Conflict

Part 1, Chapter 1

The familiar sound of the reel filled the empty room as the projector flickered to life, projecting a grainy image against the wall above the garage door. 3... 2... 1... The colors seemed faded, but the scene, no matter how many times he watched it, was so full of life, so full of excitement, the dull colors seemed as vivid as anything he'd seen in real life.

"And here you have it, folks. The beginning of the 1951 Piston Cup racing season! It's sure to be a blast. We've got a spectacular line up today here at Thunder Hollow Speedway..."

The voiceover seemed to fade into the background as the race started. He'd watched this video, heard these words what seemed like a hundred times. He knew them by heart. His focus turned to the racers.

They were incredible. No less than forty cars were racing around this small dirt oval, inches from each other, taking every opportunity to pass each other up, all fighting for the lead. Yet, somehow in this intense competition, there was a comradery of sorts between the racers. It seemed so odd, so completely different from anything he'd ever experienced, but it was real all the same. Things were different in the outside world. What he wouldn't give to see it.

"And look at this! It's the Fabulous Hudson Hornet! This racer showed up in Thomasville a couple months ago, and is – "

The reel stuttered to a halt as it ran out of tape, as it always had at this part. He scrambled for the next video, replaced the reel in the projector, and set it to play again. Why they never spliced the two together was beyond him. This was the best part!

3... 2... 1... "... moving up the ranks quickly! These newer cars just seem to be built for this."

That shiny blue car with the extravagant livery was rocketing forward from the back of the field, taking every opening he could find. When the others took to the outside of the turns, slowing to prevent themselves from sliding, he never slowed down. The Hornet sailed through those corners with ease, flirting with the inside wall. It was amazing. Ten laps later, it seemed clear no one was going to take that lead from him.

An obnoxious pounding reverberated from the thin metal garage door. He jumped and instinctively pulled the plug on the projector. The garage door opener hummed to life as someone from outside opened it.

"Rise and shine, you – are you seriously watching those old reels again? We have cable, you know."

He squinted at the sudden influx of white light as it poured into his dark room. As his eyes adjusted, he pushed his box of video reels to the side and carefully placed the projector next to them. They were his only belongings, aside from a few letters and stationery items he used for contacting an outside friend, in that barren white box of a room where he spent most of his down time.

"There's nothing on TV during the week, Izzy," he responded to the overly magenta Charger Daytona. "Besides, the only TV we have is in the common room."

She sighed. What he wasn't saying was that he wasn't comfortable in the common room, and she didn't blame him.

"There's a race this weekend right? Saturday? Sunday?"

"Sunday, at 2 o'clock," he answered matter-of-factly.

"Tell you what, we'll get in there, and I'll watch it with you. They won't bother you then. Deal?" she offered.

"Really?" he perked up, sitting a few inches higher in his suspension.

"Of course." She smiled. "I could use something different, too."

The rumble of nearly a dozen Hemi engines shook the hallway as a steady parade of the colorful winged cars cruised by. Six Charger Daytonas and seven Road Runner Superbirds – they were the ones Chrysler had chosen, "the brigade" as they were called.