Setting: Radiator Springs and outlying areas of Carburetor County, 1970s
Author's Notes: This story is darker and contains much stronger content than my previous fanfiction, hence the M rating. Chapter Four is especially R-rated. (Some of you will probably skip directly to that chapter, right? Don't do that; it won't make sense out of context.)
Content: Oh noes, it's truxploitation!! Mature themes, sensuality, adult situations, swearing and strong language, alcohol use, violence, etc. All adult situations are consensual and between characters well over the age of 18.
Disclaimers: All characters copyright Pixar/Disney. In fact, if anyone wants to take any element of this story and run with it creatively (art, writing, etc.) you have my permission.
"I used to know this girl Doreen. Good-lookin' girl, looked just like a Jaguar...only she was a truck! I used to crash into her just so I could spoke to her."
The Rustbucket Arena's Saturday night races were in full swing, as evidenced by the enormous clouds of dust billowing up from the track. The Pit Girls, a motley group of cars with a few trucks thrown in the mix, crammed themselves against the chain-link fence by the grandstand, which was their usual outpost on weekends. They catcalled to the racers who weren't much older than themselves and squealed as they tried to shield themselves from the dirt clods kicked up by the competitors' tires. Naturally, they'd washed and polished themselves before the races to look better, though it was an exercise in futility. They had been in need of a carwash since the first lap of the evening, though they hardly cared.
"Here's mud in yer eye, Becky!" yelled Doreen Tireiron, raising a cup of ethanol and ducking unsuccessfully as a small stone bounced off her hood. She and her friends and cousins were more or less the only remaining young and single females in the sparsely-populated county, so a few rust spots and dents notwithstanding, they were proud to call themselves pit girls and shoot photos with the winners.
"Right on!" yelled back the other vehicle, toasting her friend. Doreen ignored the flecks atop the foam in her drink and started on it, then rushed to finish it before the beverage could be knocked from her tire in the excitement. Despite her usual exuberance at the races – this was, after all, her one chance each week to escape from the hell-hole she had the misfortune of calling home – she had been fighting an acute feeling of restlessness for some time. The first few years after she'd reached adulthood, she had been more than content to hang out at the races drinking ethanol like she was now, surrounded by envious friends who weren't yet old enough to do so. Lately, though, she'd realized that she had become the stereotypical young adult who was trying to relive the good old high school days by hanging out with the younger kids. Not that those days were particularly worth trying to recapture; her father had forced her to quit well before graduation.
"…And leading the paaaaaaaaack, we have Numbah Fifty-Sixxxx!" screamed the shrill voice of the announcer, who was beside himself with glee. To Doreen it sounded like the loudmouth might have tossed back a few drinks himself.
"C'mon! C'mon! C'mon!" encouraged the girls, leaping off the ground and shaking the fence in their frenzy. A few maintenance cars nearby turned to watch the melee on the sidelines, then smiled knowingly. Female trucks tended to be rowdier and brassier than their automobile counterparts, and these girls were famously passionate about seeing their favorites win the races.
The clamor reached a fever pitch as the race ended, and Doreen felt Becky pulling her through the blinding maelstrom of grit as everyone shoved and clanked against each other in an effort to squeeze through the gates and reach the winner, as they had done a thousand times before. Number Fifty-Six was a strong, hulking muscle car with a supercharger, and he grinned smugly as the girls crowded around him for the photo shoot, congratulating him.
"You gals just keep lookin' cute and smile purty," said Lenny, the arena's photographer, posing the winner's free cases of oil and engine coolant next to the muscle car so the sponsor's names would show. The girls moved in closer and a few of the bolder ones even poised themselves to kiss the winner. Lenny eyed the group through his lens then frowned suddenly, pulling away from the camera.
"Eh, you best get outta the frame, missy," he said, shrugging a tire. Doreen realized with a start that he was addressing her. She rolled aside, wondering what was wrong. A few of her friends shouted protests, but the camera flashed a few times in rapid succession and then its operator started to pack up his equipment. Doreen recovered from her surprise and started after him, annoyed.
"Hey, what the hell was that for?" she demanded, awaiting an explanation. "It's 'cuz I'm a truck, ain't it? Well, I'll have ya know that Becky's a truck an' so's Sadie and we're not that different from the cars—"
Lenny was unapologetic as he cut her off. "That ain't quite it. I don't want to flatten yer tires with ya bein' young an' all, but yer a bit, eh…oxidized for the sponsors' likin.' They told me not to get any rusty gals in the pitchers this time 'cuz they jest gotta airbrush yer pitcher clean or nobody'll buy their products." Doreen halted, stunned by his words. Airbrushing? The only sponsors the racetrack ever had were two-bit retailers posting their fliers at the local general store.
The photographer wasn't done. "I mean, go find yerself a puddle of oil an' lookit yerself in it. Ya done let yerself go, if ya even had anything to hold onto in the first place." He eyed the battered truck with disdain. Her body was more like that of a car, but equipped with a pickup bed. He wasn't sure, nor did he care, if she was a Ranchero, El Camino, or whatever else they saw fit to call models like her. A mashup of car an' truck…must be good ol' country inbreeding, Lenny thought. As if her unaesthetic shape wasn't hard enough on the eyes, she was obviously too broke to afford a better paint job or restorative work, as her flanks, paneled tastelessly in low-quality woodgrain, were flecked with that offensive rust. Definitely not what the sponsor wanted depicted in his ad when he was trying to take his advertising national.
"This is called the Rustbucket Arena, last time I checked! Damn ya and yer double standards!" cried Doreen, hurt nonetheless as she peeled out, leaving him choking on the dust her retread tires kicked up. She glanced back to see her friends watching her from a distance, concerned. They hadn't heard her words with the cameraman or they would have jumped into the fray without a moment's hesitation. She waved them off without a second thought and they reluctantly turned their attention back to flirting with the night's champion.
Damn if there wasn't indeed an oil puddle directly in her path. Doreen was determined not to look into it, but the temptation was immense and she gazed downward, eyeing the brick red spots and the gray primer with which she'd unsuccessfully tried to conceal them before she'd given up. She rubbed a tire against one of the blemishes on her bumper. Tonight's incident had been far from the first time someone had mocked her for her rust, but she had always viewed her imperfect appearance as evidence to the world that she'd worked hard in her life so far. You could live pampered in a garage and die someday with a flawless body, or you could live a little and gather some rust, she'd always been told.
Besides, Lenny and most everyone else around knew what kind of home she came from, and they should have been impressed she had turned out halfway decent. The Tireirons had a reputation as the nastiest, most banged-up, meanest family in the outlying hills of Carburetor County. Thinking of them, Doreen looked around for a clock, hoping it wasn't too close to midnight. That's when her father was most likely to find his way home, and if he caught her out of the house without finishing her allotment of chores, there'd be hell to pay. She'd already taken a chance coming out tonight.
Doreen sighed, thinking that she'd never find contentment if it hit her upside the cab. As if on cue, a sudden impact knocked her sideways and right into the chain-link fence. She slid back down the embankment, dazed, and turned to face a tow truck who was grinning at her like a smart-aleck. Without hesitation she pounced on him, tires thumping against his bumper, and they tussled on the ground. Neither was aiming to hurt the other, as both male and female trucks were known for engaging in horseplay well into adulthood.
"Uncle!" laughed the truck as she prepared to rub a tireful of dirt into his face. She backed off and they stood apart, catching their breath. Doreen was just about to speak when a racecar, rusty as the truck, veered at them, with mischief clearly on his mind.
"No way, Tommy Joe!" said the tow truck, pulling in front of Doreen to shield her, "I done crashed into her first." The racer slid to a halt before the truck and pouted.
"Hey, it's Doreen!" Tommy Joe greeted her, suddenly brightening. She had taken victory photos with him before. "Looks like ya hit it off right good with Tow Mater here, 'cuz yer the first gal to turn around and kick his ass after he crashed into ya." He winked at them.
Doreen pulled herself up on her tires, filled with a strange sense of pride upon hearing that information. "Ya two sure have strange ways of meetin' girls, if that's what yer tryin' to do." She frowned as she examined her side. There were so many dents already, and she was sure there had to be a new one among them thanks to this Mater guy.
"Aw, I'm sorry," Tow Mater said, looking apologetic. Doreen noticed for the first time that he was covered with mud and much of it had transferred to her during their scuffle. She had seen Mater before, but always from a distance because he worked down on the track, hauling around a water sprayer to dampen down the dirt before the races and pulling stalled cars to the center of the oval.
"He'll be happy to kiss it better!" snickered Tommy Joe, who got thumped with a hefty tow truck tire.
"Just ignore my sorry excuse for a cousin," said Mater, flustered and wishing he'd thought of what to say to Doreen before he'd run into her. "Can I make it up to ya by buyin' ya a drink at the concession stand?"
Doreen's irritation faded as she realized the sincerity in Mater's attempts to impress her, as misguided as they were. Damn, I'm smiling like a fool, ain't I?
"Well, I'll leave ya'll to figger out if ya got enough original paint between the two of ya to fill a pint can," said Tommy Joe, eyeing Sadie by the grandstand as his next target. "Oh, and one more thing," he added, looking over his shoulder. "Ya'll are slobs!" His words made his cousin realize there had been times he had looked better, and then he glanced slyly at Doreen.
"Gotta admit he's right, and I only got one token for the carwash," Mater said, feigning concern but finding it impossible to hide his mischievous grin. "Guess we'll have to go through together." He dropped the coin into the machine, not giving her much time to consider the offer.
"I normally wouldn't do this on a first date with a guy," Doreen blushed in hesitation before remembering just what type of reputation she had anyway. She rolled up beside him on the conveyor belt. "But hell, I've never been on a date before so who cares?"
Date?! thought Mater excitedly. Strong jets of water immediately blasted them from all sides and he howled with laughter as the smaller truck was pushed against him. She had never used the racetrack's carwash before and was used to hosing off back at home.
"Yaaaaah that's cold!" Doreen shrieked, "and what's the setting, full monster truck force?" It felt like her paint was being washed right off along with the mud. She only got a faceful of sudsy water for opening her mouth, but at least the second wave of water in the scrub cycle was warmer. Mater hadn't stopped laughing since the carwash began, and she found herself joining in as the automatic brushes swept at them. Finally, a sheet of hot water rained down and they stood at the end of the conveyor belt, steam pouring out past them into the night.
"Well, that was a rush, huh?" said Mater, still chuckling. "As fun as the racin' itself." Then he noticed Doreen shaking water off her doors and stopped in his tracks, awestruck at the sight of her. Tendrils of moisture rose into the air off the curves of her frame, which was more rounded than a typical truck's and yet boxier than most cars'. As if to put the matter of her identity to rest, her license plate read "pickup."
"Daaaaaaaaaamn, yer beautiful," he said in a barely audible voice. "Anyone tell ya that ya look just like a Jaguar?" Doreen's eyes widened as she listened in disbelief.
"Aw, c'mon," she begged, "if I was a Jaguar and had this much primer and rust on my body, I'd drive myself off the nearest cliff."
"Ya'd make a lotta guys unhappy if ya did that," said Mater.
"Yeah, my pa and brothers. They'd have to cook their own damn food and clean the shack themselves." Mater wasn't sure how to respond to that and he sensed Doreen didn't want to discuss it further. He tried to change the subject.
"I've seen ya 'round the track before but I'm tryin' to think where I heard yer name 'fore I met ya." He paused, thinking hard. "Oh yeah, I think I done read it on the men's restroom wall." Aw shoot, now why'd I have to go and say that out loud fer? I'm gonna strike out with this gal.
Doreen looked bemused, then shrugged and smiled. "I've been told that I can be called on for havin' a good time accordin' to what's written there. Maybe I should go in there myself someday and see if half of it's true." She gazed into the depths of his eyes, trying to figure him out. "Ya know, ya sure have a knack for sayin' the wrong thing at the wrong time, but I think yer pretty neat."
Moments later they were pulling away from the concession stand, each with a tall beverage that Mater had paid for. "Thought ya said back at the wash that ya done used yer last token," Doreen said with a smirk. As they parked by the fence she had a good chance to admire the tow truck, sans dirt. He had only a small amount of his original baby blue paint job left, and he too looked like he was no stranger to hard work.
Mater looked startled. "Oh, uh, yeah…I gotta save money somewhere. 'Specially if it gets a cute girl goin' through the carwash with me on our first date." She looked away from him as if embarrassed, but he caught her gazing at the clock on a nearby wall.
It's only eleven, I got time before I need to race home.
"What're ya so worried 'bout the clock fer?" the tow truck inquired curiously, "Ya afraid ya'll turn into a pumpkin at midnight?" They had reached the edge of the concession area but kept driving.
Doreen smiled, surprising herself with the suggestive tone her voice reflected. "No, I'm afraid that after midnight I might stop lookin' like a sexy Jaguar to ya and I'll turn back into a rusty ol' truck with dented woodgrain side panels an' diamond wire welded to my back window." They were far from the glow of the pole-mounted lights now and she wondered if they could possibly be thinking the same thing.
Mater pulled her closer. "Yer nuts, but if yer worried about that then I'd better kiss ya before I come to my senses, huh?" He leaned forward but her lips had already found his.