Yep, these chapters are short. Chapters, like paragraphs, can be of just about any length, right? Right. In any case, this is what I have so far, and y'all are free to read away as I drink more Columbian coffee and jump into writing the next chapter, which I think will be longer than five pages. Fasten seatbelts... (and bear in mind that this is still a first draft, subject to revision)
IGNITION ON
Out in the middle of nowhere in the high hills and low mountains of West Virginia, there is something utterly remarkable and as absolutely right as it is totally out of place. It is something that a relative few people gave a good deal of effort to create.
Elsewhere in the Appalachians, where the Potomac forms the border between Maryland and the eastern panhandle of West Virginia, a relatively young man lives and works in a century-old brick building overlooking the river. His late father wasn't nearly as into cars as he is, but still managed to name his son after a V8 engine.
This is the story of part of the life of Max Wedge. We will begin with the morning of the arrival of a special vehicle, and follow Max's journey from there. Sure, his life has been fairly interesting up to this point, but it is about to get much more eventful and more wonderfully strange than his most pleasant dreams...
TURNING THE KEY
Several late nights in a row had led to an all-nighter, after which Max had given up, showered, and gone to bed shortly after dark. Now here he was, up much earlier than usual and not sure what day it was or what to do with himself.
A splash of cold water to the face, clean jeans and T-shirt, steel-toed workboots and a warm coat -- out the door on a cold March morning to the corner store, as there were not enough grounds left in the coffee can to brew a pot (When did they stop putting scoops in?) and only two cigarettes left in his last pack.
Max liked this little town, liked being able to walk a short block to a family-owned place that was once a general store, where they never stopped carrying all the little things that people needed or liked to have. He crossed in the middle of the street without looking, because it was quiet enough to hear traffic coming from a good distance.
The stack of papers on the counter told him it was a Monday, which seemed about right, he guessed. The girl at the register looked much less ready to face the day than he felt, didn't ask why only one pack instead of his usual carton. He was glad not to have to explain how he was planning to switch to organic tobacco, and didn't mention that this was the last can of the Columbian coffee he'd asked them to stock -- he'd just remind the owner next time the old guy was in.
On the way home, dawn was just a bit more evident, a bit more bluish light making the fog glow, a bit more sparkle to the frost.
Upstairs in the kitchen, a heavy sigh as he spooned (Why had they stopped including scoops with coffee?) both fresh and not-so-fresh grounds into the last filter. It was always something, wasn't it? While the rich aroma began to waft about, Max walked over to his desk, started his computer. He found no new e-mail, shrugged his eyebrows, got back up and poured a cup, decided to watch the sunrise while he sipped.
The spot he chose to do this from was back downstairs, in his shop. Cocking his head to see past the steam his coffee put on the garage door window, Max played a game he used to share with his father. His brow furrowed, however, as this approaching pair of headlights and acompanying silhouette didn't match any 'headlight signature' in his mental database.
Now, this was really saying something, because Max had spent his life around cars, both up close and in magazines, compiling a rich compendium of automotive knowledge that served him well as a broker of collectible cars. Maybe he just wasn't awake enough yet, he thought, and gulped the rest of the mug down.
"You win this time, Dad," he muttered as the '53 Studebaker cruised up and pulled into the small lot in front of his building. Setting his cup on a shelf, Max thanked himself for placing the coatrack he'd made from exhaust header mistakes near the door.
Still, with the haste he was making to get a closer look at the Stude, the cold morning air got a good chance to bite one of his bare arms as he flailed into his coat.
Blue. A nice, soft, light blue, matching the original colour perfectly, as did the much darker shade of the same hue on the roof -- but in a pearly suede instead of the simple gloss finish from five decades ago.
A deep, mellow rumble which could only be a 'nailhead' Buick V8. Interesting choice, Max thought, as his eyes found actual magnesium wheels (Halibrands), bumpers without guards, and curiously enough, headlight dagmars, clear bullet-shaped covers that matched the half-dozen custom bullets in the grille. Max had seen a few Starliners in his day, but most of them were either bone-stock or mercilessly modified into drag cars. This was a tastefully done mild custom, its sleek, low lines undisturbed. Just about perfect.
Twenty seconds or so was plenty of time to survey the vehicle, and for its driver to put the transmission in Park and shut the engine down. The click of Max's Zippo as he lit the day's first Camel, fished from the near-empty pack he'd slipped in his coat pocket before heading out earlier, coincided with the much, much smoother sound of the Starliner's door mechanism. A large pair of black wingtips met the pavement, and a tall, silver-haired man in a grey suit and black overcoat angled himself up out of the low-slung Stude.
"Nice car," Max said, high praise coming from him, even if he felt he was stating the obvious. The man smiled.
"Glad you like it," the man replied, closing the door with a gentle click. They both stood admiring it for a moment, as the fog began to clear in the morning sun. Then he turned, offered his hand, and said "Bob."
"Max." Firm, brief handshake. "Coffee?"
"Why not?" Bob countered, but still they stood there, hands in pockets, listening to the slow ticking of the cooling V8 and gazing at the car for another moment, despite the cold, until Max finally took one last drag off his cigarette, tossed it in the iced-over sand bucket by the door, and, with a shiver, waved his visitor in.
Max watched as Bob hung his overcoat on the exhaust pipe coatrack, to see whether he would react to it as others did, but Bob appeared to merely acknowledge it. Instead, what drew his attention was the work in progress in the middle of the shop floor. Both men walked over to it, Max stealing sideways glances at Bob's face as his eyes scanned the square tubing, fully independent suspension, and dual motorcycle engines.
Just as they had done a moment before, however, the two merely stood in silence, gazing, without a comment from either of them. After a bit, they both looked up from it and headed to the stairs. Max led the way to his balcony office, gestured toward a chair, and ducked into his kitchen for the coffee. He'd left his mug down by the door, on that shelf (dammit) but managed to find two more clean ones.
He set one mug in front of Bob on the desk, without having asked whether he took cream or sugar. This was not an oversight, but a test. Max had guessed right, it turned out, that Bob took his coffee black. He just picked it up and sat there, legs crossed, warming his hands with it as Max took his seat and slid his laptop aside.
"I suppose you're wondering what brings me here, so early and unannounced," he said, drawing the steaming brew up to his face.
"Now that you mention it, I guess so," Max replied, "though anyone driving a car like that is always welcome. A '53 Starliner, right?"
"Exactly right. Quite perceptive of you, Mr. Wedge. I know, I know," he continued, as Max held a hand up and began to correct him, "you prefer 'Max'. I've gone to certain lengths to find the right broker for my clients, so I already know a bit about you -- enough to know you're the man for the job."
"Okay then." This was an odd morning, Max thought, but business had been slow and he wasn't about to object to the prospect of moving a few cars. He pulled his laptop back over and opened up a new file, fingers at the ready. "What can I find for you?"
But Bob was holding out a disk. "The list is on here." Max accepted it and slid it into the drive. "Before you go over it, let me tell you -- it's extensive. My clients are putting together a collection, one that should take a few months to complete."
"Okay then," Max said again, smiling. "You do understand that I review each vehicle's history, to make sure I'm not trafficking in stolen goods? Of course you do," he added, taking another sip, "As you said -- you know a bit about me." He put his mug down and stood. "Excuse me for a moment." Coffee being a very effective diuretic, Max suddenly felt a semi-urgent need that would allow him a moment to collect his thoughts.
At the urinal (one advantage, for a man at least, to living in a converted warehouse, small as it may be) he could tell he wasn't still dreaming. This was, indeed, his own bathroom. He hadn't had any trouble finding it, none of the fixtures were overflowing, and there wasn't a pictogram on the door indicating the other sex. No one walked in on him, either. His image in the mirror was quite clear and all too real as cold water ran over his hands. Nope, not a dream.
Back at his desk, he saw that Bob had drunk half the mug and set it back down, precisely where Max had put it a few minutes ago. "You were saying?"
"Go ahead and take a look at the list. I'll wait."
"Okay then." As promised, it was an extensive list, suitable for an impressive collection. "Some of these may be a bit difficult to acquire... but then I see that many of them are fairly common, if not here in the States... Looks like someone has done his homework."
Another slight smile from Bob. "We have a modest collection as it is, if you see any gaps in the list. Perhaps you would like to see it for yourself?" Somehow this stranger, from some strange land as far as Max knew, seemed to be aware of just how slow things had been.
"Sure. I don't suppose you have it in a photo gallery, on a website?" No, Max didn't suppose that at all.
"No, but it's not far. We could be there by noon, and you could be back by dark." Bob didn't say that he meant today, but that's what Max inferred, somewhat uncomfortably. There was something about this man's ease that made one uneasy. He was a bit too familiar, too assuming, but at the same time completely non-threatening, and this whole thing was moving way to quickly.
Yet there was no reason other than distrust not to go along with it, and Max could see no reason not to trust this mysterious representative of his new, even more mysterious clients. "Okay then," he said for the fourth time, starting to feel like a broken record, and not the kind one might witness at the Bonneville Salt Flats -- though at the speed these dealings were progressing, Max half expected to hear a sonic boom at any moment.
All he heard, though, was a stomach grumble, telling him that breakfast would not be a bad idea. "There's a diner up the street. Mind if we continue our conversation there?"
"Not at all."
Eggs over medium, buttered toast, and sausage links were soon placed on the table at Max's favourite booth, along with four glasses of fresh-squeezed orange juice. Apparently, Bob wasn't hungry. Either that, or there was nothing on the menu that he would allow himself to eat. "Just the juice for me, two glasses please," was all he said after the waitress, with a wink, rattled off Max's usual.
Bob gave him a few details, among the small amount of small talk, answering pertinent questions that Max found he didn't have to ask. Subjects such as payment arrangements and other incidentals were covered, and after Maximillian Oscar Wedge learned that he was to deliver the vehicles personally, which is why Bob wanted him to visit the collection's location, one last detail almost made him choke on his juice.
"As part of your advance, if you like, we can include the Starliner." Bob revealed this very matter-of-factly, as though it were a completely normal thing for someone who was amassing a collection to give what could be considered an important part of it away. "If you decide to accept it, that will simplify our transportation for the day."
"You mean, we both drive down there, we transfer the title, and then I drive it home?" Max considered this. That Studebaker was a damned nice ride, he had to admit, and would be a welcome addition to his own small collection. "...and the trip down can be a sort of test drive?"
There was that slight smile again. "Is today good for you?"
[ ...It has occured to me, that by living out certain daydreams in the novel and sharing the chapters as they are completed here, I may be giving readers a better 'sideways glance into the mind of Phil Smith' than I could otherwise... ]
