Razor Edge

Razor Edge

by

Querus Abuttu

When I was twelve, my family died. This happened shortly after the Black Lives Matter movement. Protestors marched, whole buildings burned, and people took to the streets looting electronics stores, grocery markets and local pharmacies. People were hungry and angry. Armed civilians, known as the Grays, gathered in the city as protesters marched. The Grays mowed down protestors with assault rifles in order (as they said) to "keep the peace." My father, mother, brothers and everyone else with opposing views were killed that day.

At the same time, COVID-19 ravaged the city of Richmond. Insurmountable elements of climate change ruined crops and destroyed nearly all our food supplies. Virginia society disintegrated into those who were privileged to have the comforts of life and those who did not. I belonged to the “those who did not” group.

Before my world fractured, there was one thing I loved more than anything. One thing that made my heart soar every weekend. The Richmond Raceway. There was something about the roaring sounds of the engines, the stiff wind that hit my face as cars passed by and the excitement of the crowed that made the Richmond Raceway seem magical each and every time.

When I was eight, my Uncle Darsh took me to the races every Saturday because he knew I loved the cars. Instead of Barbies, I wanted Matchbox and Hot Wheels for Christmas and I asked Santa for the latest Mattel racetrack. Instead of cartoons, I watched the NASCAR Cup Series and dreamed of becoming a NASCAR racer. That dream is gone.

My name is Trariti. I’m sixteen years old. I can take apart car engines and put them back together—usually better than they were before. And now, not a living soul can beat me in a race. And they never will.

The day I lost my family, I was with my uncle. This was the last race I’d ever see on a track. Later, my uncle left without me to find our family. I guess he was killed or taken. He never came back. All I really have left to remember my parents is a little gold locket with their pictures inside.

My friend Jemal lost his family too. I think he tagged along with me on the streets just to pass time. We loved to watch the cars free race. And they used any means to run. Gas was expensive, so brilliant minds improved battery-powered cars and cars that ran off any combination of water, solar power or homemade diesel. They didn’t go very fast at first but as the years passed, they got faster.

Jemal was at my side as we walked to a race a couple of years ago. This 1970 “Plum Crazy” Challenger pulled alongside us. The man driving asked if we wanted a ride. If I had to describe him, to this day I couldn’t. He was always in shadow. I never saw his face.

Jemal and I looked at each other thinking the guy must be rich—cause his car probably still ran on gasoline. We hopped in back. The interior smelled pleasant, but I couldn’t place the scent at first. Floral. Subtle. Then I remembered one spring sitting on the patio in grandma’s back yard and seeing dozens of purple Irises. I’d wandered over to stick my nose in their petals and inhaled. And that was that smell. Iris.

“Where are you headed?” the man asked, and I told him about the race. His shadow nodded and I looked down when something beneath my feet crinkled. The floorboard was covered with Atomic Fireballs. I remember my surprise because commercial candy was a thing of the past.

The man said, “Go ahead, Fireballs are all yours,” and Jemal and I dug into them like they were the finest thing we’d eaten in months. Those hot candies burned my lips and flamed my tongue. Made me happy.

“What’s your name?” I’d blurted the question while looking into his rearview hoping I might see his face. I didn’t.

“Wack,” the man said, “What’s yours?”

“Trariti,” I answered, “Friends call me Riti. This is Jemal.”

Wack offered nothing else in conversation. He was so quiet I decided to fill the air with some noise. I told him about the Raceway, how my family died, and that racing was my life. Then I realized Wack had picked up speed. We’d gone from a slow crawl of 25 mph in town to an easy 65 past the city limits and the speedometer needle was rising. I gripped my locket and opened it once more.

“How fast this thing go?” I’d heard this model had a 440 engine that went from zero to 60 in six seconds flat. I liked this car, especially the purr of her engine. Meanwhile, Jemal shrunk into the back seat looking for a seat belt. There wasn’t one.

“Her name is Iris,” Wack said, “and let’s find out.”

I remember how the tires gripped the road. The engine slipped from a purr to a roar. An untapped spinal thrill of speed overcame me. I crept toward Wack’s seat and watched the speedometer. Hitting 80 was easy, then 90, then 100. If I’d had any sense, I would’a been scared. The road we were on had plenty of curves.

The speedometer pushed 110 and neared 120. In moments the needle was there. I felt disappointment, but Wack’s shadow shifted. Then another display showed on the dash. This wasn’t standard. It glowed neon pink and started at 130—the end at 230. The needle flicked and I thought “Greased Lightning!” when we hit 150. The car shook. Fireballs danced. I peered through the windshield at the road ahead. The sun was swishing into the horizon. Still, Wack took each curve like a dream.

“What-d-ya-think, kid? Can she go faster?”

I closed my eyes; felt the car’s chasse and how her tires hugged the road.

“Yes,” and I prayed she could.

He must have pushed the pedal to the floor ‘cause we lurched and the world sped by in a blur. I’d forgotten Jemal—forgotten everything—because we were flying. The needle passed 160, then 180. I thought the car would come apart. If it did, I didn’t care. My eyes were glued to that pink neon light. When she hit 230 I screamed with joy.

Wack let off the gas. “You’re late for your race.” It was dark, but that was okay. I’d just had the ride of my life and I told him so. Jemal popped another Fireball in his mouth. I did too. We slapped palms and my brain rested in a cloud-happy daze.

I didn’t notice where we were going until we were already there—Anago’s. It’s the city’s bone yard for broken cars. People dumped junkers. Scavengers raided parts. Razor-wire crowned the surrounding chain-linked fence. After sundown no one got in. Wack puttered to the gate, which was normally locked, and it slowly opened as if unseen hands had pushed the key code.

“Got something for you, kid,” Wack said.

I didn’t know what he meant. This guy just gave me the ride of my life. There was something else? He steered the Challenger to the back of the lot, parked and let her idle.

“Get out.” Wack’s voice was strange. I remember thinking maybe he wasn’t so cool. That maybe he was . . .

“Get out,” he repeated. His door opened and closed.

“C’mon, Jemal,” I coaxed my friend. I didn’t want to leave him alone. The door on my side opened. We both crawled out and the door snapped shut. The thin shadow of Wack walked down a wide path saying, “Follow me.”

Silver moonlight poured around us. I saw rusted car doors, old tires, and engine blocks. Smelled honeysuckle. I’d wanted to come here even before my normal life ended, but never had the chance. I’d imagined putting my own car together, but Anago’s parts weren’t free.

“Here,” Wack’s voice was laced with an emotion I didn’t understand. When he moved to the side, my jaw dropped. It was painted a classic Mineral Gray with an orange racing stripe on the side. The light of the moon made her glow.

“A 1969 ZL1 Camaro. A Razor,” I breathed. “She’ll go zero to 60 in 5.3 seconds.”

“This one goes faster. Get in,” he said. “Driver’s side,” he corrected when I went for the passenger door. “Bring her to life.”

I did as he said and Jemal jumped into the passenger seat. The scent inside was like the air just after a thunderstorm. My fingers found the key. I shook her from her dreams.

Wack came closer, standing by my door. “Listen to her, Riti.”

I strained really hard then I heard the car speak. Drive me.

She meant not just now, but forever.

“Her name is Nike,” Wack turned back toward Iris. My driver door shut. I struggled to open it and failed. My foot moved to the gas. The engine revved. Jamal’s eyes widened as Nike controlled my hands and feet. Though distant, I heard Wack’s voice say. “She’ll teach you all you need to know.”

Something made me think of the golden locket. A present from my parents. I opened it to regard their tiny photos and was pleasantly surprised to see both of them smiling. I couldn’t remember if they’d ever smiled before.

Nike lurched forward and then we were tracking Wack’s taillights. His license plate read Atomic-13. I wasn’t ready. Not for this. Sure, the ride in Iris was amazing, and the Razor—I had no words—but I hadn’t agreed to be slave to a car.

You’ll like it, purred Nike. We have work to do.

The needle launched to 60. We blasted past Wack and his car Iris. The scream from my throat—was it joy or terror? It was both.