Behind the Windshield

This is based on a true story...

I wiped my brow, streaking it with grease and sweat, as I finally wrenched off the last fender of the day from a beat-up 1969 Dodge Superbee. The smell of oil and gasoline hung in the humid Oklahoma air, mingling with the scent of sun-scorched grass. The backyard was a jungle of muscle cars, all in various states of disrepair, scattered in every direction along the fences I'd helped him build over the years. There was something oddly majestic about the way these rusting beasts stood lined up, as if still waiting for their next street race. They were guardians of our little kingdom, corroding along the fence line we’d hammered together over the summer. Dad was proud of this makeshift empire, and so was I—most of the time.

My uncle Chris, who, strangely enough, was my age (a quirky family detail I’ve learned not to question), had been helping me all day. He’d show up every summer, claiming he was there to help me out, but I had a sneaking suspicion it was more about escaping MTV reruns and the stale air conditioning of his house. As I set down the fender in its designated spot, Chris appeared behind me, dropping off the one he’d just removed with a loud clunk. I grabbed a chunk of cut-up cardboard from a nearby stack and carefully placed it in front of the tan fender Chris had propped up, protecting it like some sacred relic. It was a rhythm we'd perfected: wrench, haul, wipe sweat, repeat.

"Man, this is a weird summer," Chris said, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt.

"Yeah, but at least we’re not stuck inside," I replied, already knowing how strange our twelve-year-old lives looked compared to our friends. While other kids were skateboarding or playing Nintendo, we were dismantling cars and building fences. But it wasn't all bad; Dad rewarded our hard work with pizza, or, if he was feeling fancy, Taco Mayo. And if we were really lucky, he’d drop us off at the movies, where we’d see Twister for the umpteenth time, reciting lines with more accuracy than Bill Paxton himself.

When we’d finally finished, Chris and I made our way to the old water pump. Its cement base still bore the tiny handprints my sister and I had pressed into it when we were little. I reached for the orange-scented grease remover, something that smelled more like a Florida orchard than an auto shop. As soon as we’d rubbed every inch of our hands and forearms with the stuff, Chris yanked the spigot handle, and we rinsed the grime away, watching the dirt snake down the cracks in the concrete. After rinsing off, I took off my worn-out blue Adidas cap—the one I insisted on wearing backward because that’s how all the cool guys in movies did it. I ducked my head under the water, letting it wash over me, the cold rivulets cutting through the heat like a blessed relief. When I straightened up, I noticed a blond streak in my hair right where the hole in my hat had let the sun bleach it all summer. I couldn’t help but smirk. If that wasn’t a thirteen-year-old’s idea of rebellion, I didn’t know what was.

“Man, you think Jeremy’s home?” Chris asked, referring to our cousin who lived on the property.

“Nah, he’d be out here washing his own grease off if he was,” I replied. Jeremy was always around when he was home, usually scrubbing the oil from his forearms alongside us.

Chris and I had plans for a sleepover, so I hopped on my Mongoose BMX bike, which gleamed in the evening sun like some chrome-plated stallion. It had all the trimmings—gyro, pegs, and flat-landing tires—and made me feel invincible. Chris climbed onto his GT, just as tricked out, and zipped off toward his house next door. I took off down the street, wind whipping my unbuttoned short-sleeve shirt behind me like I was starring in my own action movie. I cruised down the street at the end of our cul-de-sac, full of anticipation.

After a quick shower and letting my parents know I’d be at Chris’s, I headed back out, savoring the ride to his house. The evening air was cooler now, carrying the promise of nightfall. My shirt flapped against my shoulders, and I felt like I was on top of the world—free and fearless. Then something caught my eye: a flash of blonde hair in the backyard next to the shop. Dad’s renters had family visiting from out of town, and I wasn’t sure if it was the heat or the long day of manual labor, but I swore I saw an angel in jean shorts. She was tall, with legs that stretched on for days and a face that could make you forget your own name. I was thirteen, and suddenly, I felt like I’d been hit by a truck—a truck filled with butterflies, that is. 

I kept pedaling, but my mind was racing. I cut through my cousin’s yard, making a beeline for Chris’s back gate, pretending I wasn’t trying to get another glimpse. When I reached Chris’s porch, I burst through the door like a madman. My grandmother (Chris' and my dad's mother) was there, puffing away on a cigarette, the TV droning on in the background. “Hola,” I muttered as I shuffled past her into Chris's room.

“Dude! There’s a smokin’ hot girl next door to Dad’s shop!” I practically yelled. Chris was sprawled out on his cheetah-print bedsheets, MTV blaring on his tiny TV. He glanced up, intrigued, but still too cool to show it.

“Yeah? What’re you waiting for?” he grinned.

“Come on!” I urged. Within seconds, we were both on our bikes, tearing through the backyard like secret agents on a mission. We parked our bikes next to our dream cars—his dull charcoal '73 Dodge Charger with a faded yellow hood and flames, and my pale red '74 Plymouth Roadrunner with its dull gray hood and and a spoiler that made me feel like I was already cruising the strip. We looked over the fence and saw nothing but lights on in the house. 

Feeling defeated, we climbed into "Chris' Charger" and decided to have some fun, pretending to do burnouts while blasting music from imaginary speakers. Just as we were starting to feel cool as cucumbers, we heard a rustling noise behind us. Glancing in the rearview mirror, we spotted a group of teenagers dressed in all black, sneaking through the gap in the fence right behind the car. They were whispering and laughing, glancing around as if they were up to no good.. We slouched down in our seats, holding our breath, and watched in complete silence as the scene unfolded.

And there she was, even more gorgeous than I’d thought. She stood with a group of boys, presumably her siblings, their laughter mixing with the hum of cicadas as they darted in and out of the cars parked in the yard. They were playing tag, weaving around like shadows, trying not to get caught. And Chris and I? They darted around, giggling and tripping over themselves, while we sat silently in the front seat of the Charger, hearts pounding.

“Should we… say something?” Chris whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Are you nuts?” I hissed back. “They’ll think we’re creeps!” But deep down, we both wanted to. We wanted to be part of their world, if only for a moment.

They ran around a bit more, their laughter echoing in the stillness, and then, one by one, they started heading back inside. The girl glanced our way for the briefest second, her silhouette outlined against the porch light, and my heart stopped. To our horror, started walking toward us. Any closer, and they’d see us for sure. Chris and I exchanged a panicked glance, bracing ourselves for the moment they'd peer through the window. But they passed us, giggling as they slipped through the fence and back toward their house. It was like she knew we were there, hiding in the shadows, watching her leave.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I'd been holding. As they disappeared, Chris and I shared a look, that unspoken language of boys who’d just seen the impossible. “Man, that was awesome,” he said with a goofy grin.

“Yeah,” I replied, a dopey smile plastered on my face. “The girl next door.”

We crept out of the car and peeked over the fence, watching the girl’s silhouette sway back toward the house. We both nodded in unspoken agreement: she was the most beautiful thing we'd ever seen. That was the last time I saw her, and maybe it’s better that way—leaving her etched in my memory as that untouchable, golden moment of summer. But every now and then, when I see an old car or smell the tang of orange grease remover, I remember that night, and it still feels like magic.

Years later, whenever I think about her—the girl next door—I can't help but smile. We all have that person, that fleeting, beautiful mystery that we never quite had the courage to approach. So next time you raise a glass, be it a shot, a beer, or wine, toast to your own “girl next door,” that untouchable memory that lingers just out of reach.