Frankenstein’s Monster Stole My Heart

I'm pretty positive my uncle Don was a pedophile.

He made creepy, leering jokes at me from the time I was nine onward.

Dad always refused to allow me to be alone with him, despite Don's apparent love and favoritism for me. My brothers were terribly jealous, because, while there was definitely a dark, sick undertone to his love, he bought incredible gifts. Just for me.

His wife (a mail-order bride from some secret location in Asia) also "loved me dearly." I never knew her name. Everyone just referred to her as Mrs. Wong. Their attempts to groom me and gain my trust were impressive to say the least. Dad had a long list of faults, but protecting me from his brother wasn't one of them. It was one of the only right things he ever did.

How on earth does this relate to cars?

I'm getting there.

Uncle Don loved old things. He loved the challenge of them. He bought old houses and cars and bicycles and really any old thing he could get his hands on and restored them. He bought and sold more cars than I can count. He had no problem letting go.

One car, however, he could not part with. No one knew the make or model. No one else had ever owned a car like it. It was Don's own creation.

It was the first car he ever built...

and it was a masterpiece.

Supposedly, Uncle Don had worked in a shop when he was a young man, and he had slowly stolen parts until he had the makings of an engine. Then, he'd taken to sneaking onto properties late at night, stealing larger pieces of metal off of old cars to weld together into something new. He finally saved up enough to buy some classic car (origin unknown-- he wouldn't tell anyone) to use as the base for the project, and then had spent the next half decade piecing it together.

He was left with something resembling an old fashioned bat-mobile. The car was the color of midnight, with smooth, rounded lines, velvet seats, and a shining chrome hood ornament. The car was legendary. He had never lost a show in which it had been entered. The car was famous in every town it frequented.

They say that Don never had any children. They're wrong.

He did. It was that beautiful black monstrosity of a vehicle.

He lovingly draped it in blankets each night after spending hours of the day tinkering on it, perfecting it, waxing its paint.

That car was his child: his creation.

No one was allowed inside--Not even Mrs. Wong.

Until.

We met Uncle Don at some car show in a small town. It was mid-summer and the sun had just set. The atmosphere was perfect for cruising. I was twelve. I was brave.

And Uncle Don invited me on a ride in his car.

Even dad couldn't say no to that. He'd been dying to sit in the thing for years.

Don treated me like the queen of the whole wide world. He read the warning look my father gave, nodded his head at the murder threatening in his eyes, and held open the door of his most precious possession for me to slip inside.

(He did-- behave, that is. Don never did lay an inappropriate finger on me. I know you were worried, but this isn't that kind of story.)

The velvet of the seats was even softer than it looked. It felt like floating on a cloud- it felt like luxury. The blending of leather and metal and wood on the inside of that car was artistry itself.

Don slipped into the driver seat and smirked, "Are you ready?" he asked.

"Yes." I'd scarcely whispered, torn as I was between awe and fear.

His smile widened and he turned the key. The engine rumbled and screamed and purred. I could feel it in my soul.

He accelerated and the engine roared, and we sped off down the road, and I forgot time had any meaning at all as the wind whipped my long hair and my skin melted into velvet and my heart pulsed with every nudge of the gas pedal.

When it was over, I could scarcely bring myself to slide out of the soft seat. Uncle Don waited with the door held for a long minute, a knowing glint in his eye. As I stepped onto the pavement, he whispered in my ear, "Now you'll never be able to say no to a guy with a fast car again..."

And he was right.