<br><br> <center>*I didn’t want to explain the recklessness, the pleasure of making a bad choice, the glory of at least once, picking my own path to damnation.
― Holly Black*
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*Reckless Choices*</center>
<br><br>Why did I do it? I don't know.
It was just a dream but dreams are subconscious expressions of our wishes and mine were all heading downhill. I can't believe I actually fantasized about kissing Blair.
This entire tumultuous experience is draining. I feel my body is in rebellion against me and now my psyche is joining forces with it.
How will this all end, or will it end?
Maybe I'll just keep regressing, going backwards into some juvenile nightmare world where my present self will disappear and I'll just burn out like a star without leaving a trace of ever having been here.
<br><br>I glance at the clock―it's past midnight and the rain has stopped. I decide it's best I get out―grab a takeout coffee and clear my head.
It's a bit chill, so I also grab a coat and realize it's not my North Face hoodie but the old leather bomber jacket I haven't been able get rid of and donate to the Salvation Army. I'm not in my twenties any longer, but I put it on anyway because, well because frankly, I've been acting like I am. Call it arrested development.
I shake my head at my grim humour but if the shoe fits...yeah, I wear it well and it still fits.
*Lucky me.*
<br><br>I drive to the local plaza where there's a *Tim Horton's* drive thru that's open late.
The parking lot is empty but not deserted because there's a gang of about twenty teenagers camped out and horsing around outside their cars, some of which are modified to look like road racers. I doubt they have the horses though under the hood―they look like wannabe's.
"Whoa, Daddy's arrived, Lor," one of the greasier youths guffaws.
I ignore them and go in and buy my takeout coffee. I could have gone through the drive thru but resent being intimidated―yeah, I know it's dumb and no doubt a holdover from my own rebellious and misspent youth.
<br><br>"Just ignore those jokers out there, Prof," Eliane says recognizing me from my usual morning coffee stop. "It's a little late for you to be out tonight," she adds.
"Yeah, couldn't sleep, so here I am―I'll probably see you again at 7 am."
She laughs and tosses a few croissants in a bag―"they're leftovers but not stale―you might as well have a snack if you're up late."
"You're too good to me, Elaine," I wink, and head back out to my car.
I drive a 1997 Dodge Viper GTS and I can see several of the guys crowded around it, eyeing it. My stomach tightens but if anyone touches my car, they'll have to deal with me.
<br><br>"Looks like you drive an antique, Guy," a stocky youth says mockingly to me. He looks to be about nineteen and the leader. "I'd leave you in my dust."
"Tell him, Jake," the greasy one chimes in.
I know I should ignore them but I can't stand stupidity. "That car can hit 193 mph and has 410 hp under the hood. It'll beat your Smart Car any day."
"You want to put your money where your mouth is?" Jake challenges me.
I know these types―they burn rubber in parking lots and drift and do doughnuts and car surf for fun. They're not serious car people.
<br><br>"I don't think you could afford to take my bet," I tell him, between sips of my coffee.
Jake's face contorts and he reaches into his pocket and brings out three twenty dollar bills. "Can you match this?"
I reach into my pocket and produce three twenties and two tens―I can match and up it," I drawl casually.
He hesitates a moment and then seeing the faces of his friends, produces another twenty. "You got a deal, Man―let's drag."
"How do I know you'll pay?"
"Lori here will ride with you and hold the money. Cross the finish line ahead of me and you get to keep it."
<br><br>Lori is a sultry girl with black eyeliner and short blonde hair. Her mid-riff is bare above her skin-tight jeans and I can almost count the bones.
"Where would we race? Not down city streets."
"Naw, 5th Concession―it's empty at night. Lori will show you where to go."
He hands her his money, so I have no choice but to do the same.
A whoop goes up and the race is on. The teenagers pile into four cars and fish-tail out of the lot. I turn to Lori who's staring up at me with dark eyes. "I guess you're my navigator, " I tell her.
<br><br>I open the passenger door and she gets in and props her feet up against the front console. She looks tough but cool, or so I would have thought two decades ago.
"Go out and turn left and keep going north for about three miles," she says.
I comply and the car swings neatly out of the space and when I hit the road tromp the gas a bit and press her back in her seat. She looks at me in surprise but says nothing.
When we get to the spot, we turn left again and the stop in the middle of the road beside Jake's red Mazda MX-5 Miata. It looks hot and fast but it isn't going to blow the doors off any cars on the road and certainly not my Viper.
I smile inwardly. *Just as I thought-wannabe's.*
<br><br>Lori leans forward in her seat. "Aphrodite's going to drop the flag, so get ready."
A slender, dark-haired girl comes out, carrying a black and while flannel shirt I guess will serve as the checkered flag. She looks like a race track hottie with her flowing mane and spray-painted jeans.
The crowd is hooting and whistling and then the flag drops and before Jake can hit the accelerator, the Viper has laid down a track of rubber and smoke and we're a quarter mile down the road before he even gets the light Miata under control.
"Oh my God," she whispers in awe, "he is so smoked―he's lost in your vapour trail."
"I warned him, but he didn't listen."
<br><br>She leans back in the seat smiling as we approach another crowd of teenagers waiting and cheering.
I go to decelerate but she shouts,"No, keep going―I'll tell you where to stop."
I shrug and hit the gas again and our tail lights disappear into the night.
About ten minutes later we're stopped on a hill overlooking the highway.
"Where are we?" I ask.
"Rattlesnake Point," she laughs, "where you get the payoff"
<br><br>She reaches into her jeans and pulls out eight crumpled twenties and tosses them into my lap.
"To the victor goes the spoils," she says.
"It's just filthy money, " I tell her.
"That's the payoff ." she says, "This is the spoil." And before I know what's happening, she puts her arms around me and begins passionately kissing me.
I push her off. "What are you doing?" I sputter.
She looks at me funny. "You're not gay, are you?"
"No, I'm not."
"I didn't think so―that wasn't the vibe you were sending me."
"Look, sorry I gave you the wrong idea. But I can't do this―you're beautiful, but too young for me."
<br><br>"You're not the first older guy I've been with. Grant Evers was thirty―about your age. He didn't feel I was too young."
What am I going to tell her―she's off by two decades?
"Well, good for him, but I've got different standards."
"Obviously," she says, hunkering down in her seat and scowling while I restart the car.
"It's two am―I should drive you home. Where do you live?"
"Just drop me back at *Timmies*―I'll be fine."
I don't argue, I don't say anything. It's past two in the morning and I have to get up at 630 am. I can't believe I reverted to my past.
Actually, I can't believe anything that's happened to me lately, but then, nothing makes any sense.
<br><br> <center>To be continued…</center>
<br><center>© 2022, John J Geddes. All rights reserved</center>
<br><center>[Photo](https://tenor.com/view/hauling-hard-haul-hauling-hauler-nofrills-gif-13761723)</center>
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