The Art of Racing in the Rain - on Denny Swift

I am in love with cars.

I am in love with cars, with the Audis, the Lamborghinis, the Ashton Martins. There is something very intoxicating about the bittersweet smell of petroleum, the disgruntled rumble when the car roars into life and the screeching tires when it hurls down the street. Oh, how magnificent it would be to stay behind the wheel as the car flew through the air like a whirling flame, knowing that it was I who had fought against the law of nature, it was I who had manipulated the force of momentum and acceleration!

But as deeply in love with cars as I am, I still can never fantasize about the job of Denny Swift, the job of a customer service technician in an auto shop.

For a car lover, working in a fancy auto shop must have been a dream. But even through the eyes of a dog whose corneas were stamped with colorful flowers and butterflies, I can see that Denny's job is not one of the desirable. Imagine standing behind the counter all day with a constant patient smile and many soothing words. Imagine your precious brain nerves being strained and stretched, threatening to break under the customer's demanding, yet sometimes irrational, requests. Imagine being glared down by eyes with sparkling fire, showing signs of a vicious shouting match that's about to explode. No, Denny's job is definitely not something you look forward to when a new day starts.

According to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, a customer service technician earns $15 an hour on average. If he works the normal eight-hour shift, his annual salary will be about $43,000. With such amount of money and the helpful support from his wife, Eve, Denny's family had lived quite a modest but peaceful life. They created a beautiful image of a beautiful family. Modesty had its charms, and the picture of a small house shining brightly in its gloomy neighborhood, exuding joy in the form of a child's laughter and Enzo's playful barking, certainly is very, very charming. At the end of the day, Denny's demanding job and its humble salary doesn't seem so bad. He had a lovely family to come home to. And everyday, everyday he was taking another step closer to his dream. He was becoming the Ayrton Senna of racing. He was going to be a great artist, the artist mastering the art of racing in the rain...

But what is at a peak is certain to decline. Tragedy struck down, harshly and abruptly, like tons of bricks. Without any real forewarning, Denny's days of happiness plunged into the darkness of despair. And suddenly, he was alone, watching his wife withered away in pain and agony. Suddenly, he found himself a widower. Suddenly, he was robbed of the right to be with his only daughter. Suddenly, for the first time, his dream seemed to be so, so far away.

$40,000 wasn't enough anymore. It was used to bring food on the table. It was used for electricity, for phone companies and medical attention. It was used to pay the four-fifty/hour lawyer. It was used at the expense of a trial that Denny did not deserve, a trial that had been put off for months, because the lawyers had to spend their vacations at Lopez Island and the judge had to go back to his ranch in Cle Elum.

People often say that money is the root of all evil. To Denny, money was the only weapon he held to fight against those who had set out to destroy his unwavering will and perseverance. And money wasn't some excess thing that he possessed.

He couldn't keep going anymore.

Endless of spiteful questions and filthy accusations were showered on his wounded heart. Words stung, they hurt and they stung like the tip of a sharp blade. "You are being arrested," he heard the cop frustratingly calm tone. "A pedophile. A sex offender. A statutory rapist. A child molester," his jaw suddenly clenched in anger as his lawyer spit the words out vehemently. "But