3am Brainrot

Singer Auto

Notes: his one is dedicated to whoever bought the impala from the junkyard by my house. I really (really) hate you but I hope you have an awesome time with it :)

Update: The impala isn't actually gone, they just moved it from the front so I didn't see it at first. I may or may not have overreacted lol.

Monday afternoon, for quite possibly the millionth time, I find myself biking past Singer Auto. My school was on his side of town, and on my commute, I passed the junkyard on my bike every morning and afternoon. Pumping my pedals a couple more times, I shift into a cruise, eyes on the black gem on the other side of the fence: a 1967 Chevrolet Impala.

Granted, it wasn't in the most perfect shape. The paint was faded and peeling in some parts, and the rust on the back was pretty bad. But besides that, and the fact that the back axel was on jacks, it was almost (not really) good to go. "God," I think to myself, "if only I was old enough."

A couple more months and a lot more jobs over the summer and maybe, just maybe, I could buy it from Mr Singer.

I tell myself that same thing as I pass it the next day on my way to school. And the way home. And the next day. And the day after that. Then a week later, then two weeks, then two months. Three years later... it's still sitting there, and so am I.

It got to the point where from the ruts in the ground, I knew when to slow down so I could get a good look at the Impala for as long as possible. "If only this... if only that..." Those words became a mantra drilled inside my head that I would repeat every time I passed the place.

Another month of absolutely nothing goes by, and my heart nearly plummets out of my chest from what I see: the Impala was gone. Nowhere insight to be found.

"Son of a BITCH!" I slam my hands on my handlebars; screaming to no one in particular, my outburst of anger nearly making me veer off into the ditch. Seriously?! Someone already bought it?! I had been saving up for three YEARS and this is what I get?!

"Fuck it," I say aloud again. "I'm talking to Singer."

Unlatching the front gate, I half ride - half walk - my bike over to the main garage. I easily found the old man in question, swearing from underneath another one of his many cars.

"Hey, Mr Singer?" I park my bike up against a miscellaneous metal door. Being the town drunk and junkyard, Mr Singer didn't come out much, although I saw no problem with him. He was nice, let me stay over when my folks got too much, and even let me join for dinner a couple of times. Personally, I saw the guy as a distant uncle or something.

I had yet to meet his kids though, despite him talking about them all the time. They seemed like a weird bunch; 'specially that Dean kid.

"I couldn't help but notice the Impala out front was gone." I continue, motioning to the now empty spot towards the front of the junkyard. "You finally sell it?"

He doesn't look up from his current position, bent over an old '65 mustang, wrench in hand and car stains everywhere. "Kid, what did I tell you about just callin' me Bobby?"

I nod my head. "Habit, sorry... Bobby, d'you finally sell the Impala out front?"

Satisfied with my new revised question, he shakes his head and throws a couple of the tools from his hands into their respective boxes. "Actually, no... Ol' thing's been out here in the elements so long, I cleared it for the crusher this mornin'."

I can't help but hide the surprise in my voice, "WHAT?! Why! I-"

I cut myself off from continuing. "I loved that car!" I wanted to say, "I was waiting for my 16th birthday to buy it from you!" I wanted to say more, but I kept my mouth shut.

Without a word, Bobby motions over towards the crusher behind the garage.

Following him over to the 1967 Chevrolet Impala on the ramp to the crusher pad, I feel my spirits sink even more. It was like looking at your loved one on their deathbed. "My son has one the same exact model as this one," I find Bobby saying. He motions towards the shell of a car in front of us, "but he's been using it for parts... Boy busts up that thing more times than I can count!"

He scrubs his beard with his hand, trailing a smear of oil in its wake, "I didn't expect to ever get more than a thousand or so off it. 'S a piece of junk anyway."

My ears perk up, "A thousand?! Seriously?!"

Singer gives me a sideways glance. "Yeah? That's what I said, ain't it?"

I squeeze my hands behind my back to try and calm my heart rate. "Bobby..." Ugh, how do I get this out? "Bobby, I have six hundo saved up right now." I whip out my phone and show him my banking app. "$616.36 to be exact. It's two summers of babysitting and random jobs but Bobby I swear-" I try and reason with him, "I'll pay you my six hundred right now and I can ask Steve if I can work a couple of extra shifts at the Gas 'n Sip down the road-" I'm stumbling over my own words.

"It's yours kid."

"Maybe if I mow some yards... Wait, what?!" I stare at Bobby, my brain trying to figure out if he had even spoken at all, or I had just imagined it. "WHAT?!" I repeat, louder.

He chuckles before answering again. "It's yours... If you want it so bad you can have it." He fishes a pair of keys out of his pocket as if he was planning it all along. "Happy birthday kid."

My brows furrow, I had been talking to Singer for long enough that I would think that he would know by now. "Bobby, I don't turn 16 still for a couple more months..."

He waves me aside and tosses me the keys, nodding over to the broken car still on the ramp, "Well, I know I haven't gotten my eyes checked in a while... But that Impala doesn't look in tip-top shape to me, now does it?"

Still flabber-ghasted, I look at Bobby bewildered. "Have you been drinkin' again?" It falls out of my mouth before I can even save myself.

He chuckles a belly laugh big enough to make Santa Clause jealous. "No, I haven't been drinkin', not today at least." He claps me on the shoulder, earning myself a brand new oil spot. Thank god it wasn't a new shirt. "Listen, kid," Bobby lets his hand slide off, "that thing barely moves, I had to practically push it onto that ramp... If you can get that thing runnin' - and I mean runnin' good - then it's yours. Don't gotta pay me a nickel."

"Plus," He pushes my phone back into my chest, I still had it pulled up with my six hundred. "Upgradin' that thing so it's even bearable is gonna cost ya' a pretty penny." He gives a good scan of the car, already pricing it out in his head, "Tires alone are gonna be a small fortune-"

He doesn't even finish the statement before I wrap him in a huge hug. My hands latching around his shoulders. "Thank you so much, Mr Singer!" If I wasn't so gosh-darned happy right now I would have broken down crying.

He chuckles and returns the hug, "Anytime kid... You make this old pathetic drunk happy so I wanted to do somethin' special for your 16th. Saw you had your eye on that thing for a while now so I thought it was the perfect thing. Figured your folks weren't doin' nothin' so it was the least I could do."

"Thank you so much, Mr Sin-" I find myself repeating what I just said 10 seconds ago and I pull out of the hug.

"I mean," I try to shake it off as if it was nothing. But it was true. Despite still having a couple of months, my parents hadn't even mentioned anything to me about it. "I really do appreciate it, Bobby. It honestly means the world to me."

Again he chuckles and gives me a second pat on the back, "Anytime kid, seriously, you deserve this." He briefly glances at his watch and turns to me with a smile, "Well I'm hungry and could do an early supper... you in?"

"Absolutely!" I rub my stomach. "Whose car we takin'?"

Bobby laughs and puts away the last of his tools, "Not yours, for sure."

Playfully, I knock my shoulder with his, "Hey! In due time..." I slip the keys of MY Impala into my pocket, "In due time."