After two connecting flights, one in Shanghai and Seattle, I was on my way back to the Midwest. Waiting in my seat while the passengers deplaned left me with only thoughts in my head. Thoughts of my father and what his life amounted to. To me, the American Midwest had always represented the place where people give up on their dreams. Sure, Chicago was a bustling metropolis, but in the suburbs of Evanston, Illinois, where my father had settled his family, it was not a place to make a name for yourself.

That was why I had moved to California. I still remember the day I’d said goodbye to my dad almost four years now. Torn by my decision to head west, he knew I was finished being a grease monkey. I wanted more than the life he had. I recalled being proud of him when I was smaller. People held him with high regard as the local race car driver competing at NASCAR, but that alluring track of success disappeared when he found out he had a kid coming; me.

Too many times I had seen it happen to those around me in the small town where I grew up. Why they would sacrifice their dreams for their children baffled me. I mean, I get it. The children were the future. But what prospect could you give them by barely scraping by? Sometimes I even felt like my arrival ruined my father’s career.

The seat belt sign above me rung and the warning light deactivated. It was time for my seat row to exit. I grabbed my bag from the overhead bin and easily walked down the aisle. My legs seemed like Jello as I took a step. A fourteen-hour flight took its toll on my body. I was thoroughly rested because of sleeping most of the way on the leg from China. Jet lag would soon set in, but not as badly as it would if I hadn’t got some shut eye.

Chicago’s O’Hare Airport was a sight to see. Over the last year I had grown accustomed to the smaller Thai airport of Chang Mai, but O’Hare dwarfed it by comparison. Contemporarily decorated under grandiose fluorescent wavy lights above, the airport was like a museum in itself, signifying the societal struggles through urban art. The neon lights pulsed-on-and-off changing various colors like an EDM music venue on acid.

I found my way to the lower part of the airport where the blue line ‘L’ was located. ‘L’ stood for ‘elevated train’ and was one of the best metro systems I had experienced in the U.S., running just behind New York, London, and Paris. From there, the Blue Line would take me to downtown, where I could transfer to the Red Line. At the end of the Red Line, I would be just a few miles out from where I grew up—just north of Roger’s Park in a city called Evanston.

The Blue Line train pulled up and swooshed open its aluminum doors. I stepped on, smiling in nostalgia. I hadn’t seen this type of train car in a few years. The smells were overwhelming and struck a fancy with me as I took in the cool oil aroma mixed with the latest passenger’s perfume scent. They were probably rushing to catch a late business flight, I imagined.

As the train pulled out from the station I watched the bustling of people in the surrounding suburbs around the airport. Small people living out their small lives for another dollar. It was something my father was proud of, but I never could adapt to that mentality. I wanted to do something more with my life and not waste it.

I remember what my mother had told me before she passed. ‘Put your mind to it and you can achieve anything, Lorie.’ For longest time I’d had that sentence drilled into my head. She was unhappy with my father when I was growing up. Too many bills to pay and not enough income from the go-kart track. She was displeased with my father’s content on having a modest lifestyle.

My thoughts then turned to a dark place. The little white lie that was snowballing into an avalanche. I had been lying to everyone back home. All this time they had thought I was driving for Hollywood. Starring in movies and driving stunt vehicles for A-Listers cast in the latest zombie picture. I might not know everything about racing, but I could handle a vehicle like it was an extension of me. I swished my windswept wavy brown hair back like I was ready to sub in for Brad Pitt himself.

After a quick transfer, I was on the Red Line. For many years I had taken the train downtown from Rogers Park with my friends. The smell of cold air and carcinogens filled my nose every time the doors rolled open.

Early spring was an amazing time in Chicago. Gone were the snow drifts and sub-zero temperatures, making room for the new spring-green colors to flourish. The city came alive in the summer too. Park concerts featuring top headliners were swarmed by crowds set against a magnificent cityscape backdrop, and sandy beaches overlooking Lake Michigan. The grandiose sights were nothing short of awesome—especially the lake, almost mimicking ocean waves, crashing onto the murky shores.

I missed home so much.

I heard a slight humming noise, as construction season was starting. The noise reminded me of the buzzing drone-like sounds I would hear from the emerging cicadas. These infamous bugs of the Brood Thirteen hatch emerged in 2007, only to spend a majority of their lives underground. My father hated the sound and quickly compared it to razor blades running up guitar strings. The noise was wretched. Seized by a thought, I quickly googled their next emergence.

2024. They were coming this year.

As I walked from the station, I threw my bag over my shoulder and headed to the main throughway of Clark Street. The buzzing noise grew louder, and then it faded as I passed some construction. My father had worked construction after he quit racing. I remembered how happy he was to retire and open up Banana Peel Go-Kart arena on our property.

The promenades of fast-food franchises, twenty-four-hour gyms, and grocery stores soon gave way too few industrial companies separated by large plots of land. Tree orchards ran their length and reminded me of the days when I was younger and had to help the neighbors clean up the fallen fruit during summer. One of these plots, wedged in between the old canning factory and an abandoned sheet metal shop, was my father’s land.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

My uncle sat on the porch, coffee cup in hand as he tipped himself back in his chair. As I walked down the long dirt driveway I made out what looked like a small book in his hand. However, the small book turned out to be a large flask. He poured the flask into the cup he held and sipped it. It looked like he hadn’t slept a wink for days.

My Uncle Pete had moved in when he found out my mom died. He stayed for summers helping with me as a child while my dad had worked mobile construction projects. The season boomed during the summers. I felt bad for him, having to work during the warmest times of year. It sure didn’t help the kids had that time off either.

Uncle Pete was cool, laid-back, and one of those guys you would mistake The Dude for. When my dad retired, Pete had moved in for good and helped the family open Banana Peel Go-Kart track. They were both greaser heads at their core. To them, a car was not just an object you operated but a living, breathing entity. It was an extension of your very soul or something like that.

He stood up from the porch, sipped his drink one more time, and sat the mug down. He stepped into the sun, shielding his eyes from the light with his hand. His wrinkles had grown since the last time I’d seen him. Framed between long blonde locks like a Viking, he pulled me into a hug.

“Lorie, I’m glad you came home,” Uncle Pete said somberly. “What the hell took so long? LA is only a four-hour flight.”

“Yeah, sorry,” I said, thinking quick. “Had to do some pickup shots… for a movie.”

In filmmaking, a pickup shot was a relatively minor process filmed after the fact, to add to footage already recorded.

“Well, thanks for coming, Lorie. With no other family around it’s been tough to…” he trailed off, seemingly to be overwhelmed in thought.

“Handle the affairs,” I said, finishing his sentence.

“Yes,” Uncle Peet said, grabbing me by my shoulder and pulling me onto the porch. “And thank the Lord you are here now.”

I walked inside my old home, trying to shake off the thick cigarette smell and coffee. Uncle Pete tugged me to the kitchen past the lengthy armoire. Standing atop the shelf were multiple framed pictures of me and my dad. In addition, pictures of rolling film credits with my name circled sat framed under a thick layer of dust. Uncle Pete needed my help with the house, I thought.

Uncle Pete had never been a very responsible adult, some would say. Wasting what money he made off of Banana Peel Go-Kart, he spent his nights in those silly bars posing as a ‘delicatessen’ in the local strip mall. Follow the smoke and the sounds of video poker originating from them and you would find Uncle Pete.

He had piled chaotic stacks of papers up on the kitchen table. And since the funeral was the next day, a range of legal notices were piled up. I took a guess it was not shy of outstanding debts, funeral expenses and power of attorney paperwork. My poor uncle was up to his neck in ‘affairs’. I shuffled through the sheets and confirmed my suspicions.

I looked at his crooked half smile, almost seeing my father within it. I wanted to hug him once more, but he broke the ensuing awkwardness by turning on his heel. Rustling through the cupboards, my uncle pulled out the blackest cast iron pan I had ever seen.

“We can talk business later,” Uncle Pete said, throwing the pan on the stove and firing up the gas burner. “For now, we need pancakes.”

“Breakfast?” I asked. “It’s the middle of the day.”

“And?” Uncle Pete asked. “What's that got to do with it? You can have pancakes any damn time of the day you want!”

* * *

I gobbled up my uncle’s affectionate concoction of pillowy goodness trying to contain my words. The moist, syrup-soaked quick bread met my unaccustomed mouth with satisfaction. I didn’t realize how much my palette had acclimated to the Asian region. In most of Thailand, they ate savory dishes in the morning, but the pancakes I was eating were just like Roti Canai, a wonderful pancake-like fried bread street food topped with banana and egg. After a drizzle of condensed milk, the finished product was amazing.

I licked my lips and scraped up any remaining sweet cake remaining. Quaint views of nostalgia filled my head when I glanced outside the back door, leading from the kitchen. The dirt track I spent many years whipping around in a go-kart was still there meandering in an infinite loop.

“How’s the business?” I asked, finishing the last bite, but not before I took a final swab around my plate with a forked pancake piece.

“Business hasn’t been the same since you left, Lorie,” he said.

I knew what he was getting at. Before leaving for Hollywood to follow my dreams, I had operated the track on my weekends. In all honesty, it was fun, and I’d learned how to become a hell of a driver, but it would never lead to what I wanted in life. For every hour I spent felt working that go-kart track felt like I was wasting away. I couldn’t wait to strap in and let loose on the streets. I’d had to get away and make a name for myself or I would be trapped just like my father had been.

“Well, Uncle Pete, I had to leave. You know…” I tried to explain.

“Yeah, I know.” He agreed, and then his crooked smile bloomed again. This time I could make out one of his front incisors missing. “Well, we are proud of you. We look at your IMDB page all the time. So many movies you have worked on.”

My stomach sank. Internet Movie Database, or IMDB, was the website hosting facts, production trivia, and movie casts. I had learned anyone could add their name to movies to get credit. After many unsuccessful attempts and removal by admins, I would list my first movie credit. Then I started adding my name to other features. Moderators would catch some, but others would slip through the cracks. Before I knew it, I had a steady flow of movie titles added to my roster.

Of course, they could just go see the movie for themselves and check for my name, but they weren’t hurrying out to the local theater. They would rather spend their nights watching reruns of Top Gear, throwing back Chicago dogs while drinking a cool Miller Light. And now that I think of it, my father had grown distant over the years since I left. What started as regular phone calls soon turned to months of not speaking and then years of silence. Out of sight, out of mind, I guess. The IMDB credit was the way to make him proud. And now, he’s gone. I never told him the truth.

“Uncle,” I cautiously said. “I have something to tell you.”

Uncle Pete never hiccuped in his movement. He continued to wash the dirty dishes and load them into the dishwashing machine.

“I know, I know,” he said. “You feel guilty about leaving.”

I paused, unsure of what to admit to.

“Well, don’t,” Uncle Pete reaffirmed, pointing to the lengthy armoire in the hall chock-full of action movie titles my father and I used to watch together. “Those movies over there are the bond you and father had and he was most proud watching you follow your dreams.”

My mood rose, and then the sadness sank deeper. I knew the truth.

I ran my hands over the stacks of papers, thumbing through the many bills, entitlements, and financial documents. One stood out, displaying a keen graphics logo that looked like a ’T’ colored in bright red. I looked closer and recognized the name under it. Tesla. Not only was this a Tesla document—it was a purchase receipt. Under that paper was another receipt. One from a DeLorean Motor Company. What the holy hell? No wonder he has no money left.

“A Tesla and a Delorean?” I blurted out to my uncle.

He stopped from scrubbing the dishes, raised his head, and cracked a half smile like my father would. As he turned his head, he said, “Do you want to see it?”

“You mean them?”

“Nope.”