The Neighborhood

Divnyy, Ryan's Apartment

Ryan was watching the ceiling, half asleep when his burner phone buzzed on his nightstand.

Unknown Number: Bobby's Diner, N 24th, noon. Ryan replied, "Varela?". His text was answered with just a thumbs up.

The clock showed 10 AM. Ryan rubbed his eyes, threw the phone on his bed. He had slept on the couch again. If you can call that sleeping, though. The adrenaline from the race stuck with him long after his brake pads cooled. He got up, headed to the bathroom to wash his face. He looked at himself in the mirror for some time. He had grown a 5 o'clock shadow, which he didn't intend to shave. It was the first time ever he saw himself with any amount of facial hair, he shaved daily since the day his father taught him how to shave, even when his face was smooth as a baby's butt. As he rinsed the night off of his face, his mind wandered back to where it all started.

When Ryan arrived in New York City at fourteen, all he had was three thousand dollars in a battered envelope his father had stashed beneath his own mattress. It was supposed to be his college fund. Instead, it became his way out of Prime. No relatives, no plan, just that envelope and an oath to never go back to the city that took his only family away.

Ryan lived in youth hostels for a while. He would go door to door to restaurants, lying about his age to get dishwashing jobs. One day, he saw a help wanted sign outside of a car wash, and he walked in. The guy running that place, Carl, didn't ask too much questions, and Ryan started working there under the table. They wouldn't chat, wouldn't get into each other's way, just washed cars. Carl also ran a scrapyard, just behind the car wash. One of the days Ryan stayed for extra hours, he was too tired to go back to the hostel, so he sneaked into the scrapyard and fell asleep in half a Cadillac left there to rot. Carl found him in the next morning, still curled up in the backseat of the car. He didn't make a scene, just crossed his arms and said "If you like 'em so much that you want to sleep with them, might as well learn how to deal with them." And handed him a wrench. Ryan got his hands back under the hood.

Carl recognized Ryan's talent right away. He let him handle more work day by day. He was more patient than Ryan's father, and spent most of his free time teaching Ryan about compression ratios and timing belts. They got close over the years, Ryan never crossed any lines, never asked for more than Carl offered, it was respect. By seventeen, they were basically running the shops together. When Ryan hit eighteen and aged out of shelters and state supports, Carl offered him a room in his garage. His house was located on the outskirts of the Bronx, where he lived with his wife and two daughters. But he had two conditions. "Firstly, you don't talk to my daughters. Secondly, study, kid. Be better than this old man." So Ryan got his GED. By day, he was working in the scrapyard; by night, he was taking classes at a city college on criminal justice. He graduated at 23, but put his diploma in his back pocket, and kept working with Carl.

On his 25th birthday, Ryan announced his plans of entering the Academy. Carl and him were standing outside of the garage Ryan called home. They were smoking shitty cigars that came in plastic tubes as celebration. Carl put his grease-stained right hand on Ryan's shoulder. He had only smoked those when he wanted to take the weight off of something he was going to say.

"You know kid, there's a rhythm to this world. A constant melody. Most people don't hear it, they're too busy looking for shortcuts. But you do, you always listen to it. That's why I took you in. Hell, that's why I let you near my family." Carl chuckled.

"Don't get me wrong, I still don't trust you around my daughters. But I trust you, you know. I trust your heart. Every day, you showed up for me, even when you were tired, even when the world spitted on your face… I appreciate you, kid." Ryan glanced at him. Carl took another puff of his cigar, and looked out toward the street. A little boy passed by them on his bike.

"You ever wonder why I never asked you about what happened in Prime? Why you ran away?"

Ryan didn't answer. He didn't have to.

"Because I know what it's like to run away. I didn't grow up in a loving family. My old man used to beat me with a belt for touching his stuff. Said I wasn't man enough to handle those, He might've liked how it made him feel. He started beating me for being a kid. One day, he beat me for opening my mouth and not making a noise… So I ran away. I built the scrapyard with my bare hands. Bolt by bolt."

Ryan gazed at the ground. He didn't had the heart to look at Carl, who wiped a tear from his left eye, and kept talking.

"I didn't take you in out of pity, or an act of charity. I saw you, Ryan." That was the first time he called him by his name.

"Remember what I told you when I offered you a bed?"

"Be better than this old man." said Ryan. Those words were engraved with his minds for the past seven years, being the motivation behind his every move.

Carl's right hand tightened on Ryan's shoulder and he tapped his chest with his left index and middle fingers. Along with his thumb, those were the only fingers remaining on his left hand.

"You've got a compass in there, no matter how lost you get, it'll always drag you back to the right path. Don't lose it. Don't waste yourself."

A single tear flowed out of Ryan's eye. Carl kept talking.

"The nights my missus kick me out of our bed, I slept on the couch downstairs. And I used your bathroom, it was closer."

It was getting hard for him to talk. He took another hit from his cigar.

"What I'm saying is, I know you miss your old man. You talk in your sleep, you know that? At first I thought I was giving you nightmares. Then I figured it out, with your talent and all. Ryan, best way to honor someone is to go further than they ever could. Not to stand where they stood."

Carl chuckled, softer this time.

"Shit, I sound like a generic dad talking to his high school graduate son in a coming of age movie, don't I?"

He turned to Ryan. Tears were pouring out of his eyes, but his face stood straight like it was carved from marble. Carl slapped his back.

"Whatever you do, kid," he said, letting go of him. "Be aware of who you become."

He dropped the cigar, stepped on it and walked into the house. Ryan couldn't move for a long time, the words kept echoing in his mind for what felt like eternity. He never forgot them.

Ryan dried his face. Then he touched his chest, like he was checking if something was there. He felt it. Maybe it was what brought him back to Prime.

He hit shuffle on his "Ready To Grind" playlist, took a beer from the fridge and stepped out onto the fire escape. Noon would come. It always did.