In my early twenties I did time at the Red Deer Costco where I made the acquaintance of Wayne, a lanky loud mouthed 45 year old Caucasian with unusually dark brown skin and the gnarliest case of gingivitis I have ever seen. Despite his grotesque appearance and irritating demeanour Wayne had character, and if you could appreciate this ripened rebel for what he was I guess you could say he was an alright guy. He didn't have much money on account of his alcoholism, multi-pack a day smoking habit and vlt poker addiction. Due in no small part to these indiscretions his daily driver was a 1989 Nissan Micra.
Lady luck had finally shone on Wayne though, he had come into some money from a dead relative or something and I can't recall the details. I do remember that he was squandering a good chunk of his inheritance on a new vehicle and was therefore unloading the Micra for the even-handed price of $200. I told my brother David that this was the opportunity of a lifetime and based on my advice he decided to buy Wayne's car from him sight unseen. My mother drove David to the parking lot of MGM Ford to meet Wayne and the car on a Wednesday around 2pm, where they found him sitting on a curb in the parking lot drinking a beer. Upon seeing my mother Wayne threw his half drunk beer into the open window of the Micra and into the backseat, a move that did not go unnoticed by either of them. After looking into the car and seeing that the floor was littered with a couple flats worth of empty beer cans and peppered with cigarette butts and also noticing that the upholstery was filthier than a Thai brothel he told Wayne that he didn't have the money because he wanted no part of the car. Not wanting to have the deal queered, Wayne told David that he trusted him and so he should just take the car now and pay him later. David, not wanting to offend Wayne, obliged and drove the little shit box home.
At the time I was 22 years of age and, like most unambitious youngsters was still leaching off my parents by living in their basement. I was relaxing in the living room when David pulled up to the house. I was ecstatic for him; nothing is more liberating than owning your first car. I bounded outside in my stocking feet to congratulate him but as I neared I could tell he was morose about the whole transaction. He started explaining how gross the car was but before he finished his sentence I hopped in the driver's seat and told him to get in because we had to bust the cherry on this bitch. As we drove out to the main drag David was bringing me down, telling me all the reasons why he didn't want the car. I knew from experience that reasoning and explaining things to David was as futile as buying drinks for a lesbian at the bar to get laid. Luckily it was election time in Red Deer; I could show David why this car was cool instead of fumbling for words in an attempt to elucidate. As we turned onto the near by 4 lane street and began to accelerate, I could see that the side of the road ahead was beleaguered with campaign signs for the coming election, promoting withered faces alongside their empty promises. Without hesitation I reefed the steering wheel, bouncing the car up and over the curb and onto the grass. The first few signs we struck were nothing to write home about, they folded easily under the front bumper. The last sign however was a very large one placed by the Alberta Alliance Party, erected with 2'x4"'s and was at least 6 feet high and wide. As the Micra punched through its supporting wooden legs in the center it slammed down onto the windshield but slid harmlessly up and over the roof and onto the ground behind us, thus casting my vote of non-confidence on the grassy ballot. Point proven I gently eased us back onto the road way, attempting to blend into traffic amongst stupefied motorists. I took a few alleys to shake any tail I might have acquired due my electoral signage gaucherie then parked in front of my parent's house. David, while enthusiastic about the potential fun he could have with the car was still unconvinced. He made it very clear he wanted no part of the car, being very young $200 was still $200.
I solemnly took the car to work the next day to return it, but as fate would have it Wayne had called in sick. While boxing thousands of groceries for thankless customer's I got an idea. I could smash the monotony of this day by forgoing food and instead using my lunch break to do a couple laps on a nearby dirt-bike track. I reasoned to myself that Wayne was the kind of guy who really wouldn't care; he told me if my brother didn't buy his car that it was probably going to the crusher anyways. At noon I clocked out and headed to retrieve the keys from my locker with a skip in my step as temptation had gotten the better of me. There I bumped into a cashier named Megan and asked her if she wanted to come long for a ride, I said nothing of our destination, I only promised it would be memorable. As we headed for the warm glow of natural light filtering in through the front doors we encountered Windsley, a black dude new hire from Toronto who also readily accepted my mysterious invitation.
We piled into the little beater and steamed off towards the dirt bike jumps. As we transitioned from pavement onto the dirt path towards the track I could see my two fellow occupants grinning from ear to ear. For 10-15 mins we rounded steeply banked corners and floated over 5-6 foot high rollers as fast as the little old car could go, on the razors edge of control the whole time. There were a few people smoking in front of Westridge Cabinets which was right across the road, mouths agape as they watched the little Micra circuiting the track, kicking up brown clouds of dust in the heat waves of the afternoon. At approximately 12:25 Megan informed me that we should probably head back in order to be on time. Being an insatiable adrenaline junkie, never able to call it quits until I get that last big thrill I rounded the final corner in the circuit and brought the car to a stop. There was one great mound which we had not driven over and it lay about 400m ahead, between us and the road that lead back to Costco. I said "hold on, she has one more left in her" and gunned it towards the hill. We had only flat ground to cover which allowed me to build quite a lot of speed, on final approach we reached about 75kph as we neared the knoll, faster than I had been able to get going on any other part of the track. As usual I ignored the impulse to speed check and just went for it. The transition from level ground to jump looked gentle, but it was crafted for dirt bikes and not a car so at the rate we were traveling it caused the front suspension to compress harshly, slamming the front bumper into the compacted soil. That's when I first sensed danger. Momentum then caused us to spurt up the jump like lotion being squeezed out of a tube with a plugged end. As we crested the rise it became apperent that this was no gentle roller like the rest at the track; this was a table top jump with a steep 10 ft drop on the backside, which I realized only as the engine began to over rev and I felt the car go weightless. Airborne, our trajectory just felt wrong, and we experienced gravity like never have before. The front of the car sank like a rock, changing the scene in the front window from sky to horizon to flat ground at an alarming rate. The ride came to an abrupt halt as the front end of the car punched the earth at slightly better than 45 degrees digging in deeply. I could taste the impact on the back of my tongue it was so hard. Thank Christ I had my seatbelt on. We came to a dead stop, my head slamming into the steering wheel and ricocheting off into the roof. Megan, unbuckled, became intimate with the dash and then the windshield. Her glasses came to rest in my lap. Windsley, who was in the back seat unbelted as well got acquainted with the gear shift and then the center console finally coming to rest between the two of us in the front. In a thick haze of brown grit I asked if they were ok. They both moaned a "yeah, kind of" type answer. We were all covered in the garbage that had been strewn about the car and a fine coating of dirt. I had to climb out of the car through the window because the impact had permanently seized the door shut. As we brokenly made it out and milled around the crash site looking at the Micra in a daze we realized how lucky we were to be able to walk away. The font suspension had been totally crushed, the force of the crash shoving the front tires into the partially vacant engine compartment from the bottom. This renovation was only made possible because the engine had broken off its mounts and now protruded slightly from a dislodged hood. After a short time of reflection we three began the long limp back to the warehouse. Upon entering I went straight to the ATM by the door and withdrew $200 to put in Wayne's locker, which I left with a note "here's for the car, piece of shit already died on me". We were all late and as I was scanning in a manger inquired as to the blood that was soaking the hair at the top of my head and dripping down the back of my neck. I just shrugged and said I was in a car accident and was not questioned further. Neither of the other two had any cuts, just very sore necks and limbs and most likely bruises, I'm not sure because neither of them really spoke to me again that day, or for the remainder of my employment for that matter. It got weird.
I finished the final 4 hours of my shift in discomfort, the fog from the blunt force head trauma never fully clearing that day. I had to call my brother David to come pick me up from work as I had incapacitated my ride home. On the way I got him to stop by the moto-track and removed the license plate and VIN marker off the dash in hopes that this would be the last I heard of the Micra. The next day however I got a call at home from Wayne, apparently the police had found the car, checked the VIN on the engine block (that I didn't know about) and assumed it was stolen. I'm not sure what Wayne told them because I never did hear anything from the fuzz, but he did tell me that he was being held responsible for a $200 towing bill and that the car was now in the scrap yard. He thought the situation was mildly humorous but was not happy about me brining police heat on him. The next time I saw him at work I offered to pay the tow bill but he refused once he got the whole story.