The Mustang is hexed. I think. Perhaps not. But maybe.
Frankly, I’m not sure what to believe anymore. All I know is that something’s seriously up with this car because the radiator has a leak, the ignition lock catches and refuses to give with any degree of ease, and it has no brakes.
My wife says there’s no such thing as a hex. I told her that there used to be no such things as vampires either, but try telling that to any teenage girl - or thirty-something man for that matter - sporting their choice of Team Edward T-shirt at the gym.
She thinks I’m bonkers for even entertaining the notion. Maybe she's right. I’m going to let you to decide for yourself. Like the Honorable Judge Lance Ito to my Johnny Cochran, I know that you’ll need indisputable evidence, so below I’ve provided the not-so-accurate script of events that transpired the day the brakes, well…died.
FADE IN:
EXT – PARKING LOT – DAY
BRAD, early thirties, way handsome and not a pound overweight, is showing off his (daughter’s) newly purchased 1966 Mustang to MATT, early thirties, almost equally handsome. Almost. Matt struggles to find the hood release latch.
BRAD
Supposedly it’s in the center, under the grill.
Right above the bumper.
Matt continues feeling around the car’s front end with no success.
MATT
You sure?
BRAD
That’s what Google says.
Getting out of the Mustang, Brad goes to the front of the car and peers into the grill. Matt continues feeling for the latch.
FEMALE VOICE (O.C.)
If you guys are having this much trouble with a simple
hood latch, I’d hate to have seen you trying to
work your magic on prom night.
They both turn around to find Brad’s MOTHER-IN-LAW walking up behind them. She looks great for her age, somewhere in the middle of Seventies super-model meets Fifties TV housewife.
BRAD
You do remember that I went to prom with your daughter.
MOTHER-IN-LAW
Yes. And now I feel much more at ease about that night.
The Mother-in-law rubs her fingers over the open door, tracing its angles.
MOTHER-IN-LAW (CONT'D)
(almost mocking)
Nice car. Take me for a ride?
Matt moves to the passenger side, distancing himself from the Mother-in-law. He shoots Brad an ‘It’s a trap!’ look. Brad doesn’t catch it.
BRAD
How about I let you drive it once the brakes are fixed?
MATT
Dude!
BRAD
What?
MOTHER-IN-LAW
(cackling)
Sounds devilishly fun. Until then…
A black stretch limo stops in front of the Mustang. The rear door opens from the inside.
MATT
(whispering)
I was giving you the sign!
BRAD
What sign?
MATT
THE sign. Not to say anything stupid.
BRAD
How was I supposed to know?
The skies darken. Lighting flashes. Thunder crackles. Rain pours down.
MATT
You coach 12U softball. You should know a sign
by now when somebody’s giving you one!
Brad spins in the direction of Mother-in-law to retract his statement, but the limo’s gone.
FADE OUT
Look, I said not-so-accurate script, not God’s honest, whole truth and nothing but the, that’s the truth, Ruth, truth. But I really did tell my mother-in-law that she could drive the Mustang once the brakes are fixed. The irony is not lost on me that ten minutes after I made the remark, the brakes no longer functioned.
Does that mean someone's sitting in a candlelit room with chicken feet scattered on the floor amidst markings written in blood, using a Hot Wheels version of a Midnight Blue 1966 Mustang and poking it with some crazy big needle while chanting Voo-doo hoo-doo? Probably not. I sure as hex hope not. But if that is the case, then perhaps it’s possible the car will work sporadically like the dead guy on Weekend at Bernie’s, which gives me a glimmer of hope while I wait with anticipation for Andrew McCarthy or Jonathan Silverman to accept my friend request on Facebook so they can help walk me through this mess.
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