The stories in Muscle Cars explore the unique and sometimes flawed relationships between men, their families, and their friends. Featuring a diverse cast of inarticulate misfits—including a compulsive body builder obsessed by the death of his brother, a former boxer forced to sell his prized 1946 New York Yankees–autographed baseball, and two boyhood friends who plan to steal Ted Williams’ scientifically frozen head—this stand-out debut from Pushcart-nominated Eoannou is a powerful journey through the humor, darkness, and neuroses of the modern American everyman. “The stories in Stephen G. Eoannou’s collection are, as the title suggests, very much like muscle cars—lean, powerful, fast, and gorgeous. Eoannou evokes, in 17 richly textured and often hilarious visions of Buffalo life, what it means to be male—son, brother, father, spouse, lover, half-baked friend, sports fanatic, neighbor—in the 21st century. These stories will transport you. Enjoy the ride.”  —K. L. Cook, author, Love Songs for the Quarantined and Last Call "Part Richard Russo, part Bruce Springsteen, part OTB parlors and Cutlass Supremes, Steve Eoannou’s debut collection, Muscle Cars , is all—all—heart. These are tough, ruminative, cunning and tough—did I say tough?—stories of people trying to make it, one way and another, for better and worse. A fine first collection, and I look forward to the next." —Brett Lott, author,  Jewel "In his collection, Stephen G. Eoannou proves masterful at revealing that razor’s edge inside everyday American man, where the power of role and the power of raw emotion almost balance out. He throws light on the mysterious interiors of husbands, fathers, sons, brothers, soldiers, compatriots, these streets of Buffalo past and present–all the while keeping track of the darker currents that run beneath the surface. And no matter how sympathetic, how human his storytellers are, there always seems to come a moment when you have to decide if this guy–the one with the plot to steal a frozen head or auction a baseball or shave his weightlifter legs–is brilliant or insane. Muscle Cars is a magnificent debut." —Ashley Warlick, author,  Seek the Living  and  The Summer After June "With its lean, elegant prose and intense sense of place, Stephen G. Eoannou’s Muscle Cars is more than a collection of beautifully-written stories; it’s a deep dive into the psyche of the American male." —Mike Burrell, Mike Burrell Author Blog Stephen G. Eoannou is the author of many short stories that have appeared in a number of literary journals and magazines, including Hayden’s Ferry Review , the MacGuffin , Rosebud , and the Saturday Evening Post . He has been nominated for two Pushcart Awards, was awarded an Honor Certificate from the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, and was honored with the Best Short Screenplay Award at the 36th Starz Denver Film Festival. He lives in Buffalo, New York. Muscle Cars By Stephen G. Eoannou Santa Fe Writers Project Copyright © 2015 Stephen G. Eoannou All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-939650-22-1 Contents Muscle Cars, Mementos, The Girl in the Window, The Wolf Boy of Forest Lawn, Lost Things, Ohio Street, The Corner of Walnut and Vine, Culling, Slip Kid, A Person of Interest, The Luckiest Man in the World, The Aerialist, Games, Stealing Ted Williams' Head, Swimming Naked, Winter Night, 1994, Auld Lang Syne, CHAPTER 1 Muscle Cars Originally published in The Barely South Review I have trouble sleeping. The headlines keep me awake: another bombing in Iraq, the Taliban resurging in Kandahar, more attacks in Fallujah. My wife can't sleep, either. "He's at it again," Maureen says, lying next to me. "Bin Laden?" I ask, squeezing my quadriceps together, forcing blood into the muscles. "We got him." She props herself on an elbow. "Scotty," she says. "From next door." I cock my ear toward the window and hear the cars rumbling in front of the house; they're the same ones that show up every night loaded with kids: a Cutlass with a prom garter hanging from the rearview mirror; a blue Chevelle with growling cherry pipes; and a beat up Camaro, its quarter panels primed black. They're muscle cars, the type of car my brother Gregg and I have always loved. "Every night, the same thing," Maureen says. Scotty and his friends race their engines before shutting them off, filling the night with exhaust that drifts through our bedroom window. Then I hear car doors banging and laughter. Scotty's screen door slams and slams and slams until they're all in the house, and then the music starts, the volume not quite loud enough to make out a specific song but turned up just enough so we can hear the thumping bass. "This is ridiculous," she says. Maureen kicks off the sheet, rolls out of bed, and shuts the window. I've asked her countless times to lift weights with me in the garage, but she always shakes her head and looks at me strangely. She thinks I