A short story about a road racing champion who meets his match in the form of a stranger who may or may not be the ghost of James Dean himself.
Leaning against a 1949 black Mercury was a man who looked just like James Dean. He wore his hair kind of long and wavy. He had on jeans rolled up at the ankles, a black leather coat with a white tee shirt underneath it, and a pair of black Chuck Taylor sneakers on his feet. He was smoking a cigarette, and staring off into the warm North Carolina night. His eyes were unblinking, frozen, and focused.
“Do you know who you’re talking to?” The brunette woman asked. She wanted so badly to stand up for her man who, at the moment, was currently trying to form words.
“I have an idea,” the stranger replied, as he inhaled on his cigarette, blew out the smoke, and then placed it back on his lips, dangling it ever so.
“You should show some respect then,” the brunette woman replied.
“Are you going to let that little girl speak for you, or are you going to do it yourself? Real men wouldn’t hide behind a skirt,” the stranger replied, eyes still focused forward. He stood there just as calm as could be with the full moon-light casting a ghostly glow across his entire body.
“Do you really think you can beat me?” Sandy beefed up his chest, finally spitting out some words, even though he was scared to death. All the way down to his bones he was shaking, but he was trying not to show it. This stranger really had him spooked, and for the first time in a long time, he thought he might have found a competitor that could end his undefeated streak.