Chapter 1. I Inherited a 1967 Mustang
Chapter 1. I Inherited a 1967 Mustang
My father died.
It was early in the morning.
I sat there without moving for a while, then headed to a small town in southern Arizona for the funeral. It was about 550 miles, or 900 kilometers, from where I was staying.
[Welcome to Arizona – The Grand Canyon State]
Arizona. A place filled with the red deserts and towering saguaro cacti commonly seen in American Westerns.
It’s still brutally hot here.
Arizona in June was hot enough to take your breath away. It had been a long time since I had felt air this scorching, as though it could cook my lungs.
It had been ten years.
Ten years since I had last spoken to my father and ten years since I had returned to this place I called my “hometown.”
The word hometown felt somewhat strange to me as a second-generation immigrant, but this was still the place where I had been born and raised.
The funeral was simple.
Only a small number of people attended.
That was a relief. I did not want to face anyone who knew me, even slightly.
My mother did not attend the funeral.
She had left home when I was ten, and now I could not even remember her face.
She probably doesn’t even know that Father died.
After my mother left, my father quickly fell apart. He spent every night drinking and swore constantly.
Then, when I turned fifteen, my father also left home.
More precisely, he started going away on extremely long business trips.
Sometimes he would be gone for only a month, while other times he would return just once every six months. He would throw a bundle of cash onto the table, stay for about a week, and then disappear again.
American laws concerning child protection were far stricter than Korea’s, but I absolutely hated the thought of being shuffled through foster homes or being placed in an institution.
So I did everything I could to hide my father’s absence.
I pretended I had not been abandoned. I acted as though I was receiving at least the bare minimum of care. I washed myself more diligently and did my laundry more often.
Thanks to that, I managed to graduate from high school. Many complicated things had happened since then, all the way up to the present, when I was twenty-eight years old, but...
I truly never imagined that I would return to this hot, dry desert again.
“Whew...”
“Mr. Kwon? Are you all right?”
Someone called my name.
A young lawyer in a navy suit was looking at me cautiously.
“Ah, yes. I’m fine. Sorry. My mind wandered for a moment...”
“No, I understand completely. We’re all finished now. You only need to sign at the bottom here.”
He smoothly handed me a pen.
It was an elegant fountain pen with a pleasantly solid weight.
The name I had been called at home was Kwon Jaeseon, but now there was no one left who knew that name.
—Jason Kwon—
I wrote my American name at the bottom of the inheritance documents.
“Yes, that’s everything. Now, please take this.”
The lawyer handed me a crumpled brown envelope.
It contained the only possessions my father had left behind.
Inside were a small note and two keys.
One was an old brass-colored key that smelled of rusted metal, the kind commonly used for opening a storage unit or a door.
The other was a small, heavy, old-fashioned car key. The instant I held it, it stirred a strange sense of nostalgia.
I’ve definitely seen this somewhere before.
I unfolded the enclosed note. A short message was written inside.
[I hope you live a better life than I did.]
Too short to be called a will, yet too distant to feel like advice.
What are you saying now, after all this time...?
An address was written underneath.
—412 Rusted Road, South Benson... AZ 85603.—
I was pretty sure that address was in an area filled with rental storage units.
What could Father possibly have wanted to leave me badly enough to rent a storage unit for it...?
At that moment, childhood memories slowly began to play in my mind, like a video starting again after being paused.
I was around eight years old, back when everything was still happy and I was protected within the comfortable boundaries of a close-knit family.
My favorite thing in the world was following my father to the repair shop.
It was a place where the smells of oil, metal, and desert dust all mixed together in a complete mess.
“Half-inch.”
Whenever my father spoke without even turning his head, I would rise onto my toes, hurry over to the workbench drawer, take out the right tool, and hand it to him.
“Here! This is the right one, right?”
Watching him work with the tool I had handed him always made me feel as though I were an adult doing my share of the work.
My father was a man of few words while he worked, but my eyes would shine as I watched the world visible over his shoulder.
Among everything in that shop, there had been one car I especially loved.
It was a black car sitting in the corner of the garage, half-covered by a cloth.
“This isn’t a customer’s car. It’s ours. It belongs to our family. When you’re all grown up, Jaeseon, I’ll give it to you.”
“Really? Then I’ll drive you and Mom everywhere! Just tell me anywhere you want to go!”
Whenever he talked about that car, even my taciturn father would become excited.
There really had been a time when we had dreamed eagerly of such a future...
.
.
.
“Whew. How long ago was that...?”
I let out a long sigh.
The lawyer had already left, and I was alone. The car key in my hand had grown warm from my body heat.
The sun was already setting outside.
“...I suppose I could at least go take a look.”
There was no need to check the address again.
Twenty years had passed since then, but I still knew every road in this town by heart.
The rental storage facility stood behind an old gas station on the outskirts of town.
The marks left by years of desert sandstorms battering the metal walls were clearly visible. Surprisingly, however, the key slid smoothly into the lock.
When I pushed the door open, dust that had accumulated overhead rained down with a scraping sound like fingernails dragged across a chalkboard.
Through the dust particles glowing in the red sunset, a familiar silhouette came into view.
I slowly walked toward it.
For no reason, my heart began to race.
I placed my hand on the cloth, which was layered with golden desert sand.
Now my heart was pounding so hard I could barely contain it.
I seized the cloth and yanked it away.
“Cough! Cough!”
Sand and dust burst into the air, irritating my nose and lungs.
At the same time, my eyes widened.
A 1967 Ford Mustang GT.
(Translator’s Note:Ford Mustang-debuted in April 1964 at the New York World’s Fair and quickly became one of the signature American cars of the 1960s.)
A fastback, with its rear roofline sloping gently downward.
(Translator’s Note:1967 Ford Mustang GT Fastback - A fastback is a body style where the roof slopes smoothly down into the rear, giving the car a more streamlined, sporty profile.)
Is this really happening? Is this really that car from back then...?
The black car I had loved so much as a child stood proudly before me, revealing itself in full.
FORD MUSTANG.
The legendary pony car.
(Translator’s Note:Pony car - refers to a class of compact, stylish, relatively affordable American sporty cars. The “pony” label comes from the Mustang’s horse branding and from the car’s role as a smaller, more accessible alternative to bulkier performance cars.)
With stylish looks strongly resembling a muscle car and a comparatively affordable price, the Mustang had captured the hearts of young middle-class Americans immediately after its 1964 debut.
(Translator’s Note:Muscle car - usually means a larger American car with a very powerful engine built mainly for straight-line performance.)
With its horse-shaped logo and its balance of reasonable power and price, it even earned the cute nickname pony car.
Four hundred thousand units sold in its debut year, and sales reached a staggering one million units in its second year. It was as though the age of cowboys had returned, with roads all across America overrun by horses made of metal.
From Steve McQueen’s Bullitt (1968) to Gone in 60 Seconds, John Carter, I Am Legend, and John Wick.
(Translator’s Note:Bullitt (1968) - American film starring Steve McQueen, released on October 17, 1968. It is famous in car culture for its chase scene featuring a dark Mustang, which helped cement the Mustang’s image as one of the iconic cars of American cinema.)
It was a car that appeared constantly in Hollywood films and television shows, one that virtually every American knew and loved.
But none of that mattered to me.
I simply loved this car.
“So much time has passed... but somehow, you look younger than ever.”
Emotion suddenly welled up inside me, and the tip of my nose stung.
As though trying to comfort me, the car gleamed even more brilliantly.
The body had not lost its shine despite the passage of time, and the chrome moldings decorating it sparkled.
The headlights, tires, wheels, and exhaust system were all in perfect condition, as though the car had traveled through a time machine from the past.
Perhaps because of Arizona’s dry desert climate, there was not a trace of rust anywhere.
Even the interior had been completely restored.
There were pale blue seats without headrests, characteristic of cars from the 1960s, along with an instrument panel surrounded by handsome chrome rings and a smooth dashboard.
I ran my fingertips over the exterior.
The cold sensation of metal tingled against my skin.
It felt as though I might be pulled into the deep black paint.
Click—
I opened the hood.
Ah...
The place where the engine should have been packed tightly into the engine bay was completely empty.
...Well, it would have been stranger if there were one.
It was only natural.
A turnkey car, one ready to drive as soon as the key was turned, would never have been left sitting in a place like this in such condition.
It was completely natural, and yet...
An inexplicable emptiness spread through the center of my chest, as though a hole had been punched straight through it.
My body worked just fine.
I slept reasonably well, and I had an appetite.
Even so, something about calling this being alive did not feel quite right.
The Mustang before me was the same.
Like me, its body looked impressive, but it had no heart.
“Still... you really did something incredible.”
I slowly walked around the car, marveling at it once again.
Restoring a car to this degree must have required an enormous amount of time, effort, and money.
The Mustang my father had bought for three hundred dollars back then had honestly been in such terrible condition that I had wondered whether it could even move.
And except for the engine, every other component was still there, including the transmission.
But what am I even doing here right now?
I suddenly realized that I had been standing there for hours, staring blankly into the empty engine bay.
It was as though I had been bewitched by something.
I came to my senses and started punching numbers into a calculator.
Hmm. Even if I sold it exactly as it is, I should be able to get fifteen to twenty thousand dollars for it.
A classic car that could not run lost a tremendous amount of value.
Even so, the remaining components were in such excellent condition that it should still fetch around that amount.
Twenty thousand dollars would be a huge help to me right now.
Easy money.
It would be easier to think of it as the last bit of spending money my father had given me.
And yet, I could not bring myself to leave.
[I hope you live a better life than I did.]
That single line from the note kept circling through my head.
“You toss me one old car and then say something like that. Seriously...”
Despite the words coming out of my mouth, my eyes remained fixed on the Mustang’s empty engine bay.
“If I can just find a good engine and get it running, I could sell it for twice as much. All the other work is already done, and I should be able to handle that much by myself. There’s plenty of information available these days, too.”
I could vividly picture myself giving the car a new heart, starting the engine, and driving it down the road.
Thump. Thump.
My heart was racing.
While I was still busy trying to rationalize it, my heart seemed to have already made its decision.
“Whew. Fine. Whatever happens, I’m going to bring you back to life.”
People built these things in the first place, so why should I be incapable of doing it?
I would take my time and give it a try.
It was not as though I had anything urgent to do.
I had no appointments.
Nowhere to go.
No one waiting for me.
I might not be able to do anything about my broken life, but at least I could get this thing running again.
I made my decision right there.
For the first time in a long while, something called a purpose had entered my life.
And at that moment—
Ding!
[Would you like to register the 1967 Ford Mustang GT model to the Restoration List?]
A screen appeared in my mind along with a chime I had never heard before in my life.
“W-What the...?”
Startled, I wildly waved my hands through the air.
But not only did I touch nothing, the window did not even seem to possess any physical depth.
It was not floating in the air.
It was inside my head.
It was such a bizarre state that I could not possibly explain it in words.
“Haa... haa... Is my PTSD acting up again? I’ve never had symptoms like this before...”
I clutched my head and crouched down.
After graduating from high school, I had enlisted in the Navy.
At the time, it had been both the only choice available to me and the best one.
The decision had begun almost impulsively, but the next several years became the most fulfilling period of my life.
After years of preparation, I eventually even became a Navy SEAL.
Then, one day...
I lost a teammate during an operation, someone who had been more like family than my actual family.
During the mandatory psychiatric evaluation—
Thud—
[Fit for Duty: NO]
I was deemed unfit for operational duty.
Honestly, my memories from that time were somewhat hazy.
I think I just kept screaming that I was going to go back and kill every last one of those sons of bitches...
In any case, I was eventually discharged.
Afterward, I wandered from city to city and worked one construction job after another.
Over time, I had thought my symptoms had improved considerably...
No matter how violently I shook my head, or even struck it several times with my fist, the window floating before my eyes refused to disappear.
I must have gone completely insane.
Oddly enough, accepting that made me feel better.
I sat down on the floor and slowly read the message again.
[Would you like to register the 1967 Ford Mustang GT model to the Restoration List?]
A Restoration List? Register?
It was an incredibly unhelpful message.
For something supposedly produced by my own imagination, it did not provide nearly enough information.
In any case, even if I wanted to register the car, I first needed to know what I was supposed to do.
Yes. Okay. Yeah. Register! Registration!
I simply thought of every affirmative response that came to mind.
Then—
[The vehicle has been registered to the Restoration List. Would you like to load the relevant information?]
The message changed.
Uh... yes again.
[Basic information required for restoration, service manuals, parts blueprints, process data, and component specifications will now be activated.]
At that moment, I felt as though something inside my mind had opened.
Then countless tiny explosions seemed to erupt, flashing brightly before my eyes.
At the same time, hundreds—thousands—of blueprints and specification sheets began surging into my mind like a tidal wave.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh...
The Mustang’s manufacturing methods.
The specified torque values for every component used in it.
(Translator’s Note:Torque is the twisting force an engine produces. In simple terms, it is the “push” you feel when a car surges forward.)
Clearances.
Dimensions.
Production periods.
Unfamiliar information forced its way into every gap between the memories of everything I had seen and learned throughout my twenty-eight years of life.
“Urgh...”
A mild wave of nausea rose in my throat.
My fingertips trembled.
Regardless, the information continued pouring into my mind.
After a while, everything finally became quiet.
Surprisingly, my thoughts even felt perfectly organized.
I brushed myself off, stood up, and looked down at the car before me.
My lips moved slightly.
“1967 Mustang GT Fastback.”
My voice was low and quiet.
I had merely recited the car’s model year and name.
But the sensation I felt as I spoke those words was completely different from what it had been only a few minutes earlier.
“You... so this is what kind of car you really are?”
To my eyes now, it felt as though I could see straight through the car and into its innermost workings.
[1. 1967 Mustang GT Fastback]
CC BY 2.0, photograph by Sicnag
[2. 1967 Mustang GT Fastback]
CC BY 2.0, photograph by Brian Snelson