APB

All I could see through my end-of-day tunnel vision was the few illuminated digits on the archaic in-campus telecommunications unit. Four o’clock, an hour closer to nothing. Particularities didn’t matter, because all things considered, I had nothing going on once I punched out. My optimistic thoughts are only in passing; I had to finish the task at hand. Despite my lack of future occupation, there’s no way I’m staying here past five. Before I know it, though, I’m idling out in the parking lot. It’s five fifteen, close enough. I'm out, but now what? I’ve been here before, I’ll just waste some gas and stare at my phone.

Eventually, my spell of engaged boredom is broken. Not by the carbon monoxide leaking from my exhaust through the floorboards, but by a flyer. A hastily made creation on Snapchat detailing (roughly) the location and time of a car meet. I kind of know the guy putting it on, not sure if he knows me. With anticipation in place of my former melancholy, I shoot a text out to some friends. Instant replies are the only things that can satisfy my impatience. I'm just not getting that. So in an attempt to distract myself, I step out of the car to perform an excessive inspection of its condition. I'm not concerned about the oil leak or the camber-worn inner edges of my tires. No, I'm looking for water spots, dirt, maybe even a dead bug on the windshield. I won’t see this in the carwash, but they’ll see it at the meet.

During the process of the most extensive detail I could get for ten dollars at the local car wash I felt a few buzzes in my pocket. All my friends are busy. Unfortunately, the responsibilities of life have ruined their chances of congregating in an empty parking lot with twenty other people and me. Their failure to attend isn't gonna stop me. Despite my commitment and haphazard excitement, I feel my mood twist into an unsettling nervousness.

Upon arrival, I feel like an imposter before I even get out of my car. Concerned glances cut through my humility as a scrape of who knows what resonates from my vehicle as I pull in. While the show may not be full of like minded VW owners, my general appraisal still leaves me hope. There’s a slammed Accord parked next to an E92 M3. I’m still a car guy; this is still cool. I decide to strike up a conversation with Mr Rod Bearings. During our banter, I notice a sticker in his quarter glass. This distracts me so much that our conversation abruptly ends. Having to now break my awkward silence, I address the elephant in the room.

"What is Schlagwagen?”

“It’s a small event that’s hosted over in Old Orchard Beach.”

“I doubt you go there to weld carriages together. I take it this is a German type of car show?”

“Yeah, it’s actually at the end of September. Right after the busy season, we can get cars on the street no problem.”

“Right on the street, huh? They’ve got a regular Loe Show down east.”

“Old Orchards is not that far north, but you’ve got the right idea.”

“When exactly is this? I need to go.”

“Last weekend of September. Weather decides the day.”

This elusive show is less than a month away; once again, my anticipation returns. This time, it's blinding; the rest of the night became irrelevant due to my infatuation with the potential for the future.

The next morning, this show still occupied my mental space. So much so that the waiter oil change I was working on had to be put on the back burner. An important conversation about the show had to take place before I could be at all productive. Everything else I needed to know should be answered with this quick meeting with my more tenured associate.

“You ever hear of a show in Maine called Schlagwagen?”

“I have, the guy that puts it on used to have another show he hosted down south. Watercooled guys loved it. The problem was there were a whole lot of water-cooled guys. The place got overrun. Eventually, it had to stop.”

“You're talking about the show I'm thinking about, right?”

“Yup, apparently this shows pretty similar, just smaller.”

With this information, I gathered my finest group of friends and planned a trip to the beach for the weekend. The whole slow season meet idea was genius. Post Labor Day, campgrounds were barren; booking one was no problem. With our spots reserved, prep ensued. We weren't scouring for bugs or water spots this time, though. We had a road trip ahead of us, and more evident flaws were to be addressed. My VR6 could probably use a water pump by the sounds of it. Excitement and ambition intermingled throughout the prep; my friend Ben decided to do the turbos in his S4. Since it was on such short notice, that meant we all took part in the repair, which was ok. Running on little to no sleep, we cruised up 95 with dirt still under our fingernails. Our excitement was exponential as we neared exit 36. The smell of euphoria was embodied by hot dogs and campfire smoke. We were here, it was real. Very rarely could German-manufactured performance vehicles congregate in any place besides a workshop. To celebrate this massive victory, we partied hard.

That same passion we had the night before wasn't what awoke us come morning time. No, it was the ear-piercing cold start of our neighbor's old Jetta. About five hours ago, this would have been awesome. Now, though, it's the introduction of our hangovers. This isn't something that could be cured by any sort of egg and cheese monstrosity I could fancy up over our still smoldering coal base. So in pursuit of true nourishment, we left the campground, eventually finding salvation at a local diner. Before we could be consoled by sausage gravy and hollandaise, we had to find parking. Strangely, the lot looked a lot like the campground. Littered with Germany's finest, how big was this show?

Resurrected, we headed back to camp only to be met by an eastbound blitzkrieg on the way there. The commotion must have been related to the show, so with a fender-crushing U-turn, we joined the pack. Eventually, we were all corralled on the wide street overlooking the out-of-season pier. Tourist trap stores were blocked by a few pop-up tents of local shops, detailers, and tint experts. The hangovers were now long forgotten as we were now intoxicated with awe. The show was big no doubt, but not too big. We eventually split off, each of us on our own conquests. My cynical friends could only take so many VR6 swaps, and I could only look at so many B5’s. Ironically, I did find my way over to my friend's B5.5; this one was a Passat, though. Making it a whole lot cooler.

“You know the last time I saw this car in person was at your meet in Old Orchard a few years back.”

“It's been a while, man. I can’t tell you whether it's been a good time or a long time with this thing either.”

“I remember you were telling me its laundry list was getting longer and longer.”

“Luckily, it's a whole lot shorter now. I did the T belt, some wheel bearings, and finally figured out the misfire issue.”

“I see you still got the ICM, so what was the issue?”

“It was actually the injectors; they were still stock. I don't know how this thing never leaned out and popped. It’s a lot happier with these 550’s.”

My babble of incoherent jargon continued on for most of the day with people scattered around the meet. Some I did know, and some I didn't. I was reunited with my friends via a red MK4 Golf that looked like it ate its own wheels.

“You guys see the wheels aren’t even touching the ground? It's sitting on the pinch welds.”

“I always thought putting 20’s on an MK4 would result in a donk effect, I guess you really just gotta make some room.”

We later found out this was a Brazilian style of modification, which is now one of my favorite ways to mod an old VW.

With our eyeballs exhausted from fitment and bay shaves, we sought out alternative entertainment. There were unfortunately no dispensaries in downtown Old Orchard Beach, so we tapped into our younger side and went to the carnival. A fairly deserted affair, but luckily still open. We paid for our overpriced tickets and hitched a ride on the Ferris wheel. We were astonished, not by the beaches or the vast ocean, but by the scale of the German congregation we’d just visited. The strip was infested, and it was beautiful. This memory I would carry with me anytime someone uttered the word Schlagwagen.

The next time I thought about that show was a few months later when I was tagged in a post. Ben’s B5 next to my car on the strip. Suddenly, I was there again, feeling how I felt. So I send the post to him, hoping I could rub off some of my excitement,

“Same time next year?”

“Yeah, just gotta fix my car.”

“What do you mean, fix your car?”

“Well, remember that last-minute turbo job? I also got some last-minute turbos.”

“Overnight parts from China??”

“Yeah, they're smoked, got a naturally aspirated 2.7 at the moment.”

“Well, shit man, I hope you can get it straightened out. Can’t miss that show.”

When the fair weather season rolled around again, it yielded plenty of meets and a few decent shows. All of which were spoiled for me, none of them could hold a candle to what awaited me at the end of the season. Time eventually showed me mercy, and September was nearly coming to a close. It seemed like the slow season had missed all the campgrounds, though. I couldn't get a spot anywhere. An air bnb would have to do, at least we'd get a cool view, no hangover-inducing cold starts either. I tried to shake the lingering scent of pessimism that was sweeping through my mind. The campground had tons of space where we stayed last year. Was the show getting that much more popular? Before I could really dwell on the potential of Schlagwagen going full Disney, I was met with the sound of a straight piped 2.7T triumphantly approaching.

“Dude, when did you do turbos on this?”

“Didn’t have to, N75 seemed to have been acting up. Put a manual boost controller in the other day and its been ripping ever since.”

“So you're in?”

“Yeah, I’m in, man. When are we heading out?”

“Saturday morningish, gonna try and get to our Airbnb around lunch time. Then we’ll have time to cruise around, and then go to the show on Sunday.”

“How do you know the shows Sunday? Isn't there a chance of rain?”

“Well, the rain isn't supposed to come in until like Sunday night, most of it's gonna be on Monday. Some of the guys I’d talked to about the show said it's usually always on a Sunday too.”

“We had to get an Airbnb, too? The campground had plenty of space last year.”

“I guess the show must've gotten a little bigger.”

“Hope it didn't go full Disney.”

Last year's excitement quickly blinded that horrible thought.

Come Saturday morning, I had completed my pre-flight checks. I had oil, I had coolant, and I had half a tank of 93 octane. I was ready. On my way to meet up with Ben, my music stopped,I felt the distinct rhythmic buzzes of a phone call. It’s my homie with the Passat from last year. Damn, it's been a minute, maybe he’ll wanna catch up before the show.

“Where are you, man? Spots at the show are filling up quickly.”

“What do you mean? I thought the show wasn't until tomorrow.”

“No, it's going on today. The only reason I know is because my mom and I went out to breakfast this morning. Could see the show setting up from our table. By the time we were leaving, a line had started forming.”

Struck by this news, my mind could only muster up one thought, down shift. It was a pitiful effort because no matter how hard I drove, Ben's house was still 2 hours from the show. He didn't know what was coming when I showed up. My brakes were steaming from my 10-mile journey to his house. The only reason I turned the car off was so I could throw it in gear to stop it from rolling away.

“What’s up, man? Are you excited or what?”

“Bad news, dude. Shows today.”

“Is it too late?”

Part of me wanted to accept that as the truth. I’d already wished my year away for this show. I’d barely left town, and it already felt too late. Blinding myself from today's harsh reality, I again remember that time up on the Ferris wheel. Thanks to my visions of grandeur, I was able to muster up a plan.

“Due to where we are geographically, we're gonna have to go as the crow flies. 95 is just too far off the beaten path.”

“We’d probably catch some gnarly traffic that way too.”

Traffic was another factor I hadn't thought of. If we were gonna pull off this northeastern cannonball run, then all the stars were gonna have to align. With no more time for conversation, we both hopped in our cars and began flying through the never-ending rural landscape. As we approached an outpost of businesses among the farmland, Ben threw on his hazards. We both stopped in at a gas station. This was the first time my mind could stop racing since we’d set off and I’d realized we were making good time. We’d shaved 20 minutes off our ETA. The hopeful enthusiasm was not mutual. As I looked at Ben's face, I knew something terrible had occurred. The smoke percolating from his exhaust was forming a cloud of dread over us.

“Turbos are definitely cooked, dude.”

“I’d say that's a safe guess.”

“Looks like we're at a full-service gas station, wonder if they'd be able to do your turbos real quick.”

“Yeah, I bet they're wicked familiar with the 2.7t in Bumfuck, Maine.”

The shock of the situation lapsed soon, for me at least. If I got back on the road, I’d still probably make it to that show on time. What about Ben, though?

“Yo Ben, do you have triple A?”

“I do, towing will probably be weird though. We're pretty far from Loudon, NH.”

Selfishness has taken the place of morality in my mind. I’m not wondering if I should leave him. I’m wondering how quickly I can get to Old Orchard.

“Well, man, it looks like there's a towing company down the road, Triple A will probably use them to pick you up. I gotta go.”

After a glance that felt more like a stare, I was on my way. Every mile I covered got me closer and closer to the show, but further from my stranded friend and his marooned B5 S4. The trees gave way to the ocean, and I could smell the salty air, perhaps a little NOX emissions from the show as well. It wasn't the smell I recognized from last year, though; there was a lingering odor among the coastal pollution. This sobering scent brought me back down to earth. The comedown was only made harder when I finally tried rolling down Main Street to find a spot.

This had to be my fault. What lay before me was sacrilege. Spots once reserved for MK4 Jetta’s had been converted to an area for Japanese cars. The MK2 area was nowhere to be found either; in its place was a sign titled “American Cars”. Chevy Camaros sitting where they once sat. All the Jettas were now confined to one line, forcing MK7’s next to MK3’s. How could they diversify a Euro show? I wasn’t the only one alone in this disgust; two Golfs pulled up behind me and promptly turned around. I’d done too much to join those Golfs in retreat. I was gonna have to weather this shit storm. Before I could even try, I was met with orange vests and large hats.

“Hi, are you looking to get into the show on foot or with a car?”

“I was hoping to bring my car in. Is there even any room?”

“We always have room for cars.”

“Great, where should I go?”

“Just take a right at this pizza joint, then you'll see an entrance to the show in its parking lot. Cars are $30, if you decide you wanna just walk in then it’s $20.”

I venture deeper after forking up my entry fee. Hoping to distract myself from what's already transpired. Everywhere I walk, everything I see is surprisingly good. The cream of the crop is still plentiful here in Maine. I can't appreciate it, though, still, the only thing I can think about is a broken-down 2.7 just sitting on the side of the road in who-knows-where, Maine.

“There was nothing I could have done.”

These affirmations weren't fooling me; the occupations of my mind were evident by my interests at the show. I was only looking at 2.7 powered cars, hoping with enough staring I’d will away my past sins. I was taking this too far; was I hallucinating? In front of me sat a twin-turbo Audi V6 in the back of a Rabbit. A haunting awe fell over me. Then the owner came over after I’d gawked at his car for an unforeseen amount of time.

“Is this real?”

“Of course it's real, see the oil leaking in the hatch.”

“Well, I guess that's a good point. It’s just very circumstantial.”

“Why is that? Do you have one too?”

'Well, I don’t have one, my buddy does, it's not in a Rabbit either.’

“The real advantage of having it in the back of a Rabbit is just how easy it is to work on. Take a look around and tell me what you wouldn't be able to do.”

“My adjudication doesn't go too much further than the stampings I see on the compressor housings.”

I read Max Speeding Rods in a big metal box font.

“How long have you had these on?”

“Ever since I threw the engine in, which was like 4 years ago.”

“So you've had no issues with these turbos?

“Ive had issues because of the turbos, but not with them explicitly. The compressors are legit, but there's no rolled seal on the boost outlet of the turbo. So if you run shitty clamps, you'll leak boost, run rich, and roll smoke. There's a whole Audizine thread on it.”

This somewhat shocking development provoked another fit of silence. The only cure was to phone my marooned friend.

“Hey man, where are you?”

“Same place, kicking rocks, you know you better show up with a trailer because you really fucked me over. What a good place to do it too.”

“The towing company never showed up?”

“No, man, I walked down to their building, and it wasn't even a business. All the trucks said, "Not for hire.”

“You don't need a trailer; we can fix your car.”

“I’m pretty damn sure I need a trailer. What's your plan? Are we gonna break into this shop and drop the engine?”

“No drop, I’m pretty sure you just have a boost leak. I talked to someone at the show who had the same turbo’s as you. I did some recon work on some forums, and it looks like we can double clamp your turbo inlet.”

“You're spitting pure bulljazz right now, man. I’m too mad at you to even talk to you about double clamping a charge pipe.”

“This shit might not be air-tight, but you gotta trust the old Audizine prophecies, man. These forums are gold, I’ve…”

I was talking to no one, I didn't even realize it, but I was ranting about automotive internet prophecies to no one at all. He’d hung up at an unknown time, and what now occupied my radio screen was small illuminated digits telling me that daylight was running out soon. I still had to grab supplies, and we still had to fix that car. Another reason to step on it, disobey traffic laws, and hear the VR6. In a short time, I was able to acquire the tools and equipment capable of mending not just the 2.7 liter but hopefully my friendship as well.

Arrival on the scene of injury was grim; he definitely didn't hear about the prophecy because his face was stone cold. The face of a man who wholeheartedly believed he was going to have to remove the engine from his Audi S4 sooner rather than later.

“Alright, man, I got a jack we could probably get both sides up, crank down these extra clamps, and do some pulls and see how it goes.”

Begrudgingly, he helped raise the car and reinforce his charge air system. There was serious tension around the ignition as he switched from the off position to run. Looking behind us, we found nothing but gloom exiting the exhaust. With what little hope he had left, he depressed the clutch and put it into gear. Ideally, the doom that enveloped the rear of the car was a by-product of residual gasoline. Eventually, it did clear up, and so did his mood. He was happy to be hitting 20 psi again. Relieved enough to pull out my phone, I saw a text from about an hour ago from my friend who’d originally called me and told me the show was today. It wasn’t really even a message, just a photo, with a title and a smaller header below it.

“Eurospecial”

“Did you hate the Japanese invasion of Schlagwagen? Come to the carnival in Old Orchard for a real Euroshow.”

Shit, I was sold, I didn't much care for the show, and Benny didn't even get to go.

“Hey man, good news, looks like they’re putting on a meet over in Old Orchard, some sort of a redemption meet.”

“I'd be down, we still have that Airbnb we gotta get to anyway. Where’s the meet?

“The Carnival lot.”

“Man, where the hell is the carnival lot? These meet locations are always too vague.”

“Well, shit man, you remember the Ferris wheel from last year? That was at the carnival, there’s gotta be a lot nearby. You think we’d notice all the cars, too.”

“That mindset has gotten us lost so many times, whatever, though we're already up here. Let's get back to your car, and you can lead the way.”

Back behind the wheel of our machines, we engaged in somewhat of a dogfight on the tight back roads leading towards the coast. The VR6 was putting up a valiant effort against the 2.7, presumably because it never had enough time to spool before the next turn. Intoxicated by excitement, victory, and 21-year-old adrenaline, we kept battling until we encountered our first intersection. When we looked right, left, then right again, we saw what looked like a fish and game officer careening toward us as fast as his half ton Ram could muster. I would’ve assumed another illegal grow operation had been cracked wide open if it wasn’t for the other fish cop now on my left, presumably trying to box us in. Ben seemed to have caught on to this development just as quickly as I did because we were able to launch ourselves out of the trap right before we were caught. How long had he been behind us? Did someone call the cops on us? Regardless, we were now trying to escape the north woods law in their own backyard. Our leisure had turned into necessity; I couldn't quite tell if I was fighting or flying. The further we drove, the more paranoid I became. Every set of trees had a cop, every right or left turn was an invitation to a road block. Hypotheticals were forcing my hand and occupying my mind. The landscape changed without my input; I'd been subconsciously guided by fear. The coast was clearing, though. We’d lost our opposition, and I’d regained the purpose of our mission. We were still on track. The denial of responsibility weighed heavy though. Now that things had cooled down, I had to converse with Ben.

“You alright, man?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. Today's been crazy, though, I don’t think we should go to this meet, man.”

“What do you mean? We’ve been through so much to get here. It’s that much more worth it.”

“No, you’re looking at this all wrong. Fate’s trying to push us back for whatever reason, and we keep ignoring it. This meet is nothing but bad news.”

“You’re paranoid, man, I get it. You’re also reaching, though, if fate had any hand in this, we wouldn’t still be driving right now.”

“Look ahead, man, see that sign? 95 south toward NH, we should take a left and cut our losses, it’s just a show, there's plenty of others.”

“Its the end of the season. Don’t you wanna end it with something to remember?”

“I already won’t forget this.”

As we droned along the seaside highway with the turnoff already long behind us, a shiver of superstition came over me. We still had about twenty minutes of driving ahead of us, and I wasn’t gonna get cold feet now. My coat of ignorance was no match for the headlights that appeared in my rearview. An instantaneous cold sweat came over me as I heard the woop of their police siren. A Dodge Charger, as its mirrored image enlarged, my heart shrank exponentially. On these long sweeping oceanside roads, Goliath would surely rule the battle that laid ahead. Luckily, I still had options; the ocean front suburbs offered tight and technical run abouts that would likely favor my shorter gearing and lighter weight. There was also only one cop; he’d have to choose between Ben and me. There was no malice in my intentions to use Ben and his S4 as a pawn in my own escape. If the cop decided to pursue him, he’d be fine. As long as those double clamps could handle full boost, he’d be in the clear by fifth gear. Committing yet another traffic infraction, I turned hard left into suburbia. I was to become a touring car driver on these deserted post-Labor Day streets. It was not free bird that graced my ears as I navigated the set of The Truman Show, no, it was the constant scratching of my tires on my fenders, reminding me that my Jetta was in fact not a race car. Somehow, though, before I knew it, my rear view had gone clear of any opposition. I refused to believe it, so I kept my eyes glued to it. At any moment, I was ready to see the all too familiar front end of a Charger pursuit. The constant monitoring of my freedom distracted me from the raised manhole mine field that laid ahead. CRACK, my mirror now showed the trail of a mysterious liquid. The last thing I needed now was an Achilles heel. With the Ferris wheel beckoning me forward, I disregarded my mechanical sympathy and put the hammer down.

The light occupied my mind as it guided me through the streets. Lefts and rights leading me between buildings where my rod knock resonated off the concrete walls. Both my car's condition and mine were deteriorating as we traversed the maze of empty parking lots. I must have been lost, I couldn't even see the Ferris wheel after long enough. I had to get my bearings, I had to find this show. Pulling over and turning off the car provided me with enough focus to try and scour through social media. No one had posted about Eurospecial; it probably wasn't even happening anymore. Frustrated, I got out of the car, I needed fresh air, I needed to come back down to earth. It was surprisingly bright out for the night. The moonlight had lit everything it touched; only those left in the shadows remained untouched. I was in a shadow, but why? Looking up, I found my answer, the Ferris wheel. Paralyzed by the absence of thought, I stood in the shadow of my old beacon, aware of everything but sure of nothing.