Black Malibu
The pavement was sticky and hot and the heat came off it in waves. There were rows of Chevelles and Novas and Darts in every direction of the Highland Square parking lot. The midday sun was shining hard. Some were painted lacquer red, some competition orange, and even one was painted the exact yellow of a goddamn school bus. There were two fastback Mustangs who sat nose to nose and looked like they were about ready to square off.
Now Hughie’s Malibu was at the far end of the row of cars. It was flat black and every inch of it was painted that same color. He wanted to do the chrome black as well, but Gramps said that he should probably keep it chrome. It wasn’t a Grand National, but it was a nice nod to it anyway to have flat black. Hughie compromised and said it was great and spent the time shining up the chrome instead. He paid $200 for the car and fifteen months of Saturdays to get it all fixed up and into shape. It didn’t shine, wasn’t supposed to, and it sat there in that row of cars like a hole in the light.
“Is that supposed to be a Malibu?” The sarcastic voice came from some asshole in an Iron Maiden shirt. He had his arms crossed over his gut, and he clearly didn’t look like he spent five seconds on that car. That was Rick Fraser. He owned the SS, and he had the numbers on his plate that matched the year of the car. He was 100% a show-off.
“It’s a 78,” said Hughie.
“That’s not even a muscle car, malaise era at best. That piece of junk came with a 250 inline six stock, probably.” And Rick went and knocked a knuckle on the hood once, like he owned the damn thing. “But are you ashamed of it or something. You should be.”
Hughie wanted to say something, and he even opened his mouth to do so, but nothing came out, just a bunch of ums and ahs. But Rick was loud enough that a crowd of maybe six had drifted close enough to circle around and watch and rubberneck about what was going on. Of course, they were watching Rick, the blowhard, and not Hughie.
“The numbers don’t lie, loser,” Rick said.
“The motor’s a 350, not stock,” said Hughie, trying to at least represent something.
“It’s not stock and it’s not documented. I bet it’s not even worth the time you put in it either.” Rick smiled, peacocking for the crowd more than at Hughie. “What’d that cost you, a thousand bucks? Bet you can’t guess what a real Grand National goes for.”
Hughie’s voice was low and so sheepish nobody could barely hear him. “I didn’t build it to sell it.”
“Was that, loser? Speak up?”
Hughie had tears in his eyes and he wouldn’t let them roll down his cheek. He swallowed hard and said more forcefully, “I didn’t build it to sell it.”
“Good, because ain’t nobody buying it.” A couple of the crowd laughed a bit. Rick’s lackeys, no doubt. Then Rick leaned on the fender like he was king shit of the universe. “Doesn’t matter what color you paint that Malibu, kid, flat black, cherry engine red, still a Malibu. Paint don’t make it a Buick.”
Hughie’s cheeks flushed, he was reaching for anything, something, anything to throw back at him, torque figures, heads they ported themselves, and all that came out was, “It’s fast. Really fast.” It sounded small next to a car like Rick’s, all fancy, well paid for, and shiny.
“Fast,” Rick chortled. He let that word sit there for a minute. For a second, Hughie braced for a challenge to race, but Rick just waved his hand, dismissed him, made a show of it, too, as if he did not think Hughie was worth the bother. He just half turned, smiled, and shook his head at the crowd, and started to walk away.
Gramps came around the front bumper. He had a couple Coke Classics between the knuckles of his hands. Gramps never hurried. He just walked slowly. Didn’t say anything. He handed one of the pops to Hughie; he kept the other for himself. Looked at Rick’s Chevelle. Gramps took a swig, wiped his lips with the sleeve of his shirt, sighed a little bit, looked at the Chevelle again, nodded. Gramps was just not impressed.
Gramps pointed his bottle at the Chevelle and at Rick and said, still looking at Rick, “He’s right, you know, that Malibu is not a Grand National, never will be.”
Rick’s grin outshone the sun, pleased as if he’d won something, one more trophy for the wall.
Rick walked away with his friends, arms across their shoulders, laughing, talking about Hughie the loser.
“Gimme the hood pins,” Gramps said, and held out his hand.
Hughie did not ask why, he just worked them loose. Gramps then lifted the hood himself. He had a bad shoulder. He winced a bit. They looked down at the block that they had pulled apart. Had pulled apart and had spread out on a door across two sawhorses. Had sat in that garage for two winters. Every bolt of that thing had been turned by hand and torqued. Nobody said anything for a minute.
“That man, kid, has got a car that came out of the factory looking just like every other car that came out of the factory,” Gramps said, “and that ain’t nothing, but it ain’t this either, not by a damn sight.” Gramps let the hood down soft, didn’t slam it, just with care. “And you didn’t build this car to beat his. It was built with your own two hands, and the whole point was I wanted you to know how an engine went together. And that’s done. And there ain’t nobody at this show,” Gramps pointed to everybody else, “that can touch what you’ve done, win or lose.”
Gramps reached in to grab the keys off the top of the dash before he tossed them to Hughie. Hughie caught them.
“Why don’t you go get Donna,” Gramps said, pointing to Hughie’s girlfriend coming out of the mall. “Grab a couple Mama burgers and some pops from the A&W and head up the long way around to Green Hill. Stop wasting the good evening standing around in this parking lot, listening to that jackass who’s never had an ounce of grease under his nails in his entire life.”
Hughie looked at his keys, looked at the car, and when he looked for Gramps, he was already walking back over to the lawn chair in the shade, like a man who had nowhere better to be.
The Malibu started on the first turn like it’s been doing for a long time. Flat black hood, chrome shiny, the engine idling low and purring like it should. Hughie was proud of himself. It was the sound of fifteen months in a perfect low note. Then Hughie pulled out past the row of other shiny, sparkling muscle cars. Rick was busy under the hood of his own car, steam and black smoke billowing from the engine.
The Malibu navigated the turns through the road through Alma on the way to Green Hill. And Donna kicked back in the bench seat, feet up on the dash, chewing on her burger in one hand and her other hand out the window, swimming like a dolphin in the moving air.
Donna laughed. “Did you see Rick’s face? I bet they call the fire department.”
Roxette’s “Joyride” came on the radio, and Hughie was glad he’d put the Pioneer in a couple of months ago. He turned up the volume because that song was perfect.
