Demon Motors: Volume 1 Run What you Brung

By Jimi Simmons

After the car accident that killed his wife, Joe Muncie realized his life had been close to pointless up until that time. Now, with no experience in leading his own life successfully, his only option was to follow what little bit of his heart he had left. Understanding that you can have no loss if you give everything freely was a concept, he had heard about but couldn't comprehend until he found his tribe: prostitutes and car thieves who double as accountants and stand-up men—runaways with no sense of self, much less ID's. Everyday people whose situation influenced their lives in a particular direction now gathered like geese on the edge of the bay. This was Demon Motors.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667837468

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Thanks to Stuart Horwitz for always being there and showing me how to tell my story.

DEMON MOTORS

Volume 1 Run What you Brung

Jimi Simmons

ISBN (Print Edition): 978-1-66783-745-1

ISBN (eBook Edition): 978-1-66783-746-8

Cover Design by Jesse Simmons

© 2022. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Starting Over

Chapter 2

The Mission Rock

Chapter 3

Angels in Oakland

Chapter 4

Road Trip

Chapter 5

Back Home

Chapter 6

The Plan

Chapter 7

The Build

Chapter 8

and the build goes on

Chapter 9

Testing 1, 2, 3

Chapter 10

Show Time

Chapter 11

Space 17

Chapter 1

Starting

Over

It was too early on a Sunday morning for anyone who knew me to be calling; that alone made me anxious. I picked up the phone, and the voice on the other end identified himself as Trooper Mitch Andersen of the CHP. He asked if this was the residence of Stephanie Jean Hatler. That was it, the heartbeat in which everything changes. A million computations go off in my head, and I don’t like how any of them feel. Before I can convince myself of anything, the voice from the phone begins to speak. He said a blue Mazda RX-7 registered to Stephanie was involved in an accident and asked if I was her next of kin. I said I was her husband, and he calmly explained the situation and that Steph was dead. Just like that, almost surreal in its lack of emotion. Guess he must have pulled the short straw on death notifications that morning. I wanted to react with disbelief, but deep down, I already knew it was true.

I didn’t know what to ask first because the black cloud drifting up my spine already had most of the answers. All I asked was, Where? but even then, in my head, I saw it before the trooper could say it, ‘Niles Canyon.’ My mind went to the corner in the canyon where I was sure it happened. I knew it well, and so did she; it’s where I taught her to race. I could still hear myself say, ‘Drive hard into the corner, I know it’s scary, but it’ll hold.’ God, I’d give anything not to hear that voice, but it’s mine.

Now my legs felt like I’d just stood up from an all-night drunk, and there was no way they could hold me anymore. As they started to give out, my ass landed hard on the coffee table’s side, and I sat, quite comfortably, on the edge as the glass shattered below me. I watched the phone fall to the floor, now just a distant voice muttering in the carpet, Sir, SIR.

I don’t know how long it was before the faint pounding I heard became the front door crashing, but I still couldn’t get out of my head. I knew it was the police and why they were there – after all, it was my fault Steph was dead – but I couldn’t stop. I could feel my body sob and convulse as I rocked back and forth, but I couldn’t make the connections to control it. The fear half of my brain wanted to get high before they took me away. Still, the straight part reminded me that I’d already lost that fight a couple of times, so I sat there staring at the phone, lying motionless on the carpet while the commotion continued around me. At some point, they laid me on the couch, and a pale-faced paramedic shoved a needle in my arm, a quick injection, Valium probably, something legal and medicinal, but it didn’t matter; I was high. I don’t give a fuck what you say, short term; in situations like this, being high is always better. It was still hard to talk and harder to recognize my voice when I did. This is the tipping point, breaking point, whatever you’d like to call it, I was on the other side of the life I woke up with this morning.

By the time they explained that they were there for my safety, things started to go from nauseatingly confused to just fucked. Feeling absolute guilt for someone’s death was not a punishable crime, but I’d already sentenced myself, and the darkness began in earnest.

Stephanie’s mom and sister Karen showed up, and the guilt magnified. They said very little, I think. I’d spent a long time learning how to not pay attention to them. Later that evening, I noticed a defined imprint where the phone had landed, surrounded by footprints. Steph would be pissed that her new rug was such a mess. Stephanie and I shared one life; it would only be half a life without her, and I wasn’t willing to live that. Karen came into the room, and neither of us knew what to say. Finally, she just looked at me and said. We can take care of this. So I did what they’d been expecting me to do for years, I left.

I couldn’t think of a destination that wouldn’t lead to more pain, so I wrapped my legs around the only other thing I’ve ever trusted and rode off. This bike has taken me everywhere I’ve been in one way or another, maybe because I built it or perhaps because it’s one of the few things I’ll submit to; either way, it knows where to go. It was at the top of Mt. Diablo when we stopped, and the sun was rising behind me. The entire Bay Area lay there before me. I could see where most of my adult life had taken place, and my shadow was touching them all. Each one had its label attached to it, possession, breaking and entering, assault, resisting arrest. Drugs, crime, and violence, the junkie trifecta. None of them had much appeal to me anymore, but the only life I knew without them was with Steph. The more I thought about it, the more it pissed me off. Even if I wanted to go back to that life, I couldn’t because most of my ability to stay clean comes from remembering how hard a junkie’s heart has to be. You see, when you’re an addict, you know that at any given moment, you’ll barter anything you have, including girlfriends, just to get right. So you learn not to get attached. I guess that’s the problem now; I’ve become attached.

What are you supposed to do when your second chance dies, and you know it’s on you?

As the sun rose higher in the sky, my shadow detached and disappeared into the bay’s dark waters. The morning light on my back felt warm, and I started to move. I was most of the way down Summit Rd. before I thought about my bike back in the parking lot, but I just kept walking. Once I got to the edge of Danville, the heat and lack of water made me realize this was a bad idea. I’m not the kind of guy most suburban neighbors would invite in for a cold lemonade, but at this point, I’d take a garden hose. Then I saw this old guy in a driveway washing his bike. He had grey hair, longer than it should be, and a relatively new Harley with all the extras. He wasn’t intimidated by a stranger’s sight, which upped my chances of getting something to drink.

Been walkin’ a while, mind if I get a drink off your hose? I asked. It didn’t sound right when I said it, but we both let it slide.

Not a problem. You look like you’re dressed more for riding than hiking. He stated.

Well, I was riding on the way in, but I guess I’m walkin’ home, I said.

Been there. He said with a nod. I got a bike trailer out back if you need help getting it into town.

No, it’s runnin’ fine. I’m just done ridin’. When I heard myself say it aloud, it confirmed what I’d been thinking all night. This life is over. The old guy gave me a strange look like he couldn’t comprehend what I was saying but put his hand out anyway.

My name is Paul. Let me get you a real glass of water.

Thanks Paul, my name is Joe. I sat down in the shade of the big oak tree next to the driveway. He came back with a glass filled, and I finished it quickly. I noticed a covered car next to the garage with a for sale sign and a phone number as I looked around. Whatever was underneath was low and wide.

Is the car still for sale? I asked.

Yes. Came a voice from inside the house, and as the screen door opened, it continued. He’s been selling that thing for close to three years now, and unless you walk up and ask for it, no one would know it was even there.

Paul looked at me and smiled.

Joe, this is my wife, Jenny. Jenny, this is Joe.

Pleasure to meet you, Jenny. So how much you think he’s asking for it? I asked her, and Paul was quick to answer before Jenny could give it away.

Well, I need to get at least twenty thousand for it, but wouldn’t you like to know what it is first?

Sure. But I think I like it already, I said.

Paul stepped around to the side and loosened the car cover just enough to get it over the front end. It was like watching a beautiful girl lift her skirt; the anticipation kills. But here in the shadows of suburbia was a silver and black 1974 Pantera GTS. The Pantera was an American muscle car built in Medina, Italy, designed by DeTomaso. It had all of Fords’ racing heritage under the skin – The Duce’s way of giving Enzo Ferrari the finger. This car set the bar for the next decade and saw only limited production, so I was surprised to see this one here. I pulled my billfold out of my back pocket and opened the register: $ 16,142 and change. I flipped it over so Paul could see the balance. I’d sold most of everything I had cause Steph and I were saving for a house, but that was yesterday.

Would you take 16 grand? I asked. Before he could answer, Jenny said, Yes.

Paul just smiled and shook his head. Jenny ran over and gave him a big kiss, and they settled gently into each other’s arms. We went into the house and signed the title over, and then Jenny offered me lunch. They were two of the most beautiful people I had met in a long time, but I couldn’t stay. Odd how sometimes happy people can magnify your sense of hopelessness.

As we were saying our goodbyes, I slipped a set of keys into Paul’s hand.

Take that trailer of yours up to Mt. Diablo. There’s a baby blue 48 Shovelhead with blacked-out chrome and wrapped pipes in the parking lot, and it’s yours. She rides strong, and she’s never left me stranded.

Paul’s smile grew a little wider, and I started the Pantera.

It could use a tune-up, Paul said. There’s a guy in the city by the name of Special K. He’s supposed to know how to tune these things, but I never got around to finding him.

It’s all good, thanks, Paul. I pulled out of the driveway. That name, Special K, sounded familiar.

I was going to drive home through Niles Canyon on my way back to the other side of the bay, but then I thought better. Steph’s family was Jewish, and they were going to want to put her in the ground today, and that’s not the way I want to say goodbye. So I headed for Alameda, past the bar where we first met.

There wasn’t a whole lot to the story. Our first date lasted three days, and when it was over, I realized it was the longest I’d gone without self-medicating in many years. The hormones and endorphins hid most of the withdrawals, and I conveniently woke up in clean sheets. At first, I didn’t realize I was taking advantage of the situation, surfing when I got up and street racing most nights. After a few months, Steph started mentioning job postings she’d seen at work, and in all honesty, I felt guilty about the kind of money I was going through without bringing any in, so she got me a gig at the company where she was working. They needed somebody to do pick-ups and deliveries down on the peninsula, and I had a little Datsun pick-up I’d won in a race. I figured how bad could it be; I drive around all day anyway – now I’m going to get paid for it.

Steph was the office manager, so it didn’t take much to get me in. It was one of those Silicon Valley shops down in a Santa Clara office park, so the commute sucked, but I figured it wouldn’t last long anyway. She explained all the benefits of health and dental and stock options and new eyeglasses every six months. I remember thinking to myself, DO NOT tell her how little you care about any of this. In the back of my head, it felt more like a cult than a corporation. Most of the people I saw looked like they were trying to be relaxed and alternative like Apple, but all the suits still roamed the halls and made everything very uptight.

Whatever you think is best works fine for me, I said. Steph and I had been living together for about six months, and I was delighted. I didn’t think I’d have to put up with the suits cause I’d be in the truck all day, so I signed all the paperwork and showed up late my first day. That’s when I found out about what they called Flexible Work Hours, which meant I could still go surfing in the morning and not get the hairy eyeball from everybody when I showed up at noon.

Four years down the road, Stephanie and I were still together and loving life. She had taught me that compromise wasn’t necessarily associated with defeat. I willingly changed things to share my experience with her, and she did the same in return. I still raced when I could and played guitar and surfed almost every morning, but I also went to garage sales and flea markets with her and even went to trendy clubs to listen to awful bands that she loved. She started to surf with me, and that’s when I knew it was us when we were in the water together, it felt right. Not correct right or meant to be right but junkie right. The kind of right that makes you feel whole and less afraid. Few things in this world have compared to the feeling I get when I’m surfing –until I surfed with someone I was deeply in love with. I remember reading some cyber-punk novels, and they talked about a drug called Merge. People would sit in a bathtub together and take it, and the drug would allow them to merge and become one. That’s what it felt like when we were both in the ocean. No matter where she was in the water, I knew we were in it together. I could chase that high for the rest of my life and just be disappointed.

I drove the rest of the way back home on nostalgia, and when I got to the apartment, it was empty, even with me in it. Karen had left a trite note about the lease and papers that needed to be signed at work because I was named Steph’s beneficiary. It didn’t matter at all to me; my only goal was to walk away with no loose ends, so I took the apartment key off my ring and set it on top of Karen’s note. Next to it I wrote, ‘do whatever you think Steph would do.’ I took one last look around, and before my emotions could pull me into the darkness, I walked out. Work was close, so I mustered up the responsibility to go and take care of shit.

I didn’t want to do this, walk down fluorescent halls, and see all those half-dead people look at me with pity, walk past her office. Hear a muffled voice that sounds like her; remember how sweet it smelled when she came down to the shipping dock to visit. Fuck them

When I got inside, I realized that no one ever knows what to say in a situation like this, so I took it on myself to make it short and sweet. I’m sure some people felt I was a little too calm about the whole thing, and I guess if I believed that death was the end of it all, I’d be more upset, but I don’t. When I got down to H.R., Mr. Price was at his desk, as always, and greeted me warmly.

Sorry to hear about your loss, Joe. My sincerest condolences to you and Stephanie’s family.

Thank you, Mr. Price, but you should know that I’ll be leaving the company also, starting now. He looked at me for a minute and then said. I understand, and if you can give me fifteen minutes, I can get all of your paperwork ready.

I had no desire to see anyone else, so I sat patiently in his sterile white office. After what seemed like an 8-hour shift and lots of intense paper shuffling, Mr. Price spoke up:

Looks like I’ve got it all together, Mr. Muncie. If you just sign right here, we can make it all final.

Make it all final; you don’t know how right you are. He spun the paperwork around and showed me the numbers. Stephanie’s life insurance, our combined stock options, and my final check from Intel netted out at 2.2 million dollars. I can remember her getting very excited every time the stocks split and saying how good it was for us, but this was ridiculous…a little beyond my belief. That’s when it became the second most shocking day of my life.

My mind was spinning all the way to the parking lot. Most people would be ecstatic, like they just won the lottery. I grabbed the closest parking meter and started to throw up. I had no idea what to do or where to go, so I got in my newly purchased piece of danger and did one of the few things I do well. I drove fast.

Speed has a calming effect on me. Growing up on a farm in the Northwest, my earliest memories involve motorized vehicles and making them go as fast as possible. Summers were spent driving everything from dune buggies to harobeds, and winters were used for repairing and maintaining them. The motorcycles and four-wheel drives were always my favorites, fast, and no need for roads.

I distinctly remember when just enjoying speed turned to racing. I must have been about 10 or 11. My brother and I had used the snowmobiles to drag some hay bales out to the cattle. The drifts were too high for the cows to make it back to the barn, so dinner was delivered. We broke the bales up and got the cattle fed. As I looked towards the house, I noticed the hay we towed out had made a smooth path across 40 acres of fresh snow, and without saying a word, we both knew it was on. He squeezed the throttle hard, and the rear of his snowmobile spun out as it followed the skis back toward the house. I’d watched how he and my other brother would lean into corners and handle them like motorbikes, so I didn’t think it could be that different. I grabbed the throttle, and the acceleration was instant. I wrestled the handlebars to point in the right direction, and I never let off on the gas. The tops of the snowdrifts had been trimmed off, and after a few seconds, each one became a launchpad. One after the other, a little more speed, a little more air. The exhilaration of leaving the ground and then, my favorite part, the fall. It was all so liberating, with no distractions, no rules. Then it happened; I could tell by the rate I was gaining on my big brother that I would pass him just before we got to the house. As we jumped the canal that separated the field from our driveway, I edged ahead in mid-air and landed first. There was enough room to bring it to a stop in the backyard where my father was standing. He never said anything, but I could tell by the smirk on his face as he walked into the house that the old man was proud. My ego was born that day, and from then on, everything’s been a race.

By the time I started to slow down, I was already on the edge of the city. The soft, warm glow of neon from the Flamingo Hotel caught my eye, and I jumped two lanes of traffic to pull into its driveway. Without much thought, I got a room, took the few things I had in the car, threw them next to the bed, sat in the cheap, easy chair, and stared at the remote control, bolted to the coffee table. Many things began to fight for attention in my head, but above all the chaos, I was pretty clear about a couple of the images I was seeing, this room being the last place I remember or a forgettable checkpoint. It had been a long time since I’d been in a