A Long Journey off a Short Pier: (6 Short Stories) by Anthony Renfro

Author:Anthony Renfro [Renfro, Anthony]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Anthony Renfro
Published: 2015-11-24T00:00:00+00:00

Sandy and The Stranger

The drag strip/abandoned road was nearing its last run for the night. Two competitors were left. Sandy in his black Chevy Nova, and Larry in his Ford Mustang. Both cars were powerful machines, filled with horsepower, ready to eat asphalt.

The burnout was first, a momentary tire spin in order to soften those rear tires. Then both men backed up their cars, revved their engines, and waited with hands gripped tight on the steering wheel. Their eyes were focused, straight forward, bodies pumped and full of adrenaline.

A brunette girl with more chest than brains stepped up in front of them, raised a flag, and then waved it.

Hungry engines roared, pistons pumped and popped, exhausts sang their perfect sound, as the cars blasted off from the starting line in the moon-filled night.

Down the road they went, side by side, cars so evenly matched that neither one could pull away from the other.

The finish line loomed, racing towards them at a blinding speed.

Sandy pushed the accelerator of his car all the way to the floor, and just by inches he edged the nose of the Nova in front of the Mustang. He was victorious again, and his record still stood at undefeated.

Sandy brought his car to a stop, as Larry roared off into the distance. He had no desire to stop and give Sandy the customary sportsman-like handshake. He had no desire to be a gentleman on this night. He was embarrassed and defeated, and all the boasting he had done about besting Sandy was going to be hard to swallow when he saw his friends. He wasn’t even sure he could show his face in the local bar any time soon, because of it.

Roars and cheers erupted from the crowd as Sandy pulled his six-inch frame out of the car, beaming from ear to ear. He pushed back his blonde hair, and wiped the sweat out of his blue eyes.

The brunette girl, who had waved the flag and had more chest than brains, leaped into Sandy’s arms and wrapped her legs around his waist. They kissed, deep and passionate, as he was mobbed by his friends and fans.

Sandy, of course, took it all in, soaked it all up, and just felt the energy of praise as his girlfriend leaped off of him. These were just a few of the things he heard as he stood in the middle of the adoring crowd:

“Can’t no one beat you, Sandy.”

“You’re the king, man.”

“Any chump against you is going to eat your dust.”

“You burned him good, man.”

So on and so on it went from there.

Beers and pot flowed freely, a bonfire erupted, and the party was just getting good when he showed up.

“You know, you didn’t ask me,” the stranger replied. His voice was like a blast from the past, ghostly and forgotten.

The party fell silent.

Sandy, and everyone with him, turned to see who had said those words.

Leaning against a 1949 black Mercury was a man who looked just like James Dean. He wore his hair kind of long and wavy.

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