<poast>

Wambago Drive

Somewhere in that hazy realm of the afterlife, a lonely DJ is spinning tunes and taking requests for the chance to tango with death.

I know. I've had my dance.

Everyone loves a great ghost story, the type of fantastical tale that sends a chill down your spine and sets new standards for increasing heart rate. The natural act of breathing becomes a chore and you find yourself inching ever so close to your well-beloved. It's that manipulation of emotions that gives them their edge. The impact of which, can equal a head on collision between a car and a speeding passenger train.

That being said, this is not your typical ghost story. It's actually much closer to being a song. Or to be more precise, it's a teenage death song. You know, one of those old sixties ditties about teenage lovers separated by some untimely highway accident. That's what this is, only with a supernatural twist. This is a story about young love, cool cars, and heartbreaking tragedy. It's ‘The Last Kiss' after death.

The ballad of Wambago Drive has been playing in these parts for years. The lyrics always change, but the basic tune remains the same. It's a local anthem that's topped the charts and helped line the pockets of several businesses hoping to cash in on a legend.

I mean, have you ever heard of a town planning its entire tourist industry around a ghost story? The beach and the boardwalk keep vacationers entertained, but it's the hope of seeing the infamous street racing ghosts of Wambago Drive that keep bringing them back.

The boardwalk is filled with shops that sell such official merchandise as t-shirts and coffee mugs, shamelessly bearing such mind bending original slogans as “I Survived Wambago Drive” and “I ain't afraid of no ghost”. Creative gems obviously penned with the hopes of people not having memories of anything before 1990.

Even the story's origin defines cliché. According to legend, four teenagers were killed in the sixties when their convertibles crashed into a train during a particularly competitive drag race. It was about ten years later that a fellow by the name of Bud Costello claimed that he was whisked away by teenage spirits and forced to race for his life. He even published a story about it in a book involving small town ghost stories. Apparently he moved to the city with hopes of being the next great horror novelist, only to find his true calling as an Encyclopaedia salesman.

There have been many other stories over the years involving everything from car engines revving in an empty street to phantom headlights. I always thought these stories were the result of people wanting their fifteen minutes or a great tourist season. Either way, I pretty much considered it a scam.

Wambago Drive , being the longest, most beautiful avenue in town, is one of those rare streets that's picture perfect for immortalizing the front of a greeting card. Huge Weeping Willows provide shade for an extra wide sidewalk that was pure bliss for skateboarding or inline skating. I had my first kiss under one of its many antique streetlights when I was fifteen. Her name's Michelle and I'm still with her.

There are just too many great memories involved for it to be haunted. I never believed in hauntings, period.

Until last night.

###

Unless what happened last night was the result of some form of mass hysteria or the most vivid dream I'll ever have, ghosts really do exist. It's really not easy for me to tell this story. Now I know how other people must have felt – suffering through stares of disbelief, amid lingering questions of insanity. I never hid my mockery of the Wambago Drive stories and left more than one witness red faced. Lady Kharma has a funny way of showing up when you least expect her. In the twenty four hours since these events occurred, I've even questioned my own sanity and that's a terrifying thought all in itself.

None of the typical horror story clichés were present last night. It wasn't Halloween or Friday the 13 th , it wasn't even foggy with a chill in the air. It was a typical Saturday night in a small resort town.

I play guitar and write songs for a local rock group that often headlines a show down on the beach. Last night was supposed to be the debut of my newest and, judging by the twinkle in the other band member's money eyes, best song.

On my way to the show, I could hear the obviously unrehearsed sounds of the opening act promising to make us sound even better than usual. As I pulled up to the first light on an unusually serene Wambago Drive, a vintage, red mustang coolly slid alongside me and revved three times. The challenge of a drag race is as common as colds around here, and although I usually hate to disappoint any willing adversary; the stage was calling. Not recognizing either the car or the driver, I assumed he must be a tourist. Not that I could really see the driver, mind you, just a shadowy profile that never took his eyes off the road.

We moved on to the next stop, with the routine being pretty much the same as what happened at the first light. Although that time, I was sure I saw a brief glimpse of someone else in the car. Again, I fought off my natural impulses and backed off from the challenge. I just couldn't chance being stopped by the cops, arriving late, and letting everyone down.

It was the third and last stop, with the boardwalk clearly in sight, that commonsense left me. I revved my engine, and upon seeing the light turn green, accepted the challenge.

The word mistake never hit me as hard as it did at that moment. It was one of those moments that you know you will always think of as changing the way you look at life.

The second I hit the accelerator, everything became different.

Really different.

###

I could no longer see the boardwalk and seemed to have been transported to some random field outside of town. The stars hid behind a black masquerade, while the Herculean wind left me with visions of Oz. There was a certain haze reminiscent of countless dream sequences in countless Hollywood flashbacks. Everything was neither here nor there.

I knew that this couldn't be good.

The mustang, now parked next to another vehicle on the widest road I've ever seen, was idling several feet ahead of me. There were several other cars, all classics, lined up on the far end of the field. It wasn't the sudden change of location or the otherworldly atmosphere that sent my heart into overdrive. No, these I can take. It was the several figures walking, actually almost floating, around the cars that gave fear a new meaning. I felt like I had crashed an endoplasmic car show and instantly knew that old Bud Costello and the others really weren't lying. The myth of the death song became reality.

The hype was real.

I barely had time for all this to sink in, when one of the figures appeared at my passenger window. He looked to be about sixteen, with a greaser's haircut and a leather jacket.

“How's it going, Son?” he asked.” My name's Jake. You're going to be my driver tonight”.

As much as I hate to admit it, at this point I was still pretty much in shock and could barely muster a “what?'.

“I think you know what this is all about. That's why people come here, isn't it - for the chance to race with death. With the exception of yourself and the other two drivers, everyone here is dead. Why do all you tourists seem so shocked? Isn't this what you want?”

“I'm not a tourist,” I somehow managed to say, even with my heart still firmly in my throat.

“Oh, you're a local. Well I hope you're faster than the last two I've been stuck with. I'm getting a little too used to bringing up the rear,” he said with a laugh. “By the way what's your name?”

I told him my name was Max, which sparked a few questions about my parents. He said that he knew my mom and that they actually had one dance together in Junior High, paving the way for the obvious joke about how he could have been my Dad if things had turned out differently. I wouldn't have found anything funny at that moment.

After the introductions were out of the way, he instructed me to pull in beside the other two cars and get ready. He had just finished telling me that the race was about three miles of open road, when a girl suddenly appeared in front of the cars, holding a handkerchief over her head and sending a wink towards Jake.

“That's my girl, Gwen. She does the Natalie Wood thing between the cars to signal the start of the race. Don't worry about hitting her, though. She's already dead.”

“What if I don't want to race? There's someplace I have to be.”

“I'm sorry, son, but the race is your ticket back. Unless you want to stay here, between dimensions, you must race. Winning is also highly recommended, especially if you don't want to start hearing footsteps at night or seeing blood dripping out of your walls,” he added with a mischievous grin.

Jake's easy going nature helped me to feel the fear ease off a bit. At least I felt as much at ease as possible for someone who'd been sucked into some uncharted dimension between life and death and was having a conversation with someone who hadn't taken a breath in over forty years. The surreal nature of everything that surrounded me is still sinking in.

Trying to describe my surroundings would be like trying to describe the perfect moment. There isn't a writer alive that could do either of them justice. It was almost as if I was in two places at the same time. I could sense that I hadn't actually left Wambago Drive . It was as if some otherworldly artist had pulled down one of his background transparencies and put it over the street. The landscape itself was comprised of a field that seemed to go on forever, and the most amazing trees I've ever seen.

They were tall with long branches that weren't attached to the thick trunk, and autumn tinged leaves that weren't attached to the branches. It was unbelievable. There was actually a space of about six inches between the branches and the trunk, and a gap of about an inch between the leaves and the branches. They remained motionless and seemed oblivious to the wind swirling around them.

Jake must have noticed my stares of disbelief.

“You won't find those on ‘The Wild Kingdom', will you?” he said.

In my short time with Jake before the race, I learned that he was indeed, one of the teenagers killed in that street racing accident back in the sixties, and that he had created a small society of spectral thrill seekers – most of which had met their untimely demise from behind the wheel. The one catch is that they needed living drivers to carry out their amusement – the justification being that the likelihood of someone actually being hurt was very small and that the mystical experience would be unforgettable. Everyone likes to be scared, right?

There seemed to be more that he wanted to say when Gwen sent the signal.

Race on.

The chain of events seemed to be happening at a breakneck, almost breathtaking, pace and I could feel every heartbeat as I hit the accelerator. Fear took the backseat, adrenaline rode shotgun, and winning the race became my primary focus.

The experience of my past came through on instinct and I was leading from the first drop of the handkerchief. It wasn't even close as I watched the race unfold from the comfort of my rear view mirror.

Jake was obviously enjoying the flag position.

“You're doing great, son. Keep it up,” he said as he disappeared through the top of the roof.

Looking around, I saw that the other spirit racers had also moved onto the rooftops of each car, surfing a wave of vintage metal.

“I haven't felt this alive since I died,” Jake yelled.

Everything was going my way until an unexpected obstacle suddenly appeared before us in the form of about a dozen dancing girls on roller skates. They weaved between each other in a chorus of dance moves, culminating with each one bursting into a crescendo of flames. Avoiding them was a threat to my dominance, but I managed to maintain the lead—albeit much more narrowly.

Upon the conclusion of the backup singers' fiery solo, I saw the finish line as we hurtled through a large group of trees. Cheering groupies sat on the dismembered foliage, which had formed a covered bridge over the highway, like an army of genies on magic carpets. The highway itself had also become lined with several ghostly spectators, many of which were wearing hubcaps around their necks. I guess being dead has its quirks. The race was propelled by adrenaline soaked chords of speed and fury that seemed to be over in the flick of a guitar pick.

As we crossed the finish line, I saw Gwen cheering from one of the branches. She literally flew into Jake's arms as he jumped off the car and ran towards her. I witnessed a young love frozen in time, untouched by the rigors of domesticity and life's little tragedies. As the DJ slowed the tempo for the last dance, I knew she was the girl that Jake would spend an eternity trying to impress.

After the congratulations were in order, Jake came towards me and said, “You did great, son. It feels good to be back on top of the standings. To get back home, just follow the road until you come to a streetlight and turn right at Dead Man's Curve. It's one of a kind – you can't miss it.”

Maybe I should have asked him what it was like on the other side. I'm still not sure why I didn't. Maybe if I was older, or had lost a close family member or a friend, I'd be more curious. Maybe I was just too scared. Whatever the reason, I just got in my car and left.

###

It didn't take long until I met the bluish glow of the highway's only streetlight, and the haunting melody of the teenage death song began to fade.

As I turned at the light and drove back into reality, I couldn't help but wonder why they continued to race. Maybe it was to maintain a connection to the world that they left too soon, holding on to the dreams of a youth that never matured.

Or maybe it was just for kicks.

Either way, I found out there's more lurking beneath my favourite street than romantic memories and a skateboarding paradise. You still won't see me wearing a tacky T-shirt, but the truth is that although dead men can't drive, they do love to drag race.

At least the ones that hang out on Wambago Drive.