Red and blue lights flashed behind the beat-up Toyota Corolla. The car was still intact, one color all around, except for a few rust spots peaking through the rear metallic silver bumper. The tags were still good for another month, and the windows, albeit dirty, were passable by California safety guidelines. None of that mattered to the driver of the car. What was more disconcerting was getting pulled over in the first place. He bought the 2001 Corolla from a salvage yard for a few hundred dollars. It needed tires and brakes, both things he could do alone. The engine appeared to be intact, but the tires needed to be replaced. The repairs cost him almost as much as buying the car. It had over 200,000 miles on the original motor with no leaks. Whoever owned it before getting t-boned took good care of her. Why did Grant buy this particular car? Someone babied it for a long time. He figured the engine had at least another 100,000 miles before it needed to be replaced. Not that any of that mattered. Not with the lights brightly shining in his eyes from the mirrors.

The car was roadworthy for a few months. New tags showed it was suitable for at least the next two years. Unless someone decided the Toyota needed to die at the hands of some young teenager texting and driving. That’s what the salvage yard told Grant about the car. A teen college girl, riding with three friends, was texting and driving when she ran a red light on Alcosta, slamming into the Toyota. According to the salvage yard, her Landcruiser, built like a tank, survived the impact. The Toyota? Not so much. The owner decided it wasn’t worth repairing, selling it to the yard for cheap.

“If you ask me, we got it for a steal. If I had time, I’d fix it myself. Toyota’s are good cars. You can drive the shit out of them. But I ain’t got that kind of time,” the tow truck driver said, pointing over his shoulder at the salvage yard. An old, tattered, and oil-stained uniform shirt hung loosely over his wiry frame, with a neatly embroidered name tag that read Tony. “I’m already backed up with cars I can’t sell, can’t part out, and have to destroy. See that stack over there?” Grant looked over his right shoulder and saw three cars piled on one another. Two newer Mustangs and the other one on top was a new model, maybe an Acura or a Lexus. He wasn’t sure because the mass of mangled red metal was indescribable. It’d be a miracle if the driver of that car survived the wreck! 

“Yeah. That one on top?” He pointed to the stack with his cigarette. “I bet you’re wondering if the driver survived because,” he took a drag, exhaling in Grant’s face, “if it was me? I’d be asking that, wouldn’t you?” Grant nodded, letting the shock slowly ebb from his face. “Well, yeah. The driver walked away from that one. Not sure how he survived it, though. I was there at the scene when they pulled him out of it. He had a couple of scratches on his face from the initial impact, spitting glass straight into him. Even the officers at the scene were shocked. But not the EMTs.” Tony threw his cigarette into the dirt, crushing it under one of his Wolverine work boots. Grant never understood why mechanics always wore steel-toed work boots. It’s not like they were in construction or anything. Then again, after he had thought about it for a minute, Tony was working around a lot of cars, steel, and heavy metal.

Grant reached in his pocket for the seven hundred dollars cash Tony was asking for the Toyota. “Hey, Tony. With all the repairs I need to do,” Grant started peeling hundred dollar bills from his pocket, “Would you be willing to part with the Toyota for five hundred? I’ll need every dime to get it to pass a safety inspection.”  Grant fanned out the five one-hundred-dollar bills, holding them in front of Tony’s face.

Tony smiled. Reaching for the bills, he said, “Why not, kiddo?” He smiled and took the bills from Grant. “I ain’t got nothing into it except the space it’s taking. Which, honestly?” Tony looked around the salvage yard. “You can see I ain’t got a lot left!” Lighting up another cigarette, Tony motioned to Grant to follow him. “Lemme get you the bill of sale and title, and you can be on your way. Oh,” Tony took a long drag. “If you need it towed someplace, I’ll do it for free,” he winked.

“That’d be great. I live eight miles away, off Sand Point Drive, on Interlachen. Does that work?”

“Yep. That works for me. Let’s get this paperwork out of the way, and I’ll load her up.”

To Be Continued . . .