Interloper

Boulder City is a nice place if you’re white.

That’s the first thing I thought as we pulled our CJ-7 up by the curb near the park where a car show was being held. We came to see the show in a city by the Hoover Dam, Historic Boulder City, and I was riding on a high of excitement ever since I found out we were coming. That’s all I thought of as we rode in the CJ, her roof and windows off, blasts of hot, hot air hitting my face the whole ride down the highway. I had on a shirt with old ‘Vettes across it and in my head, I had a whole list of cars I wanted to see. My mind was already miles ahead, in the show, staring at Firebirds and Zs and Cadillacs, all sleek and ready for whatever prize was being given out that day. I’m no mechanic, mind you, but I know my Pontiacs by the year. 

All that’s fun until you remember who you are. 

The people started staring as we pulled into downtown, but I didn’t really notice at first. I was more taken by the scenery. If you’ve never been, Boulder City is the place you could shoot an entire movie set in the 80s. The auction house has Big Boy statues out front and there are oxidizing, long-hooded cars parked in empty lots in front of old diners and one lone A&W. Everything is the color of creamsicles. It’s a place like a well-loved book, where the page-edges are soft and favorite sentences are underlined in pencil and the spine is so creased that you can’t read the title anymore.

As the CJ growled along the road, I pointed to a car that looked like the ones they first called “horseless carriage,” tucked away beside a hole-in-the-wall antique store that looked as if its doors had rusted shut. But then, mom thrust my hand down with a sharp, “Don’t do that here!” 

That’s when I saw the people looking. They did it on the sidewalk, through their car windows—wherever they could keep their eye on us. And still, even if you sit motionless and don’t point at anything, people look, and look, and look, and everything different about you suddenly becomes so obvious. It’s almost funny. I mean, all I’m doing is just sitting in a car, on the way to see other cars because that’s what I like to do. Still, they stare. With every look that trails much too long, I’m more aware of all that holds me apart from them, and all the hundred-and-one things that go through their head the moment they think of someone like me. 

I’ve been wanting to see a Bucket T, something with an “Old Timer” distinction on its plate, but now I was thinking that maybe it’d be best to just slide the ol’ CJ in reverse and find another place to spend this Saturday. 

Dad says, “Just ignore it.” It’s easy for him to say. He can pass. He can blend in. I can’t.

The CJ was up by the curb as soon as we found a place to park. It was by a two-story church, and up the way was a tiny courthouse. After her doors were shut and we were set, we went down the sidewalk, towards the park, where all the cars would be. On the way, we wave to people. We smile. That’s how you tell ‘em that you’re a nice, normal person, just like them. Some returned our greetings. Some just looked that kind of look.

I know, what am I doing here?

We compliment people’s dogs who wag their tails at us as their owners stare. The age-old convention was in their eyes—don’t you hate dogs? We don’t, so we say hi to every dog we pass. You’ve got to do that, y’know? You’ve got to go out of your way and try to break those perspectives, those things everyone thinks. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, but you’ve got to do it anyway.

The sidewalk soon gives way to oak trees and lawn, and right in the middle is a walkway, a river of people pouring down it. There’s never-ending rows of stalls selling every fair food you can imagine—iced lemonade and frozen chocolate bananas and home-brewed root beer and any meat that can be slathered in barbecue sauce and thrown upon a grill. With all the smells thick in the air, you could open your mouth for a second or two and be left with an aftertaste of butter on your tongue. 

Dad went off to the nearest stand and returned with frozen lemonade and some ice cream with every topping they had to offer. We sit on the curb under the shade of oaks, off to the side of the flow of people. Then, we whip plastic spoons out of their wrappers and let cherries, chocolate, vanilla, and peanuts ice our tastebuds frozen.

As we eat, a group of high school boys in football jerseys pass us, their eyes on us until they duck to whisper among themselves. It’s nothing. Some people break off from the barbeque, hoisting plates of ribs and grilled legs so giant they look to be from a bird of prehistoric times. They’re loud, they’re animated, until they pass by us. Then, it’s silent. Then, it’s those whispers. The ice in my lemonade starts to hurt my teeth. A motor cop pulls up near us—near enough for it to make you wonder, yet far enough to leave some doubt in your mind on whether or not you might be thinking about it too much. He stops his bike and secures it to the ground and then just stands there beside it. He doesn’t look directly at us, but we’re not stupid. We didn’t finish our ice cream yet, but we get up and start heading to the stalls anyway.

Beyond the stalls there are the cars, a metallic rainbow of old and new, their hoods open to engines both modded and stock, inline and V. Their proud owners stand by, answering questions, slapping their cars fondly, laughing and reminiscing and explaining whatever it was that they were. We wove through the labyrinth of metal, soaking it all in, moving to the boom of an announcer’s voice, who was reading off prizes for some contest we never entered. 

“A seventy-five inch full color television!” he said. “Full color, folks!”

Full color? Shocker.

But, I wasn’t really listening. I was with nobody but these cars and that’s all I thought of. I forgot about what the stares were for and who I was to anyone else. I just glanced into engines and thought it was cool that I could tell what’s a V8, V6, or V-whatever on sight. I liked piecing together my scattered knowledge of parts every time I glanced inside one, seeing insides condense and spread apart as the years and models changed. I got to see my Old Timers and my Firebirds and my Zs. I saw a GTO and a Thunderbird side-by-side and it was like falling in love. 

Most of these cars were low to the ground, so that’s where my eyes stayed. I brushed over hoods and bumpers, only glancing at the strip of grass running between them so I wouldn't bump into any by accident. I only looked up as I came out into an empty area just to find out where to go next. Then, there he was. The man in the hat. 

Perhaps every other stare could be ignored, cast off like water down a duck’s back, reasoned with—anything. But not his. His eyes were trained so steadily, so purposefully, on me, and Mom, who was behind me. Beside his face was a video camera, pointed on us as directly as his line of sight. There was no curiosity in his face, nor a smile. No, no. It was...distaste. It dripped from his face and his eyes and the way he aimed his camera right at our faces, as if he were catching a wild animal digging through the trash.

It was then that I no longer thought of the cars or their funny insides that I was finally beginning to figure out. All I wanted then was to take the mic from the announcer and illustrate for this man what he didn't seem to see. 

“Okay,” I wanted to say, “so what if we’re wearing hijabs and me and Mom’s long sleeves seem strange to wear at this time of the year? Our skin’s the same exact shade as yours and my accent is all Yankee just like yours and I’m here for the same reason as every last one of you and it’s not like my presence would suddenly melt the cars or crush them all up into a big terrible heap of junk. I’m the same. I’m the same.”

In my head, my speech thunders and a pretend crowd cheers like they would in a movie where they realized they were wrong all along. But, I keep my mouth shut. The man in the hat’s camera is still up even though I now stare right at him.

Dad’s hovering over a 70s Caprice when I tell him about the man. He just asks me if the Caprice is like the car Dean Winchester from Supernatural drives, but I say no because Dean had an Impala. Then I muster the guts to ask him if we can just go. 

“I promise I’m not ungrateful, Dad. I really had a good time, but I think that maybe we should go now.”

Dad’s the guy who always said it’s important to go out and do the things we like no matter what people think because, heck, why can’t we? We’re not doing anything bad. We’ve got every right, and it’s a free country, he says. But he doesn’t bring that up this time. Soon, the cars are behind us and the river of talk around the food stalls fade into our scattered footfalls on the sidewalk. We climb into the CJ-7 and as Dad starts her up, he gives a Jeep Wave to a passing guy in a Wrangler. The guy smiles and does one right back.

And then we’re on the old, narrow city roads again, going past the empty diners and the A&W and the Big Boy statues out by the auction house and all the buildings are softened with the colors of peaches and desert. As we leave, the signs that said “welcome” now say “come back soon!” and then the CJ rumbles onto open road again, the four-hundred pound luggage rack bolted to her behind clanking noisily with every bump in the road. 

I think, as we wait at the stoplight, what a fun place it’d be to explore, Boulder City. It’s a place where everyone knows everyone, and it’s the kind of place a kid grows up and learns like the back of their hand, and once they become a teen, they dream of all the ways they’ll blow the joint the second they’re out of senior high. But, all that’s if you blend in. You get that if you belong.

Boulder City. It’s a real nice place, if you’re their kind of white.

Safiyya Bintali is a writer, her main areas of focus being creative nonfiction, flash, and poetry. Her creative work has been published in the literary journals Beyond Thought, as well as Ink and Sword. In her free time, Safiyya enjoys studying classic cars and astronomy, reading (especially thrillers), and exploring hiking trails in her state.