Black Fox Chapter One
By warnovelist
- 558 reads
Roy Jackson wants to be a winning driver for NASCAR!
CHAPTER ONE
Roy Jackson, a fly 12 year old boy growing up in Texas, looked away from other homies likes of roping horses, basketball, and even roller-blade hockey - and gave a high-five to stock-car racing.
Everyday after school, he ran to the television, munching on his favorite gummies, got the cable remote, switched to a NASCAR channel, and marveled at the fast-paced action of races. He reveled in the skills of each driver, finding likes and dislikes in each of his heroes. His dream in life was to someday be part of that mad masquerade of colors flashing by him on the screen, charge into a pack of growling machines in a flashy vehicle, and bump sides against the greatest of contenders.
On a warm Friday evening, Roy waited for his Pops, an auto mechanic, to come home. This was their night together on the road, a chance for him to test his driving mettle.
The front door burst open. A burly black man in a checkered shirt ran into the kitchen, bolting for a woman who leaned over a sink washing dishes. Roy got nervous. He watched him caress Ma's shoulders and slowly pull out a soda from a sandwich bag. Roy's glance, following Ma's heat-blistered brown hands as they dunked glasses into soap suds, shot to the car keys now hanging on the kitchen wall, back to the television screen with its cars racing circles around a track, and then returned to the keys. He felt an urge to take the keys, but the race car engines blaring from the television speakers quelled this forbidden notion.
"It was a busy day today," Pops said. "But thank Gawd it's Friday! Hopefully the weekend will be better. I'll not be back home until late tonight. Gotta get rid of this headache. It's been eating
at me the entire day."
"You be home before 11:00, or I'll whoop your ass," Ma said, swinging a spoon in the air at him.
"What? This what I get for days slamming at that wrench, nothin' but hating?" Then as quick as his voice had risen in anger, Pops escaped the argument with a call for his son. "Roy!"
"Yeah Pops!" Roy ran into the kitchen.
"It that time!" In excitement, Roy snatched the keys from the rack, and darted out of the house for the beaten up white Pontiac in the driveway. Joy and anticipation made him fumble with the door lock, but after a brief pause to catch his breath, he turned the key and swung open the door. He then leaped into the driver's seat, leaned over the steering wheel, and imagined himself in a race car helmet, looking out of its visor to scope out the track ahead of him. His hand dove for the ignition box, slammed the key inside, and then started the car, looking up again for another imaginary moment of NASCAR bliss.
"Son, you're too eager!" Pops leaped over a bush and waved his son over to the passenger seat. "Wait!"
Roy slid over, shaking with nervous desire for a try at the wheel. Pops got into the car, reversed it quick, and sped down the street. "Hey, so how's school going for you?" Pops swung the
wheel quick into a turn, speeding up into another street. "Ma said you got a A on one of your quizzes?"
"Yeah, school is school. So when do I get to drive the track? We haven't done it for so long?"
"Son, I asked you a question, did you get a A or no?"
"Yes I did," Roy said, feeling uncertainty, for he thought the conversation spelled doom for his expectations.
"Good, I'm proud of you! I'm gonna make a quick stop at The Tap. You making me feel so good right now, I need to celebrate." Pops yanked the steering wheel left and shot into a parking lot full of cars. He sped quickly down each aisle, found an open slot, cut into it, and came to a stop.
"Get the car ready for me," Pops said, before he left the vehicle to enter the bar, a place he said fueled a ready mindset for race car driving, but where Ma had said people went to get drunk. He popped open the hood and gave Roy the toolbox in the backseat for completion of the prep work.
"I be back soon, you hear!" Pops briskly walked for the sign-lit entrance of the bar and vanished behind its oaken door.
Now came the prep work. Roy took out a gauge from the tool box, checked each tire for good air pressure, and with satisfied readings for all four, he grabbed a rag, ran to the front of the car, and pulled out the oil stick. He swiped the stick, stuck it back in, then yanked it back out to discover the oil at a good level, although a little dirty.
Happy over his findings, he stabbed the rod back into its sheath, and completed a quick check of the engine, cables, and fluid containers. Everything appeared to be okay. The preliminary inspection
done, he dropped the hood down, locked it, and got prone like a snake, wiggling underneath the car, until he felt coiled enough below the center to shine his flashlight up into the bottom chassis of the car. A click of the flashlight's button shot a bright beam above him, showing a collection of greasy shafts and metal pipes. His eyes raced over the jungle of innards above him, alert to any irregularities amongst his environment, but everything, like the goods beneath the hood, appeared safe and in working order. He slithered out from underneath the car.
After the inspection came the wait for action. Visions of stock cars screaming down a track to reach the finish line, raided Roy's thoughts. He sat on the curb, uttering noises to mimic their engines. His imagination carried him to a straightaway, his hum changing to match the roar of a fast-paced vehicle. Every minute he repeated the hums, until he noticed someone staggering towards him from the bar.
Pops, lit by the neon lights of The Tap, and visibly drunk, held tight against a light pole to keep balance. He struggled for the Pontiac, almost falling on his way, catching himself with a press against the knees. On reaching the car, he gave his son a pat of assurance. Roy could smell the whiskey on his breath.
"I've done told you, boy, get it started!" shouted Pops. His son obeyed, starting the car, a surge of excitement pulsating through him when he heard the hum of the engine. Pops got into the driver
seat, propping Roy in his lap. They felt comfortable in their sit behind the wheel, but Pops wanted to be careful, and managed to buckle both of them into a seat-belt. "You ready?"
"Yeah," Roy exclaimed.
"We'll give it to them, boy! I gotta make a stop at Lucky's before I get back. You ready for the long drive? Of course you are." Roy put the clutch into reverse. Pops did all the foot-pedal work.
When Roy shoved the gear into drive, he felt the car gain speed fast. He kept silent and watchful of cars in the dimly lit parking lot. They reached an exit lane turning out of the bar, came to a
stop, and Pops slammed on the gas again into empty streets.
"We taking the freeway, keep those hands steady on the wheel, you hear?"
"Yeah Pops." Roy felt they were going too fast. He hoped Pops would step on the brakes before reaching the intersection, but as they got to the freeway turnoff with its yellow traffic light flashing to a red bulb, the car kept its momentum. Roy yanked the steering wheel right and cut a turn onto a feeder road. The car got through with ease. Pops slammed the gas harder.
Now racing at full throttle between concrete walls down an on-ramp, they shot onto the freeway. Hands steady on the wheel, Roy noticed a car on their left driving a little too close into their access lane. He corrected his steering just enough to avoid a sideswipe. They cleared the danger and cut quick in front of it.
Roy looked at the speedometer, just over 80 miles per hour, and squirmed in Pop's lap. "Son, keep your eyes on the road." The car, bypassing traffic moving at a slower-rate of speed, approached a
crowd of vehicles. "We getting into the pack, get ready!"
Ahead, an overpass with a centered massive digital sign warned in glowing letters, "GET A DESIGNATED DRIVER."
Pops smirked at the sign. They went under it in a speedy blur.
They found themselves amidst the pack. Taillights became important beacons. Roy played a dodging game against each vehicle, turning away from dangers with precision. Every transition of the slalom-like course, with its four lanes of traffic, brought greater challenges, like having to bypass a semi and its lead cars, and they completed each task by successful drafting off vehicles, and hurtling themselves through the small spaces ahead of cars, for access into free lanes. Their zigzagging battle got them into the lead position.
"Look it, son, they can't touch us, we're champions! We beat them all! Tonight it will be checkered flag for you, driver!" Pop's utterance came with the appearance of flashing red and blue neon outside their driver door. A squad car raced next to them.
"Ah hell naw! A new challenger? I guess the race has just begun. A cop's on us. We can't stop. Keep the wheel straight! We gotta show them who wins this track." Pops kept his foot on the gas pedal.
The squad car sped up.
"A'ight, he wants to fight for the lead, but we ain't givin'!" Pops screamed out profanities at the driver window, even slamming his hand against the glass. The freeway ahead, void of cars, banked into a left turn. Pops, alert to the change, found opportunity. "We gotta slow down here, boy. Gotta s-l-o-o-w down. A turn a comin' up! Gotta get behind. His engine too strong against ours. We pass and get in the lead from the inside." Pops tapped the brake.
With the loss of speed, the squad car shot in front of them. Roy, eager for a win, steered the Pontiac behind a new adversary. The lower wind-resistance allowed them to match speed with the squad car.
"Keep it straight," laughed Pops. "You doing good, just keep your eyes on the road."
They rode at a perfect follow behind their siren-blaring nemesis, feeling the pull on the Pontiac.
The freeway banked steeper. Roy made corrections with the steering, then, seeing two vacant lanes at his left, a perfect area for a pass, he turned the wheel into them, and Pops gave more gas. "Go son, go son! We almost there!"
An inside pass got them side by side with the squad car.
"Woohoo!" Pops screamed in elation over their successful tactic. They got in front of the squad car again. "There's a car coming up! You see it?" Pops saw another opportunity. "You know what I'm thinking, boy? I think tha popo need a new hat."
Roy, noticing the new taillights in the distance, understood Pop's suggestion, and thought him crazy. The last time he had done a similar trick in a go-kart, he had spun out of control, but he turned for the vehicle anyway, hopeful for a new success.
The Pontiac got behind the compact sedan riding close to the wall. Pops put on the brake to match speed with their leader. All of a sudden they got bumped in the rear, pushing them into the sedan,
but Pops excellent speed control prevented a wreck. Now all three vehicles followed in line.
"Pops, I'm gonna do it!" Roy, looking in his rearview mirror, noticed the jar-headed white cop frown over his steering wheel as his squad car engine revved up for another charge. He swung the Pontiac to the left, broke the line, and formed the hat of a wing-nut formation. He remained in this driving position, allowing time for the squad car to close the gap, then he sideswiped the
trapped vehicle, causing it to crash into the wall. Only one bump and the hat fit too tight, squeezing its wearer out. The squad car spun out.
"He can't catch us now, tha' sucka got mad hatted, he only fits government issue!" Pops trumpeted out a victory hymn from his lips. The two racers had accomplished an impossible feat, triumph over a justice vehicle, yet their short-lived celebration ended with the appearance of not just one, but two sets of red and blue flashing lights closing in on them from behind, and these vehicles got side by side with the Pontiac.
"We back in the pack. Don't worry son, we got this! We won't back down. We draft them and get the lead." An endless stretch of four-lane freeway spread in front of them. Roy, having driven this
straightaway many times with Pops, but never chased by police, thought they would have to take an exit ramp or get in a crash to escape. The squad cars, flanking him from both sides, had all the advantages. With a glance at the fuel gauge, he noticed an empty tank. It would only be a minute or so, before the loss of throttle.
"Pops, we almost out of gas."
"Outta gas?" Pops leaned his head over the dashboard to verify and saw the red caution light. "Naw, don't worry, we got them beat! Just keep it steady driver."
"No, they got us, Pops."
A chugging burp erupted from the motor followed by engine death. The Pontiac, losing ground every second, slipped out of the pack. Fighting the loss of propulsion, Roy struggled at the wheel to keep the car straight.
"We got hung out to dry," Roy said in shame.
The squad cars closed in on the stricken vehicle. Pops continued pumping the gas pedal, but to no avail. "Yes you're right, son. We're in trouble!"
A myriad of new police vehicles surrounded them.
When the Pontiac came to a stop, officers leaped out of their cars, guns drawn. A cop commanded in a harsh voice, "Step out of the vehicle with your hands up!"
"We got beat!" Pops cussed in defeat, unbuckling his seat-belt. "We gotta show them our losing faces." He opened the driver door. A spotlight blinded them. The light, shining on them from a nearby vehicle, scared Roy by its brilliance. He shivered with fright and did not want to leave. Only Pops nudge, a reassuring touch, coaxed him to leap out onto the asphalt, and into the hands of awaiting police.
White angry faces in black uniforms surrounded the boy, their guns trained on him. Roy felt intimidated by so many cops and wanted to run away, but an officer grabbed his arm, and yanked him towards a squad car.
"Who was in the car with you?" The jar-headed cop spoke with authority. He subjected Roy to a body search, thrusting muscular hands into the boy's pant pockets, and then ended the inspection with a patting down of his shorts and t-shirt.
"Pops," Roy said.
"Pops who? Why did you exit the driver side rather than passenger?"
"Pops made me do it."
"Were you driving the car?"
"It was Pops," the boy kept blaming his father. "He made me do it. He needed a driver, so I drove him. Honest."
"You drove the vehicle?" The officer looked at the boy in amazement. "Where did you learn your driving skills, Daytona 500?" The officer's smirk alleviated Roy's uneasiness.
Pops fell out of the Pontiac and lay prone. Police, shouting out commands at the fallen suspect, got tense with their trained weapons. Three officers, running out from behind Roy, swarmed Pops and cuffed him. They got their suspect between them, one yelling out his Miranda rights, and escorted him away.
Before cops could shove Pops into the backseat of a squad car, he hollered out at Roy, getting his attention. "Son, tell your Ma, I be home soon. Tell her I love her. I'm gonna be in the slammer
for this one. Gawd it could be for a long time. But don't you forget what I've always told you, boy. Keep ahead of tha' suckas! Never give up the lead. You're the black fox. The black fox is always
champion. He always swift!"
Roy wanted to be with Pops right now, instead of with the cop, who irritated him. He answered with true emotion, "Pops, I'm gonna miss you."
- Log in to post comments
Comments
Trying to keep up with all
Trying to keep up with all your other novels. How many have you got going?
- Log in to post comments
yeh, a true car lover. I've
yeh, a true car lover. I've got a pal just like that. Stole cars and busses when he was very young.
- Log in to post comments