RIPP. Trying to decide for certain where our life is headed is impossible. We seem to always have an idea of which direction we want it to go or how we want to end up; but getting there, for the most part, is always a surprise. If we fill our life with events and actions contrary to God’s will, it will inevitably take us in a direction we wish was different. If we act in a manner in accordance with what is good, right and just, life offers us the best of riches.

Life’s riches can’t always be measured in dollar signs. Sometimes we need to measure wealth in smiles. I have spent the majority of my days laughing and smiling no matter what is going on. I have a temper and I often get angry, but fifteen minutes after whatever made me angry is gone, I’m smiling again.

I am not a perfect example of what God expects me to be. I make mistakes, and I make a lot of them. All of mankind makes mistakes, because we’re allowed to make our own decisions. Minimizing our mistakes by consciously considering the decisions we make ensures we’re living our life to the best of our ability. The path our life takes and the direction we travel, be it good or be it bad, gets down to one thing; the type of decisions we make. Life is about choices. Making great choices separates those of us who are inherently good from those of us who are undoubtedly bad.

With Vee, I was pretty damned sure I made a good choice. Because life after Vee was full of a lot more smiles than it was before she stepped into it. Even if she wasn’t with me, I smiled more often than I did before I met her.

“So, you really think you wanna do this?” he screamed out the left window of his car.

Feathering the throttle to keep the engine up to speed, I turned to my right and smiled from ear to ear, making sure he saw my gold tooth. I figured it’d be a nice touch to the certain ass whippin’ he was gonna get when the light turned green. The unmistakable sound of a supercharger whined from under his hood. His new model Mustang was a fast car, no doubt. A modified new model Mustang with ten thousand dollars of performance parts and a supercharger was a damned fast car. But, no matter what this kid had done to his car, one thing would never change.

It. Was. A. Ford.

“You just wanna go on green?” he shouted.

I pushed the gear shifter into first gear, revved the engine a little bit and let it come back down to a loping idle. As the car shook from the race cam which powered the engine, I chewed on my toothpick and turned to face him. I bit down on the mangled wood and grinned as I shouted through my clenched teeth over the sound of the exhaust.

“You go when it turns green. We’ll race to Frotenac, up ahead. I’ll catch up, don’t worry,” I laughed.

Cars continued to flow through the cross street. The frontage roads which parallel the highway in Texas have extremely long stop lights to accommodate all of the traffic entering and exiting the highways.

He shook his head and visibly rolled his eyes as he looked up at the traffic light. The cross traffic light changed to yellow. His engine speed increased and the sound of his supercharger began to spin into a high pitched whine which would warn most people to stay away from his car in a street race.

I’m not most people.

And the Chevelle wasn’t a typical car.

I pressed the gas pedal three-fourths of the way to the floor. With both windows down, the sound was ear piercing. The smell of the high octane jet fuel I had mixed with the gasoline leeched into the car and began to burn my eyes. At the instant the light turned green, his car lurched forward fifteen feet without as much as spinning a tire.

Impressive.

I pressed the gas pedal all the way to the floor and released the clutch most of the way out. As the car yanked me back into the seat and began to slide sideways, I let up off of the gas, released the clutch the rest of the way, and stomped the gas pedal to the floor. The car pulled hard again, shifting to the right. He was a good thirty feet ahead of me as I slapped the shifter into second gear.

The sound of the tires screeching as the car went into second gear lasted a second or so, and then the tires gripped. Short of me missing a gear or blowing my motor, this race was just about to end. Quickly, I began to gain what distance I had allowed him to get ahead. As I shifted into third gear, the tires chirped, and I was immediately even with his door.

Sorry, dude. Buy a fucking Chevy.

The difference between a car that is fast and a car that is god damned fast is the same as the difference between chicken and burgers. The Chevelle, by anyone’s standards, was so god damned fast it should be illegal to drive on the street. As Frontenac approached, I yanked the shifter into fourth gear, now a good thirty feet ahead of his car and steadily gaining speed. As I passed the intersection, I released the gas pedal and my tension on the toothpick at the same time.

As the car coasted down to a more manageable speed, I applied the brakes, slowed down and pulled into the strip center. I parked the car, shut off the ignition and was opening the door when I head the whine of the Mustang’s motor. I smiled as I got out and turned in the direction of the approaching car.

The driver pulled into a spot a few stalls over and shut off the car. He was boyish looking and had a really pretty face for a guy. As he got out, he shook his head and smiled. His facial features were well defined and masculine, but almost pretty enough to be an ugly woman.

“Dallas?” he said as he walked my direction.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Football. You play for Dallas? The Cowboys?” he asked as he walked toward the Chevelle.

“Nope. Boxer,” I responded.

“You’re a boxer?” he asked.

“Yep,” I nodded.

“Austin,” he said as he offered his hand.

“Yep, born and raised,” I said as I shook his hand.

“No, it’s my name,” he chuckled.

“No shit?” I laughed, “Mine’s Mike. Call me Ripp. Your car’s a fast little fucker.”

“Well, Ripp. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I thought my car was fast,” he said as he peered past me.

“So, what’s the deal with this car?” he asked as he pointed to the Chevelle.

“Was my Pop’s car in high school. I bought it from him ten years ago. Restored it. Took the stock 396 out, and put a 502 in it. Didn’t really like the 502 out of the crate, so I put a different cam in it and a few other things. Probably pushing about 800 hundred horses, give or take,” I grinned big enough that he could see Goldie.

Just in case he didn’t at the street light.

“Nice tooth,” he laughed, “You win that fight?”

“Undefeated,” I laughed, “well, for the most part. I lost one sparring match a while back. Shane Dekkar schooled my ass.”

“Shane Dekkar? Like Shame on Dekkar?” his voice changed a few octaves when he said Shane’s name.

“Yeah, that’s him. Been out of puberty long?” I joked, making fun of his voice.

“Fuck you, asshole. I’m thirty, I just look young. I got excited. Watching him fight that guy, uhhm,” he paused, looked down at the parking lot and rubbed his forehead.

“Mc Claskey,” I sighed.

“Yeah. Holy shit. He looked like he was going to lose that fight. You know when the camera went to his corner and that little blonde was screaming at him. Holy shit, he came out and beat the brakes off of that dude. It was something. I’m kind of a fan,” he grinned as he looked up.

“A fan of Dekk, or a boxing fan in general? And did you tell me to fuck off a minute ago?” I did my best to sound gruff.

“Fan of boxing in general, and I probably did. I’ve got quite a mouth on me. I really don’t take shit from anybody, sorry. Always kind of liked boxing, it’s a man’s sport. I’ve never been any good at it, but I’ll fight anyone. I’m uhhm, well…let’s just say I’m far from undefeated. I’ve never backed down from anyone. Probably had my ass beat fifty times,” he chuckled.

“I can’t tell from looking at that pretty face of yours. You look like a fucking chick, dude,” I pursed my lips and narrowed my gaze jokingly.

“A chick? You think I look like a chick? Well, maybe I’ll have to try my luck at you, you big prick,” he shook his head and pressed the web of his hands into his belt.

“Well, a word of advice. If you’re gonna try and take a go at me, you might want to get those hands off your hips, Austin,” I laughed as I threw a right jab at his face and stopped a half inch short of contact.

“Holy shit,” he gasped.

“Yeah, holy shit is right. I was the meanest prick in this city until Dekk showed up. I really don’t think he even knows how tough he really is. He fights as hard as necessary to beat whoever he’s fighting. That’s his style. He’s not going anywhere. He’ll be around for a long, long time. Man’s a beast,” I nodded.

“So what do you do?” I asked as I looked down at his shoes.

He was wearing jeans, a tight vee neck tee shirt, and dress boots. He resembled a lean, Muscular Harry Connick Jr., and looked like he belonged on the T.V. show Dancing with the Stars.

“Dancer,” he said softly.

“What?” I coughed so hard I spit out my toothpick.

“Fuck you, I’m a dancer,” he chuckled.

“You get paid to dance? That’s your fucking job?” I asked.

His legs shifted, his lower body twisted, and he went into some sort of spin shuffle move that was as graceful as anything I have even seen in my life. I’m not a gay man, nor do I have a single homosexual bone in my body, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit it was damned sexy seeing him move like that.

“That is correct. Well, I teach people,” he said as he came to a stop.

“Impressive. Damn, dude,” I admitted.

“I have a studio, Austin Dance. See the irony?” he asked.

“Clearly,” I breathed.

“So, you teach dudes or just chicks?” I squinted.

“Both.”

The thought of learning how to dance and taking Vee dancing somewhere seemed like a great idea at the time. I had no idea if she could dance or not, but it seemed all women could dance and men couldn’t. If she couldn’t dance, I’d have Austin, aka. Harry Connick Jr., teach her how.

“I got an idea. How about this; you teach me to dance and I’ll teach you how to block that punch I threw at ya a minute ago. What do ya think about that?” I asked.

“Seriously? You’d do that?” his face lit up with joy.

“Yep,” I half chuckled as I nodded my head.

And.

He busted out in a dance move, spinning in circles and kicking one leg out to the front, eventually coming to a stop facing me with his arms out to the side. Now, he looked like Harry Connick Jr. doing a Sammy Davis Jr. impersonation.

“Damn, dude. Someone’s gonna see that shit,” I laughed as I looked around the parking lot.

“Fuck ‘em,” he said.

“Yeah, there’s only one problem with that. I’m the one that’d end up fighting that fight for ya. You can dance, but you have slow as fuck reflexes,” I threw another jab at his face for good measure.

His hand came up to block the punch a good second after I had recovered from throwing it.

“Fuck you, Ripp,” he grumbled.

I smiled and shook my head slowly.

I liked the kid. He may not have known how to fight, but he could damn sure dance. And he had a hell of a smart-assed mouth on him. In ways, he reminded me of…

Me.