Dream

Scrapyard.

"Never in my days have I seen anything this broken. The paint on your hood is still blistering from your overheated engine. You've blown your gasket, head and block somehow. Antifreeze is leaking out of your tailpipe like a waterfall. Your clutch was on life support five minutes before you decided that the poor thing was a Nascar. The last time that engine tasted new oil was thirty years ago. Your brakes are gone. Three of your wheels are loose. Honestly, John, you killed the damn car. The only thing I can do is take it to the scrapyard," came a voice. It was Ray, John's best friend and mechanic. He backed up from the car and headed over to John who was seated on an old couch. Ray always wore blue overalls that he wasn't too keen to clean. Always. Some people have never seen him wear anything else. This time, the front of his attire was covered in green coolant slime, most likely from John's car.

"There's nothing at all you can do for her?" John asks, standing up. Ray smiled sadly and patted him on the shoulder with his huge hands.

"Nothing at all buddy. She's practically scrapped metal now," he took his hat off, revealing beads of sweat on his forehead. 

Ray was a big man standing at over six foot five. He liked to eat and drink, so his stomach and neck were a testimony to his diet. But Ray had one of the best performance and visual shops country. Even though it was located in a small town in the middle of nowhere, people from all over came to him to get their cars tuned and checked.

John nods and heads over to the door.

"It was one hell of a drive Ray, I was about to beat my record," John looks back and smiles warmly as he opens the door.

"You'll get it next time. Where are you headed? I can have Pete take you home if you want," Ray asks. John shakes his head furiously.

"No need. I'm going to see Maria,"

"Alright.come back when you are going home," 

John nods and heads out, towards the nursing home. Ray looks at the shell of the Datsun. It looked well cared for if one ignored the tires and front of the car. Not a single scratch on it. It's black paint glemed under the setting sun. The car had the same look as John had, the look of a person who was meant to be something better. The look of a person who was ready to chase for their destiny. John had not talked about that stupid record of his in over ten years. Was he thinking about racing again? That would be ridiculous if it were someone else. But John wasn't just anybody. Ray looks at the car one more time.

"Maybe there's something we can do for you," he says. After all, John would need a car if he was going to start racing again