In his younger years Joel had dated a girl whose father ran a small heating and air conditioning company. The man had really liked Joel, but his daughter had other plans and her and his insistence that his daughter’s current catch was a “good guy” with a “future” probably didn’t help Joel or her for that matter. At any rate, over ten years later she was long gone from Sol City while Joel was not. Whenever he was in a bind, usually with the worst possible problems at the worst possible times, he tended to turn up. Tonight was no different. 

Joel, only a few hours out of the sack, was putting the wheels on the S13 when the rollback rounded the corner with a Chevy work-truck onboard. He glanced up and shook his head as the truck approached in the evening din of Southside. [i]You gotta be fucking kidding me…[/i] He thought. For the last couple of years Joel had contemplated getting out of the repair business completely and only being a speed shop, he knew he had the clientele for it [i]but the money was so easy[/i], particularly when he could screen his work. He accepted the keys paying no mind to the grizzled rollback driver’s opinions on what had caused the breakdown. 

A few quick tests confirmed the driver’s guess: Bad starter. Not that it was a hard diagnosis or a hard fix either. He only needed the part and it could be done in less than an hour. Joel checked his phone for the time and as always was his habit, looked up at the sky to confirm to himself that it was correct. It was a behavior many people found amusing. He made a quick call to his closest supplier: No dice. The part was at the downtown warehouse near Riverside. If he was swift he could make it over there before they closed up for the night. [i]Ugh…[/i] He thought. Crossing the river was a pain in the ass, but the joy he would feel about taking that worrisome old man’s money in the morning won out.

Somewhere around the Costa Bridge he began to observe the evening traffic to be noticeably heavier than usual. His boot had touched the ground numerous times leaving the side of the Harley Davidson on which he rode. The pipes cracked and popped bouncing their loud broadcasts off the sides of cars and trucks alike to the point of annoyance to many drivers. The lowered Harley Dyna was his second-oldest mode of transportation. Diamond-Ice Pearl with blacked out trim and exhaust. He had bought it off an old biker from the 501 Club who considered himself “retired” from the scene. It still had relatively low miles and with a carburetor was easy to tune. 

Joel never wore a helmet and as he lightly coasted down the exit ramp and passed under the shadow of downtown skyscrapers, felt a chill of the Fall evening down through his leather jacket and jeans. He suddenly remembered, observing the foot traffic, it was first Monday and that meant Riverside Blues and Jazz. His lips pursed briefly at the thought. He hated blues and jazz almost as much as he hated traffic. The thought clashed with a quick self-examination that had popped up in his subconscious: His current nocturnal trend was pushing him over line from just being known as an eccentric to an eccentric hermit. The only human being he’d interacted with in the last twenty-four hours was that tow-truck driver. He grumbled to himself as he thundered past the record shop. The warehouse was only a block away. 

The part was waiting at the front desk and Joel stuffed it into his twenty-dollar backpack that he’d bought new off Craigslist. He briefly engaged in the customary chit-chat with the counter guys and turned to leave before a familiar poster hanging by the door stopped him in his tracks:

[center][i]COME SEE![/i]
[i]Sol-City’s own Joel Nicolosi & Tommy Lomax [/i]
[i]AND[/i]
[i]The #75 Footsteps Sports Bar / Apex Designs [b]300ZX[/b][/i][/center]

The date at the footer was set for near the end of the month, three days before the final Formula GT race of the season to be held in Sol-City. “Really?” He said glancing back with feigned surprise. “That’s a really bad picture.” He lied. He actually liked it quite a bit compared to most of the media they’d done. Tommy, ever the sportsman accustomed to the limelight, stood with arms crossed while Joel leaned on the car to his right looking away from the camera. The #75 on the side of the car was between them along with their names. [i]Looking like a couple of tough guys[/i]. He thought with a smirk.

“This one’s your year, Joel” One of the clerks commented.

“That’s what they keep saying.” Joel replied casually with a nod out the door. They were fierce rivals with the factory Nissan Motorsports team and thanks to Tommy’s monetary connections, had secured two of the same highly tuned V8 engines the factory GT-R’s were running- A great point of contention among the Nissan brass. So much so, that Tommy had flown them to Tokyo just to negotiate in person. The Japanese were hands-on people and they liked data and they especially liked competition. Sol-City was one race out the entire season and unlike the factory sponsored cars, Joel and Tommy only drove the one race. They were no threat in the grand scheme of the regular season, but the #75 had hounded them doggedly with the older, twin-turbo setup. The big bosses at Nissan wanted to see what the 300ZX would do with a proper engine and last year it’d nearly won.

Joel took a hot Americano off of a close by coffee truck as a band was warming up near the record shop. He took a few sips and tried to wake up. He’d been working for days straight on end and with that poster in mind, knew he’d have his work cut out for him for many more in a row: They had testing out at the old airport coming up this weekend. He sat on an open bench outside of the gathering and tried to simply enjoy the outdoors for a while. 

[@RawrEspada4]