Chapter 2
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Renee's mom could not stand the thought of anyone seeing me drive onto their property in the beat-up old muscle car. So, she saw to it that I had the keys to one of Renee's father's sports cars. This one was a beauty: a bright red Ferrari with all the trimmings.
Frank, Renee's father, put it in a custom shop immediately after purchase to beef up the already formidable engine performance. This was not the proper auto for an eighteen-year-old male with an already inflated ego. And to prove such, I would often challenge the local folk to the midnight expressway drag.
This particular night, I had selected a fool and his Oldsmobile. For fifty bucks I was willing to humiliate him in front of his friends. I often laughed to myself at how easily I could take their money with the monster Ferrari. The thrill came in the humiliation it brought, and the fifty was just icing on the cake. After all, with Renee, I had all the spending cash I could want.
We had made our way out onto the now largely empty freeway at around 3:00 a.m. I was in the left lane and the kid in the Olds in the right. His friends had followed in their car and were kind enough to hop out and give us an arm-drop start. Immediately the Ferrari lurched ahead.
I was once again giddy over the ease at which I pulled away from him—so much so that as I passed through 100 mph and shifted into third, I decided to add to his embarrassment by swerving into his lane and then back into my own. There was no danger of a collision, as I was easily five car lengths ahead of him at the time.
What I was not counting on was how hard the road surface was that night, and also how hard my own tires were. It was eight degrees this cold Detroit night, and the combination of the hard tires and road surface, along with my foolishness at that speed, spelled out disaster. Even though everything seemed to move in slow motion in my head, it all occurred in a flash. It was almost as though I was watching it all happen from a position outside of and just behind the car.
What seemed like only an instant later, I opened my eyes to the sight of flashing blue lights and to the sound of an approaching ambulance. Who knows at what point I had been knocked cold. Blood dripped from my broken and throbbing nose, and through my teary eyes I could see that my left arm was bent where it should not have been.
I was shivering from the shock of the accident and from the frigid Detroit cold. Through what was left of my windshield, I could see that the garage of a nearby home was in flames. The Ferrari had been cut in half after hitting a phone pole at more than 100 mph.
The tail end of the Ferrari had gone crashing into the garage, setting it ablaze, while the front end, with me still inside, slid just between two large oaks and into a chain-link fence. The fence had been ripped from every pole except for the corners and had acted like a giant net. This kept the cab and myself largely intact, which had undoubtedly saved my life. I wasn’t sure at the time if it was luck or if someone above had bigger plans for me, but either way I was happy to still be counted amongst the living.
The other car that I had been racing had fled the scene, but I could hardly blame them. What kid wanted to end up in jail over some idiot's behavior on the streets? I couldn’t handle the excessive maneuvers at that high rate of speed, and as a result the Ferrari was sent spinning wildly off the side of the interstate, over a berm, and into a sleeping neighborhood. My life had been spared, but my days of racing had come to an abrupt end...
Up until a few months before that day, my life had been pretty ordinary. I grew up in a lower-middle-income home on the outskirts of Detroit. Mom and Dad both worked and had always provided my brother and myself with food, shelter, and clothing. Much of our school district was the same income level, so everyone got along pretty well. It was your typical American neighborhood, with one old, used car in each drive and a clothesline in use out back during the warmer months.
I had managed three and a half years of high school football before a knee injury ended my college speculations. As a result, I was destined for a factory job making auto parts down at the plant where my dad had worked for thirty-five years. That life had worked for my father, and although we did not have a lot, we had always managed to get by.
It's strange how when you don’t have much, you don’t seem to need much. We only had a handful of well-to-do kids in our school, and they tended to stay to themselves, so no one had really viewed themselves as have-nots. You were taught to always live within your means and to be responsible for yourself.
My dad was a shade tree mechanic in his spare time, which meant I knew my way around an engine block. As a teenager, working on cars never really appealed to me; at the time, I had no car of my own. Being without a ride, I remember feeling lucky that the factory was only a three-block walk from our house.
My dad was always fixing the neighbors’ cars and anyone else's that got sent his way. It gave him some extra cash to spend on a project car. I had hoped against hope for several years that it would not become my first vehicle, as it was an old Mercedes diesel. Some years earlier he had purchased it and had then begun a restoration. He had named it Suzie.
Every six months or so he would get the bug, or save enough cash, to continue his work on Suzie. He had his friends in the auto business searching for a particular used part for most of a year before finally locating one. After some dealings over the phone, he had it shipped to a guy at the Mercedes dealership across town, and I was given the task of errand boy that day to go pick it up.
I had just graduated high school when I first met Renee. I was the handsome young buck without a clue, and she was the carefree daughter of a well-to-do businessman. Her father was a partner in a financial services company, which had left her family wanting for nothing. It was her summer to run wild before her senior year in high school, and it was my summer to hang out with my buddies, drink beer, and chase tail before beginning the second-shift grind at the auto-parts factory in August, when the new union contract kicked in.
Before I left the house that day for the dealership, I was forced by my dad to put on a nice set of clothes. Apparently my raggedy old jeans and tank top weren’t adequate for picking up a part at the dealership. It was as if he thought the parts-counter people were going to turn me away. But I had learned long before that it just wasn’t worth the arguing, so on the nice clothes went. Besides, I was happy to get out of the house, even if it was just behind the wheel of the old Rambler.
It was a Friday morning when I pulled into the dealership. The Rambler had seen its better days on the outside, but it purred like a kitten under the hood. The parts guy at the dealership had acquired a scarce part for my dad and was holding it for him out of the normal stock. I arrived at the dealership at around 10:00 a.m., only to find that Delmar wasn’t going to be in until noon. So, with a couple hours to kill, I thought I would take a stroll through the showroom and look at the latest models that I could not ever dream of affording.
I had my eye on a convertible when Renee came hopping through the front door with her father. For her seventeenth birthday it seemed that she was getting a new Mercedes, and it would a convertible to boot. Her father had accompanied her and made a beeline straight to the sales manager to start working on his deal. Renee had been left alone and was looking over the showroom queen when I decided to make my bold move.
She was just a petite little thing, but she had a great figure and a killer smile. I casually walked up beside her and asked if there was anything I could help her with that day. She said I looked rather young for a salesman, so I decided that maybe she should be educated on the latest feature set of the convertible.
I began naming off fictitious features while waving my arms around like I knew what I was talking about. We sat in the car, turned on the radio, and pushed various buttons and twisted knobs. I managed two minutes with my charade before a real salesman made his way over and busted me.
Renee was actually amused and giggling as I made my way out of the car, of course the whole time apol
ogizing profusely to the salesman. I had just enough time to give her a wink before returning to the parts-counter waiting room to once again wait on Delmar.
To my surprise, a few minutes later, Renee made her way in, swishing from side to side as she walked and then sitting down beside me with a big grin on her face. We talked for almost an hour before her father came in with the keys to that very same convertible. A chance encounter in the showroom that morning had started us on a journey of fun, which would eventually lead us down the path to marriage.
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