Chapter 18X: Final-D
Universal Studios, LA. November 2005.
It wasn’t long after the aeroplane’s landing tyres kissed the tarmac at LAX’s runway that the tires of my personal blue Silvia S-15 were grinding sideways across the set for one of the last shoots for the movie.
I couldn’t help but feel a surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins, a burst of excitement fizzing in my danglies, and even a quick brushstroke of melancholy as I caressed my thumb over the sleek leather of the steering wheel. Today was probably the last time I’d ever sit in this car.
Universal would have happily sold it to me had I asked. No sane business would deny themselves an opportunity to recoup costs.
But one conversation with Ben Wyatt sucked the petrol straight out of that engine.
Loathe as I was to debase myself by acquiescing to reason, my financial manager made some good points. I had no license yet. The car wasn’t even road legal in the states and was due to be shipped back to Japan, but most importantly, there wasn’t anywhere I was going to be driving that much until I finished Potter.
Whatever, I’d just buy it off of whichever granny had it collecting dust in her garage in a few years, if I still cared enough.
“Can you please not try to make my stomach flip this take?” Sonoya, the actress, dressed as Neela, the pro complained while nervously tapping her thumping chest from the passenger seat beside me. Guess my rapacious appetite for peril had rubbed off. Admirable, but stupid. I would know.
I glanced at the subtle flutter in her feet. “Aren’t hookers meant to have strong knees and tough tummies?”
“Oh, you want to see my guts? Keep driving the way you do, and I’ll make sure you see breakfast, lunch, dinner, and breakfast again.”
“Yummy.”
I closed my eyes and concentrated.
While Keiichi Tsuchiya, the original drift king, the real tofu delivery boy, was here, his cameo as a pier side fisherman wasn’t the only role he played. Generously, he’d shown me a few of his tricks.
I approached the corner with a speed that bordered on reckless, especially for the extras who had to jump out of the way. Their life, and my career, flashed before our eyes.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
In quick succession, I flicked the steering wheel, Sonoya clutched the handlebar, and the car slid into oversteer. Silvia’s tyres squealed in protest as I powered through the asphalt of the fake Shibuya crossing.
Panicked faces reflected off the pristine body paint of the car alongside the towering green screen platforms surrounding us, reaching sixty feet high. Plate shots taken in Japan promised to transform this plastic Santa Fe set into a seamless recreation of the bustling Shibuya streets.
The car’s butt kicked out, and the G-forces kicked our butts as I controlled the car’s nose through the corner. I feathered the throttle and clutch as my feet danced on the pedals. With every twitch and tickle of my muscles, I forced the car to the edge of destruction.
Now, as much as I’d like to blow smoke up my tailpipe, I wasn’t alone in this rubber scented skate session.
My chase car was a slate grey mini-cooper with a Russian arm camera rig that filmed the entire journey. Unbalanced, but still just as poised as me. And neither could I fail to mention the driver tucked into a go-kart, catching us from low angles with a go-pro style camera attached to his helmeted noggin.
Not exactly rainbow road, but damned if I wasn’t in my version of Mario Kart.
As I reached the exit of the corner and shot frame, I eased off the accel and counter-steered till I went from Tokyo Drift to - much to my co-pilots relief - driving Ms Daisy.
The crowd erupted in cheers as I completed the drift, the sound of engines being replaced with cheering spectators echoing off the walls of the makeshift Shibuya crossing. With a grin, I glanced over at Sonoya, who gripped the edge of her seat with white-knuckled intensity. “What’s for lunch?”
The answer was nothing, since she stumbled out on wobbly legs without giving me an answer.
I stayed inside for a moment longer. I pressed myself back into the hard chair and ran my hand over the barebones dash. “Thanks.” Stepping out of the car and shutting the door behind me, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of closure wash over me. And just like the car door shut with a thud, I shut the chapter on my time with Tokyo Drift. “See ya!”
Unce! Unce! Unce!
Every and any person who’d ever placed the soles of their new and expensive shoes over the threshold of a dingy nightclub’s suspiciously sticky floors would recognize the sound of a party in full swing.
I hadn’t done so for longer than I’d been alive, but I was having a great time pumping my fists in lieu of actually dancing with any iota of rhythm.
The film was a wrap, and it was time for a faux Shibuya block party.
Vin Diesel’s presence was fuel to the fire. We’d somehow turned an impromptu cameo scene courtesy of those from up on high at Universal into a high octane bash.
Guess Universal had indeed found an equitable way of getting rid of Riddick.
Sung Kang was on fire still, but this time, he was burning up the dance floor rather than in his upturned wreck. Cast and crew alike were sipping on cerveza and tucking into tacos from the truck that’d been added to the lineup of vehicles. Precious few others would work so hard so far past midnight, but still such a long hike away from dawn.
No complaints from me, though. A perfectly crunchy and pocket sized bite of heat in hand only added to the already sweltering press of bodies.
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