Hopper and Cal ep. 1 [18:10][NARRATIVES]

An audiobook series

Paper in hand, butt in jeans, hair affixed just correctly because why the hell not. He wondered how he looked but wondered again why he wondered. Absolutely pointless. The man was a mechanic after all. And he was here to ask the man to fix a car which is what mechanics do.

A large tree loomed over him. It peeked just over the brick wall, laid down probably some hundred years ago, slathered and plastered in paint from years and years of nothingness. Watching the grass grow and cut and grow and cut with every season, every passing thought of every passerby. I wonder how many paintmen, paintwomen have come and gone over the years to paint me, the wall probably thought to himself. If the wall could talk. If walls could talk, he bet that’s what they would say. That’s what he would say after all.

A bead of sweat dropped down the side of his face, just missing his eye. The tiny amoeba, the very cells that made up his white ball of gelatinous matter celebrated in glorious hallelujah at this wondrous occasion-what’s this? Another bead of sweat? Quick, tell the brain-

Stop procrastinating, he said to himself. His eye was now on fire, and he squinted it underneath the hot august sun. He pulled the handle of the large black metal gate, and released it from its latch. The gate swung open, and before him lay a somewhat strangely familiar landscape. A large sea of hardened blacktop stretched out from the white brick wall behind him towards the base of the imposing oak tree. To its left, a little mobile shack, half mobile home, half mobile office. To the right, a three port garage, and further behind the tree, another three port garage.

An inhalation. The thousand leaves in the trees at once picked up conversation, a gust of wind carrying them along. They spoke down at him, asking him where he came from, what his business was, why the color of his jacket, why this lonely shop at the end of a lonely street in the outskirts of a lonely town. He listened to their calls and their beckons and questions and lamented at the fact that there really was no answer. He could speak no language of tree nor could they ever speak any language of his. They were, for all intents and purposes, alien to one another. Yet here they were, breathing the same air, planted on the same rock, their senses awash in each others’ presence.

Once at the foot of the steps of the door of the shack, he studied the car ports in closer view. Within the farther carport, some old European sedan sat with its hood open. It seemed to be missing an engine. Next to it, an empty port stacked with tools, tires, and other assortment of mechanical clutter. In the last spot, some vehicle covered with gray tarp. In the other garage, a car sat atop a mechanical lifter. Its wheels had been ripped off, and it lay with its undercarriage exposed, the bones of its feet, showing their age and their rust, the wear of their years. The rest of the garage lay empty, other than more tools and clutter.

He went for a door knock, but found it already open. A slightly balding man stood there, his remaining hairs swept back into a long, gray ponytail. Resting on his nose and hanging off his ears was a pair of thick, black, rounded glasses, with what seemed to be a heavy grade. Eyebrows were raised, and handshakes exchanged.

My name’s Hopper. Welcome to Hopper’s Japanese / Euro Auto-Spec. Or Hopper’s One Stop Auto Shop if you’d like, I still haven’t decided. The older gentleman appeared to be of Asian descent, and somewhere within the younger gentleman’s mind, a flash of some news article of some unknown date, speaking about some unknown string of business owners in Northern California. The significance, the author postured? They were Asian.

My name’s Cal. I actually found you through the internet. You work on vintage Japanese cars.
In fact, I do. Vintage European cars too. What do you got?
Well, it’s a barn find, actually. I found it sitting under a tree on some property up in Folsom. An old Mitsubishi.
Ahhh, Mitsubishi, really? Extra rare. What kind?
Cal raised his brows by mere millimeters, but, using the force of a thousand suns, and calling upon the strength of one thousand dragons, he ceased the movement of his left eyebrow, and his right eyebrow followed suit. He could not, under no circumstances, show any sign of weakness, nor any sign of amusement nor interest. Under no circumstances could he be swindled, he thought to himself.

Uh…sir?
Yes?
What kind of Mitsubishi?
Oh, the gentleman mentioned something about a 3000gt.
Oh really? Do you have any pictures?

Oh, Hopper seems to be showing some sort of interest in this car. Hopper, right? Hopper is his name, right? Why am I asking myself. Hopper’s Japanese / European Auto Shop. No. Hopper’s Japanese / Euro Auto Stop. No, that’s not right-

Sir.
Yes. Pictures, actually, I have it on a trailer on the street outside.
Oh, wow, can we take a look at it then?
Yes, please, after you-

Hopper observed the young man. Just like them weirdo kids I see walking around nowadays, he thought to himself. Weird hair, with their weird jeans, and their weird hoodies. Although he’s not too bad I suppose. A little weird looking, but-

Sir?
Yes?
After, you sir, it’s on my trailer outside.
Oh, yes. Let’s take a look-

And there she was. In all her glory. Every molecule, every atom of every component of every song and dance she had ever sung and danced, carrying with her the weight of every soul she had ever cared for. Dark green. Like the color of trees in the park just before sunset. Mixed with splotches of rust, flaked paint, and faded sun spots. Three wheels, both men observed. Both men crossed their arms, Cal resting his fingers on his lips. Three wheels, yet two doors. Faded paint, yet complete interior. Missing door cap, yet intact headlights. Something for something. This for that. A piece for yours. A piece for mine.

He wondered at all the pieces people had taken with the, over the years. This was a vintage car of course. And with vintage cars come vintage people with vintage memories. He wondered at all the people with their hands on the wheel. The number of kisses shared leaning on the hood. How many tears shed screaming down the highway. This was a fast car after all, and fast cars are meant to run away.

Who had dropped this car off under that tree and why did they decide this car could run no more? Who took the fourth wheel, the gas cap, who took the gear stick handle, the glove compartment door, who took the rear view mirror, and the latch for the convertible roof? Who in their right mind wore the rear tires out to damn near bald, but kept the front tires new?

So many questions, so many leaves, so many years, so many people.

So what are you thinking sir? Cal asked.
Well. Considering just what kind of a car this is, I would say this is quite the barn find. Where did you say you found this again?
Up in folsom. At a property. Someone listed it for sale online four hours before I saw it. I was there within three hours. That was yesterday. Here I am now.
I see. Well, I’ll lay it out flat for you. What you’ve got here is a 1997 Mitsubishi 3000GT VR4. One of less than three hundred made.
Ever?
Ever.
I see.
Right. This one’s in pretty bad condition, but, I could see what I can do.
How much do you think to get it running?
Hmmm. To get it road worthy, as in driveable on the road, I would say….

The man paused and pulled out a smart device. He began running calculations and searching inventories on the fly. Cal was impressed to say the least. The man appeared to be sincerely interested. Cal waited and again his mind drifted towards the carports. He wondered at the car laying underneath the gray tarp. Probably Hopper’s car. Probably his daily driver. But why was it so dusty?

I’d have to replace the engine with a working one. I could drop in an engine from some other car from the local junkyards and try to see if it could take that way. Otherwise, trying to find this specific engine would be like….

Cal waited for the tingles his brain would feel once the satisfaction of this metaphor arrived.

It would be like, just very difficult.
I see.
It would be like trying to find the engine of a 70 year old car and making sure that engine works and is not wanted by some other dude who wants that engine. That would make the engine alone very expensive.
How expensive are we talking?
Mmm. Probably anywhere from 5-15 thousand depending on the condition and where it’s coming from.
I see.
Plus, we’d have to order a matching wheel, restore the remaining wheels, fit new tires on, realign everything, and that’s not to mention the transmission work. We’d have to make sure whatever transmission that’s in there will take whatever engine we throw at her. For all we know, the transmission could be on its way out too, and so we’d have to order an entire new transmission and consider all the same things as the we considered with the engine.
Right.
Right.
Is it doable?
Oh yes, absolutely.
Alright well. You’ve got a blank check.

Hopper paused and tilted his head slightly, the way his old dog used to. What do you mean sir?
I mean, let’s do the job and I’ll pay you whatever you need.
I’m sorry, which job, making it run?
Oh no, a full restoration.
Oh, I was talking about making it driveable, the price of a full restoration is way-
Oh yes, I know. Whatever it takes, sir.

Hopper paused again. What a weirdo kid, he thought. So you mean to tell me, you want me to fix this car up, essentially from the ground up, and make it like new?
That’s right.
You know that’ll cost like, probably anywhere from thirty to forty thousand dollars, right? Probably more, depending on how long it takes.
Yes, I understand, sir. Would you like the job or-

Hopper was almost taken aback. He couldn’t help but giggle. Firstly, what an ultra rare and wondrous car to have driven into his lot, on this day of all days. He also couldn’t believe the absolute monstrous balls of this kid to ask him if hE wOuLd LiKe ThE jOb- what kind of ballsy ass kid does this- and three, he thought to himself.

Three. The bills. One more and this shop would go up. And he would go up. And he would fly away, yet again, on a cloud of irresponsibility and alcohol. But a hearty thirty to forty thousand, with stipulations on a percentage of any auction sales? Bada bing bada boom baby, alcoholic clouds are kept at bay just a little longer.

Yeah alright, what was your name again?
Cal.
Good to meet you, Cal. I’m Hopper.
Hopper of Hopper’s Euro / Japanese Auto Spec.
Hey…that’s a good one. Okay well. I have some questions.
Shoot.
First. What are you planning on doing with the car once it’s done?
Good question. One plan is to take it racing and push it hard until it dies a glorious death on the race track. Or two, sell it at auction for however much it’ll go for and make off with the money somewhere. I’ll probably do a bit of number one and then do number two if anything.
I see, I see. Hopper pondered to himself, and stroked the little hairs coming off of his chin.
If you do sell it at auction, I’d like my name advertised alongside. Plus a percentage.
Cal paused. He wasn’t expecting to get into a pricing argument this late into the game, nor was he prepared for an argument on percentages based on auction sales.
How much, Cal asked.
20%-
Twenty percent, absolutely no way, 5%
18%-
5%, or I’ll take it somewhere else.
Take it where, sir, there is no one else for hundreds of miles who can do what I do, not for this car.

A warm wind blew between them, curling leaves and dust around their legs and feet. The green car lay silent, watching the two men bicker about thing one and thing two, one thing or another, about this thing and that thing, what about this, who about that, how about you, no that’s good.

I’ll take you up on it. Hopper finally said what he’d been meaning to say as soon as he saw this young gentleman walking up across the street. Let’s get the trailer up the driveway and we can unload it in front of one of the garages.
One thing, Mr. Hopper-
Please, just Hopper.
Okay, Hopper. I’ll pay you on one condition.

Hopper almost rolled his eyes. Of course. Here it was. The condition.
Yes, what’s up.
You must teach me what you are doing.

The old, ponytailed and bearded man, name on the deed of this here auto shop, some once unknown, who’d come from some primordial blackness at some far point in time, specks of dust once floating through empty and vast voids, kissed by the warmth of stars, the violent and excruciatingly painful processes of stop and go and stop and go, casting his pieces further and further out into that cold blackness, now found himself faced with uncomfortable familiarity.

Teach you?
Yes, teach me.
As in, teach you how to restore the whole car?
Yes, teach me.
Can I ask why?
Well, because I’d like to know.

Hopper looked on with amusement. His brows now formed an almost perfect arch, a look of surprised acceptance on his face.

Well that makes sense, I suppose. I just don’t really have much time and there’s just a lot going on here-

Hoppers voice trailed off as their gazes both turned towards the lonely, decrepit shop at the dead end of Keeley Avenue.
You were saying sir?