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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Some Things Are Universal” Down in the Dirt v208 (6/23)  Order the paperback book: 
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Stories We Tell Ourselves
Terry Sanville
Two gray-bearded men wearing down jackets sat at an outdoor table, their thinning hair whipped by a winter wind off the Pacific. Retired, tired, and partially broken, they clasped their hands around warm coffee mugs and leaned forward so that each could hear the other speak.
The morning waitress pushed outside the café with a coffee pot in hand and refilled their mugs. “You gentlemen want anything else?”
“No thanks, Emma,” Roger said. “Just do something about that wind.”
“I’ll get right on it.” She rolled her eyes and grinned.
“She’s not bad,” Roger said, watching her disappear through the door.
Peter smiled wryly. “Yeah, I’d give her a second look.”
“I’d do more than that.”
“In your dreams.”
They took sips of their coffee and settled into staring at their hands.
“You ever tell yourself a story?” Peter began.
“What do you mean?”
“You know, a daydream . . . . about yourself . . . . living some other life.”
“Yeah, sure. They’re called delusions. I dreamed I was handsome once and married a high school cheerleader, the one at the top of the pyramid. She had nice pipes.”
“Everybody does it. But sometimes delusions come to life and you can’t tell if the memory is real or not.”
Roger smiled. “Hell, Pete, after nearly eighty years all memories, real or imagined, get mushed together.”
“I suppose. But this one sticks with me.”
“How come?”
“Just shut up and listen. You’ll see. When I was twenty and a sophomore in college, I dated this blonde with humongous—”
“Is this part of your delusion?” Roger chuckled.
“Just keep quiet. I was dating this blonde, way out of my league. We weren’t going steady or anything. And her other boyfriends were jocks or brainiacs, ya know, football heroes or on the Dean’s List every semester . . . . sometimes both.”
“Yeah, and you were neither,” Roger cracked.
“That’s right. So, I . . . . I made up a story to impress Linda.”
“Oh boy, this gotta be good.” Roger scooted forward in his chair and leaned in close.
“I told her I used to race British sports cars, in particular a ’62 TR-4 and—”
“So this story was before you—”
“Yes, yes. Quit interrupting. Anyway, they used to hold sports car races at the Santa Barbara Airport in the early ’60s, ran all classes, A through H. I told Linda that I raced my TR for a couple of years, did well in D class.”
“Did Linda do well in D cup?” Roger said and smirked.
“Shut up. Anyway, I really laid on the details, how I’d outfitted my Triumph with a roll bar, pasted numbers on the doors, bought a helmet and driver’s suit, and went racing. In those days they mixed the classes together. So I would run against MGs, Sunbeams, Sprites, Porsches, and the bigger Healeys. It was a wild scramble.”
“So in this story, how’d you do?” Roger asked. He sat on the edge of his seat, his good ear turned toward Peter to catch every word.
“Let me finish. I passed the Sprites and MGs without too much trouble. I could outrun them on the straights; the airport course had two long ones where I could wind the TR up to redline and hold it there. The Triumphs’ engines were strong, originally designed for British tractors. Mine was stock with the two Stromberg carburetors. But the car’s rear suspension was terrible; the thing rode like a donkey cart.”
“Forget the gearhead stuff. Tell me about the race,” Roger prompted.
“Well, I was doing great until two laps to go. I entered a turn on the inside, with a Sunbeam crowding me on the outside. I had almost managed to get clear when the TR’s rear end came around. Those Michelin tires used hard rubber and I really smoked ’em. I tapped the Sunbeam, sent it spinning into the marbles, and me with it.
“While this was going on, a Porsche, Healey and a Lotus passed us. It musta been fun for the crowd to watch. I kept the car running, slammed it into first and tore out, hitting top speed on the straight. I remember feeling so damn energized and pressed hard, the Porsche within reach. But I ran out of laps, finished third in my class. My Pop took a picture of me in that TR – going down the back straight at full song. I looked like a stiff sitting up in a black coffin.”
“That’s a pretty good story,” Roger said. “Was Linda impressed?”
“I guess so. She agreed to ride with me into the country, with me packing Trojans and a bottle of Red Mountain wine. We drove my TR out to—”
“Wait, wait. Is this still the story or did you actually own a TR-4?”
“Yeah. Mine was British racing green with wire wheels. Anyway, we drove out to the coast and were tooling along this two-lane twister. The faster I went, the more Linda seemed to like it – her hair blowing back like a blonde flag. She began to whoop and holler. I don’t think I had ever felt more alive before that moment.”
Peter looked down into the dregs of his coffee, signaling the end of storytelling.
“But what happened between you and Linda?” Roger asked.
“I took a turn too fast. We slid off the road and tumbled down a steep bank. I woke in the hospital.”
“And Linda?”
“Didn’t make it.”
Roger sat back and stared at the roiling Pacific. Without looking at his friend he asked, “So . . . . is that how you really,/I> ended up in your wheelchair?”
“No . . . . well . . . .”
“Jesus, Pete. You’ve been living with that all these years?”
“Yeah. But I kinda like the delusion, even though it’s not real . . . . well, most of it isn’t. I really did own a TR . . . . I think.”
