter was that nothing could?ve cheered Frankie up that moment. Especially not even the comments made by Bloo.
?If I knew we were gonna spend the day at the dump, I would?ve brought a clothespin to hold my nose with.? He boldly stated.
?But, Bloo, you don?t have a nose.? Wilt indicated.
?I know! And the saddest part is that I
still smell one big pile of??
?BLOO!!? Mac yelled.
?What? I was gonna say ?trash?. Jeez, Mac!?
It wasn?t long before the lot?s owner met the group immediately. Professional welcoming smile plastered from ear to ear, the man approached to greet them, open hand extended to Frankie. ?Hiya, ladies and gents, hiya. Bobby Bolivia. Like the country, ?cept without the diarrhea.? His head bobbed, powered by relentless enthusiasm. To Frankie?s surprise, no wires were visible. ?At your service.?
?Nice to meet you, Mr. Bolivia.? Madame Foster stepped in. ?You probably don?t remember me, but I came to this shop, fifty-two years ago, to buy a car from your dear old father.?
?You did?? Bolivia said with much surprise, wondering how far back his family business must?ve went. ?Well, ain?t that something!? He looked in Frankie?s direction with a painted-on smile. ?So, I guess you?re here to help carry on the legacy, eh??
?Unfortunately.? Frankie muttered, not far from quite a nudge that her grandmother gave her against the knee after she made her sly comment. ?Ow!?
?Well, that practically makes us family. Call me ?Uncle Bobby B.?? Reaching out, he extended an arm and wrapped it around Frankie?s shoulders. She flinched but, trapped, decided it was useless to try and escape. ?I?ve been doing this a long time, kid. That first enchilada of freedom?s just waitin? under one of these hoods. See, drivers don?t pick their cars.
Cars pick their
drivers.? With his free hand, he traced an imaginary arc across the cosmos. ?It?s a mystical bond between man?or in your case,
woman?and machine, for
real.?
Bolivia then escorted Frankie through the heaps of metal that pockmarked the lot. Some, a discouraged Frankie decided, might once have been called cars. Madame Foster and the others followed, scrutinizing each minivan, each semi-fossilized coupe. Frankie ignored them one and all, her eyes barely focusing, and her brain on autopilot.
And then she stopped. Slipping free of Bolivia?s grasp, she retraced her steps, darting in among the ranks of junkers and discarded soccer-mom mishaps. She found herself staring at a
really bright yellow Classic Camaro. Even though the color was a bit out of control, she wondered what kind of engine?dirty and probably in need of a serious tune-up?sat under the hood (assuming there
was an engine). It even came with black, cheap looking racing stripes?obviously a Pep Boys? ten-dollar attempt to look cool.
She wasn?t the only one staring at the car. Bolivia gaped at it, then frowned, and finally gave vent to his confusion. ?Where?d this one come from? I don?t remember anybody rolling this out on the lot.?
Frankie tried the door, surprised to even discover that it was unlocked. She slipped inside the car and behind the wheel. The cushion felt good, comfortable, the seat back providing just the right amount of resistance against her spine. She didn?t even have to adjust it?it was just the right height and the ideal distance to the wheel.
Her initial delight at finding that the door opened and closed smoothly and that no loose springs were going to puncture her butt vanished as she studied the dash. Her expression fell.
?Gee, an actual eight-track!? She looked imploringly out the window at her grandmother and friends. ?The cassettes for this antique are bigger than my iPod. Where?s the hand-crack??
Bolivia didn?t pause to ask questions. ?Fits ya, doesn?t it? You look swell in there, kid. Great engine in these old Camaros, lemme show ya??
Moving around to the front of the car, he bent to open the hood. Then he struggled to open it. Neither muscular forearms nor the application of severe language budged the hood so much as a millimeter. As the lot owner fought with the disobedient sheet metal, Mac and Bloo joined up with Frankie in the Camaro, just as she found herself distracted by a glint of light on the steering wheel. Mac and Bloo soon noticed it as well, as it drew their gaze to an emblem. Covered in grime, its outlines became clearer when Frankie used a little spit and elbow grease to wipe away the grunge.
Mac frowned as he studied it, trying to make sense of what he was seeing along with his friends. ?What the heck kind of manufacturer owns that logo??
?Certainly not the familiar Chevy chevron, that?s for sure.? Frankie alleged.
Madame Foster had been studying both the car and her granddaughter long enough to come to a conclusion. Looking toward Bolivia, she uttered the magic words. ?How much??
?Well, uh, considering the semi-classic nature of the vehicle, the timeless lineage, the custom racing stripes?five grand.?
?Oh, that?s quite a shame.? She remarked. ?We?re not going above four.?
?But, Grandma,? Frankie quickly spoke up, ?This one has potential. It?s not like any of the other slops in this lot.?
?No use arguing, kid.? Bolivia told her. ?Outta the car.?
Leaning out the open window, Frankie gazed imploringly back at the lot owner. ?But you said cars choose their drivers.?
?Yeah, well,? he responded casually, ?Sometimes they choose one with a cheap grandmother.?
Madame Foster definitely wasn?t the one to let such a bold comment from a lowly lot owner slip past her. ?Who ya callin? cheap, you no-good son of a???
She was cut off in mid-sentence as the car?s horn started blaring. No, not blaring. It was a sonic explosion.
Maybe it was the volume, maybe the timbre, maybe something about the combination, or maybe a certain something they couldn?t hear. Like a sound that was pitched too high for the human ear to detect. Whatever it was, the resulting concussion blew out the windows of every other car on the lot. Bolivia?s lower jaw headed in the direction of southern Brazil as he gaped at the vitreous devastation. His cherished, beautiful, dollar-generating lot looked as though it had just suffered through a ten-second hailstorm. Sunlight sparked and flashed from millions of glass shards.
He took a deep breath and winced, as if his heart hurt him?which wasn?t far from the truth. Turning to Madame Foster, he weakly shouted, ?Four grand!?
END OF CHAPTER TWO