Chasing Haste

My days are sacrosanct in the sense that I cannot afford to get distracted while I’m at work. That happens a lot to a person who tries so hard to make both ends meet and believe me; it requires loads of concentration with hints of kill-joy-ness. But sometimes, it gets really hard especially when you’re staring at an unbelievably gorgeous car from the ’70s.

“Pretty, ain’t she?”

I snap away from ogling the beauty in front of me when I hear a guy’s voice from behind. I look back and meet the gaze of Alexis De Palma.

Damn. He gets sexier each time I see him. The eyebrow piercing’s new but nonetheless, looks hot on him. Well, everything looks hot on Alexis De Palma.

“Oh—sorry, I was just—uhm, admiring—your car, I mean.” The stumbling isn’t my usual panache but hey, I’m caught off guard.

He walks slowly toward the car and pulls out a key from his jeans—the old-school type of key— not the sickeningly clean electronic beep that late-model cars have. His car’s vintage, anyway. A classic beautiful Chevrolet Chevelle SS in a rich shade of red.

“You’re not planning to boost it, are you?” he says, smiling a bit.

I raise a bemused eyebrow. “Excuse me?” I know I’m not exactly a looker but do I look like a carjacker?

Alexis chuckles. Dead sexy chuckle. “You like Chevys?”

I fold my arms, obviously annoyed at the provocation. “I like muscle cars.”

“Really? It’s just rare for a girl to like muscle cars. Oftentimes, they just like the driver.”

I scoff. “Wow. Conceited much?”

Some things never change, huh?

He’s just teasing me, I can tell. There’s that familiar glint of mischievousness in his eyes. The same one that used to get me into trouble when we were kids. That’s a Once-upon-a-time tale, by the way. Carpooling during second grade doesn’t count much on someone’s memory. He doesn’t even seem to remember me anymore.

Come to think of it, just 3 months ago, we crossed paths but he doesn’t seem to recall that one either. I was in a terrible state that night.

What does it matter? I’m busy.

I walk away. Behind me, the car door opens and then closes. The engine starts and gives off a low hum. It’s a shame such a lovely car is owned by that man. One can easily get annoyed by Alexis De Palma. He’s always that jerky-kind-of-guy who sprouts lousy jokes just to look cool. Well, I used to think he’s cool.

The low roaring hum grows louder from behind and I move out of the way. The Chevelle slows down and rolls down a clear window. Alexis’ now wearing aviator sunglasses and a leather jacket. Posh. Very 80′s.

“Hey, I was just kidding back there. No offense,” he says as he passes by me.

My expression stays placid as I answer, “Some taken.”

Alexis grins and slowly moves forward. “See you around, Chevy girl,” he says as he drives away. I gesture a lazy salute and watch the car steer away from the car park.

Ironic. I’ve always been around but he never saw me.

I’ve always been Kai for everyone who knows me, but my real name is Mikaila Haste. My mother named me after my late father, Michael Haste, who used to run one of the largest car repair joints in our little town near the San Francisco Bay Area. My mom hates my nickname and calls me nothing but Mikaila and the occasional ‘Mika’ for the last eighteen years of her life.

I look nothing like my mom, except for our complexions. She was an eye-catcher—blonde and blue-eyed with delicate features and full lips. No, she’s not a Malibu Barbie, but rather a classy vintage beauty. And she was young. I can’t tell how many people mistook us for sisters. On the other hand, I looked more like my father, dark-haired with chestnut-brown eyes and chiseled jaws.

My father died when I was three, leaving behind a wife and kid to fend for themselves. Unfortunately, business partners cheated us out on the ownership of the repair shops and we were left with nothing. At least we got my dad’s car, a black Dodge Charger.

Though my mom was a histrionic sweet-looking chick, she used to drive the Charger which was kind of badass. That’s Cara Haste for you, full of contradictions in an amazing way. She and I lived in a gritty old town house in Sausalito. It’s not much but the view is breathtaking (literally, if you’re not used to ascending hills). Fortunately, the Charger could take the struggle. Back then, Mom would let me drive uphill and then, buy me ice cream if I made a perfect climb. She was the first influence on how I came to love muscle cars.

On clear nights, we would climb to the roof and drink coffee just to watch the city lights and the Golden Gate bridge flicker in the dark. Those nights were always awesome. I used to tell her all those silly stories about school and friends and she wouldn’t act so mom-ish. She listened and laughed and teased me about boys in the area, mostly with Alexis De Palma who is four years my senior and just weird because she’s been teasing me with him ever since I can remember. Sometimes, I wondered if I developed a crush on Alexis only because she provoked me.

And then came the saddest summer of my life.

I was eighteen when my mom died. With no relatives around, I was forced to move with my aunt in Ohio where I spent four years of misery living in the smog. No, not really. That was an overstatement. It wasn’t that bad. My aunt’s family, all of them work at Sunfish Creek State Forest. There’s a ranger, a tour guide, and an environmentalist. That leaves me, a bohemian who loves tropical weather to mope alone most of the time. They won’t even let me drive with exception to the times I sneaked my uncle’s car out of the garage. When he found out, he didn’t say a thing but kept his keys with him all the time.

I went to community college and took a few courses on photography. I made friends, went to parties, did asinine stuff, worked for a local fanzine and eventually, for the town paper. It was fun, but somehow, it all felt lacking. It was lonely.

I miss my mom. I miss my old life. I miss my old friends, Sarah Newton and her purple highlights, Kelly Brown and her crazy infatuation over our Algebra teacher, Johan Sevilla and his Italian accent. I miss the sun. I miss the beach. I miss the nights on the roof. I miss our little old home. I miss my mom’s Buick which the bank forfeited along with our house.

It was a sad, sad summer—the year mom died of heart failure—a sickness I never knew she had. That same summer I had to go away to Ohio. The same summer I left a part of me in San Francisco as I looked out for a new life.

I’ve always been a typical Californian, tanned and unafraid of the sun, fiery and passionate all around, so technically, I disliked Ohio’s slumber-y atmosphere. You can imagine what I looked like when I got that acceptance letter from Stanford University. I screamed, “I’m going home, baby!” at the top of my lungs, our neighbor, Mrs. Rudetsky came rushing down to our front door.

That night, I showed my aunt the letter. She was a little stunned, but nonetheless happy for me. I guess she hadn’t had a clue that I wanted to go back to California though I knew she knew how I didn’t fit in in Ohio. She’s not to blame. I just happened to learn not to show much emotion ever since my mom passed away. I didn’t want the drama that people give towards orphans. It always felt like people were just patronizing me, instead of really sympathizing.

That was my last month in Ohio. Everything became breezy enough for me to care for anything else. All I could think about is home and how much I wanted to take a walk down at memory lane. I wanted to see my friends, my old neighborhood, everything I grew with. That is why when I came back to San Francisco the first thing I did was to visit our old house.

I ascended the familiar hill and came upon the desolated porch where I used to play. It was eerie. The shutters were pulled down and the door was bolted. The empty garage looked spooky and on the front door was a large orange paper that said;

NOTICE: OFF LIMITS - DO NOT ENTER.THIS PROPERTY IS IN FORECLOSURE AND SOON BE FOR SALE.**THIS PROPERTY IS NOT FOR RENT**ANYONE ON THE PREMISES WILL BE SUBJECTED TO ARREST FOR TRESPASSING.

And underneath that was a whole bunch of smaller texts explaining the law, followed by a series of signatures from the judge and the sheriff.

Sorry, stick-in-the-muds. Stubborn is my middle name. (Not really)

I propped a ladder from the backyard to the second floor where my room used to be. Before I climb, I take a quick scan of the neighbor’s houses where senseless TV noise drifted. It was past nine. Everyone is at their dinner tables or in front of the TV so I figure it would be safe.

The ladder squeaked at every step; it almost scared me. But the nostalgia was way harder to ignore so I kept climbing until I reached the railing of my mini-balcony. I pulled myself up and my heart dropped at the sight of my old room behind the glass door. I rushed inside.

There it was. My sanctuary. The place where I spent eighteen years of my life. My bed, my study table and my closet were still there. A few torn posters still clung on the wall. The most resilient of all was a poster from the movie Gone in 60 Seconds. Nicolas Cage and Angelina Jolie stared at me with their dusty eyes.

An empty-hungry feeling gnawed inside my chest. A part of me wanted to jump around and hug everything in the room but there was also a part that’s terrified of contact – like everything will collapse and disappear if I touch them. Memories could be fragile.

I didn’t really want to get all emotional so I pulled my wits together and reached out for the doorknob. I wanted to see mom’s room, as well.

The hallway was dark and dusty; I nearly coughed all over myself. ’Good thing, I brought a torch. Mom’s room looked the same except that it’s empty and looked sadder than it’s supposed to be. I found an old paperback copy of Pride and Prejudice in one of her drawers. I remembered that book except that I didn’t find it among mom’s things when I cleaned up after her funeral. ’Guess I missed it. I put it in my coat pocket.

My watch said it was almost ten. I had to get back to Sarah Newton’s house where I’ll stay the night or she’ll freak out. She didn’t know I was coming here tonight. I better get on with my little tour soon so I decided to go downstairs. Who knows I might find another memorabilia among the desolation?

And a fucked up desolation was what I found. My tracks stopped dead at the foot of the stairs. For a moment, I just stood there, unable to take another step because the floor was missing. Literally.

A sudden surge of anger flared inside me. They dared to destroy my home!

I shone the light to what used to be our living room in aghast. The floor wasn’t there anymore. The green vinyl tiles, the couch, the little center table, the cabinets—gone. There’s nothing but a large gaping hole in the middle which leads to I don’t know what kind of shit.

I collapsed on the stairs. Did the bank arrange for this? What on earth were those men thinking? For what? I know, it wasn’t my business anymore but the mere idea horrified me. I didn’t know how long I was sitting there. I just stared at the empty space, trying to make out the reason for this violation.

Until I heard a car pulling in the driveway. Uh-oh. Not good.

I rushed back to my room and killed the light. I was about to climb down from the ladder when I realized I wanted to see who came—who were the people who wrecked my house. I went back inside my room, crept to the doorway and strained to see through the dark.

There were lights down there. Flashing and moving about. At least four men were talking but their voices sounded far away and echoed. That’s when I realized, they’re in the hole. What the hell are they doing down there? What’s in there?

The voices were growing louder, clearer. They were going up. I waited. Just a glimpse, bastards. My chest pounded madly with anger and vengeance. I saw a clump of hair. Dark locks.

I hadn’t had the time to figure it out because as the voices went up, I heard one of them speak in an unmistakable English accent, “—Check again upstairs! There has to be a clue. Anything!”

I struggle to my feet, crosses my room and rushes down to the ladder on the window. I don’t care if it’s loud. I just hurry down. There were shouts of ‘What’s that?’ from upstairs but I didn’t look up. It was dangerous to pass by the front so I used the old grassy trail behind the house down to the hill until I reached the next street. I’m out of breath but I kept running.

Then, a electric blue 1964 Pontiac GTO suddenly appeared from a curb and almost hit me. The brakes screeched loudly as the car skids off the road.

“Hey, watch where you’re going!” Unexpected but there’s my childhood crush, Alexis De Palma yelling at me in the middle of a dark road up in the hills of Sausalito. The last time I saw him was before he left for college.

It’s too dark out, I don’t think he’ll recognize me, though.

Nevertheless, I ignore him. All I can think of is the state of my childhood sanctuary. All I can think of is how my mom would feel if she’s still here. Pretty sure I’m shaking in a mixture of anger and fear.

“God, you’re a mess,” Alexis mutters when I don’t answer back. “Are you okay?”

Ignoring his question, I turn away from him. I don’t bother looking back. I just ran as fast as I could away from that side of San Francisco, away from my wrecked home, swearing that I’ll get it back one way or another.