Nodding at the blue numbers, I ask him, "Been car-shopping?"

And Rant goes, "How good do you know Echo?" He sits back.

Good enough, I tell him. Pretty good.

Green Taylor Simms feathers the gas pedal, patient. The target car almost touching-close. Almost brushing the line of parked cars. Our two cars moving first-gear slow. The smell of insecticide. The flavor of rabies.

And Rant goes, "Figured maybe I'd get her a present…"

Echo is off, working, tonight. Doing some bullshit I don't want to explain here. Complicated shit.

Rant goes, "Really truly with her whole entire heart, does Echo hate somebody?"

I go, doesn't Rant mean "love"?

And Rant shrugs and says, "Ain't it the same thing?"

20–Junkyards

From the Field Notes of Green Taylor Simms (Historian): For sheer spectacle, the peak of Party Crash culture had to be Tree Nights. The idea, as always, was to choose a flag that the unaware public could dismiss as ordinary, normal—or, at worst, an accident.

Among the accident type of flags were coffee cups and sack lunches. Crash teams utilized these flags on Ooops Nights: For example, during an Ooops «Coffee» game, participants indicated they were in the game by bolting or gluing a large travel mug to the roof of their vehicle. The actual coffee was optional. In the event of an Ooops "Brown Bag" game, teams glued a brown-bag «lunch» to their roof. To the general public, these flags occurred as silly accidents, and unaware drivers might pull alongside laughing and pointing, attempting to get the driver's attention and help resolve the misplaced item.

The "Baby on Board" events used another type of mishap flag. Understandably, public reaction was somewhat less jolly at the sight of a speeding car weaving through traffic with an infant carrier and baby seemingly forgotten on the roof.

Shot Dunyun (Party Crasher): The auctioneer starts the bidding at fifty dollars, saying, "Do I hear fifty? Who wants to give me an opening bid of fifty dollars for Lot Number One?"

This is Sammy's Towing, so this must be Tuesday night. The Wednesday police impound auction is at Radio Retrieval. How organized is this? On Fridays, we'd be at Patrol Towing to preview the cars. Police crime impounds. Abandoned cars. Cars seized in drug busts or for unpaid parking tickets. Cars towed out of pay lots and never claimed, they all go for chump change to the highest bidder.

To find a car you can drive for a few days, paint and glue shit all over, and ram into another junker car, here's your market. Marked with neon-bright grease pencil, yellow or orange, in the windows of some cars you can read "Brken Tming Blt." Or "Eng Mnts crakd." In one big four-door, still messy with "Just Married" toothpaste and hanging tin cans, Auction Lot 42, written on the windshield it says, "Cam lobs scord."

The car up for bid right now, dented and crumpled, you'll find dried blood and hair still caked on the dashboard.

From the Field Notes of Green Taylor Simms: The infant doll and the carrier were, of course, bolted in place. Most teams used the same drilled hole and carriage bolts each week, switching the baby carrier for the coffee mug for the bag lunch. Other teams, as their vehicle accumulated dents and scratches, becoming less attractive as a target, these teams would expand on the basic theme. Instead of a coffee mug, they might bolt an espresso machine and a tray of demitasse cups and saucers to their roof. A basket of pain au chocolat. A silver bud vase with a single red rose trembling in the slipstream.

Shot Dunyun: The auctioneer's chanting, "Seventy-five, seventy-five, who'll give me eighty? Who'll bid eighty dollars? Do I hear eighty dollars…?"

Rant and Echo are still poking around the lot, looking under hoods. Echo pointing at bashed, rusted minivans still decorated with shreds of crepe paper and poster-paint words that say "Go Team! Tigers Go to State!" The seats and floor littered with snacks and fast-food wrappers left when the team bailed on a Soccer Mom Night.

Echo opens the driver's door of a coupe, a faded artificial Christmas tree still tied to the roof. With one finger, she punches a button on the stereo, but nothing happens. She punches it again, hard, and a disk pops out. "My favorite chase mix," she says, waving the disk for Rant to see. Echo goes, "I thought I'd never hear it again."

From the Field Notes of Green Taylor Simms: Approaching Thanksgiving, the simple misplaced-coffee-cup theme would expand to include papier-mâché turkeys, painted and varnished to a glossy brown. Sloshing stemmed goblets of red wine. Salt and pepper shakers. And tall white candles in brass holders, their flame bulbs glowing, battery-powered. A display of this extent usually signaled the last event in which a team planned to drive a particular automobile: Mounting dishes of yams and green beans required drilling dozens of holes through the roof and headliner.

For these elaborate vehicle send-offs—known as Funerals or Final Runs—teams arrived at the event grid, or field, no less than an hour before the window. Until the play officially began, these cars would parade and model their decorations, bidding one final, grand farewell before the night's play would leave them in a junkyard.

Shot Dunyun: The script artist inside me still looked for events worth out-cording. I'd reach back and touch my port, ready to switch it. Maybe out-cord an interesting moment of my awareness. The way a rusted car looked. Or the way Rant smiled at Echo when it's just her ass end stuck out from under a half-open hood, her voice muffled by grease and sheetmetal, saying, "This butterfly valve is fucked."

A few wrecks away, a bashed hardtop sits up to the rims in mud. Written across the trunk lid in bright-pink paint, sparkle-pink fingernail polish, it says "Cherry Bomb III." Next to the wreck stands Tina Something.

When Tina's fingers curl into fists and she starts stomping through the mud, advancing on Echo's ass, I switch my port to out-cord the carnage.

From the Field Notes of Green Taylor Simms: As I've mentioned, for sheer spectacle nothing surpassed Tree Nights. At those rare events, cars old and new arrived early to show off. The original idea had been to tie an evergreen Christmas tree to the roof of your vehicle, as if you were a happy family bringing it home from the corner lot or the forest. But, like the simple coffee cup that evolved into the feast, soon a plain green pine tree wasn't sufficient.

Teams used artificial trees, of course, tied lengthwise, usually with the stump looming above the car hood and ropes holding it secure to the bumpers. Beginning with the original Tree Night, teams draped their branches with silver tinsel. Teams wired bright stars to the crown that hung and bobbed above the car's trunk. People glued or wired shining ornaments among the needles. As early as two hours before a Tree Night window, Party Crashers will parade; atop their cars, their trees twinkle with colored lights, and a cord trails through a window to their cigarette lighter or vehicle wiring harness. Christmas carols will boom from every car stereo.

The moment the game window opens, those Christmas lights go black. The parading cars go silent. Teams scatter, and the real hunting begins.

Shot Dunyun: The auctioneer is saying, "Forty dollars. Do I have forty dollars? Come on, folks, it costs more than that to fill a gas tank. Do I have thirty dollars…?"