This is the tale of young Phillip Thorpe, a small boy with a big idea…
Phillip Thorpe grew up in a small house in a small town in the small state of Rhode Island. He had two brothers, two sisters, two cats, two dogs, two fish, and one thing on his mind...
For as long has he could remember, life for Phillip could only be described as small. He didn’t play sports. He didn’t do magic tricks. He definitely didn’t have a girlfriend. Actually, Phillip didn’t do much of anything. He cruised through life under the radar—and that’s how he preferred it. When it came to picking teams for dodge ball, there was the overly obese kid who got picked last and then there was Phillip; not even last pick, not even a pick at all. In fact, if you went through the family photo album you wouldn’t find a single clear image of him—just cropped heads, obstructing arms and blurred faces.
On summer breaks, Phillip would go for weeks without leaving his room. And the whole time everyone was always too busy with their own lives to wonder, “Where is Phillip Thorpe?” Little did they know, Phillip was diligently working on his special project—spending hours upon hours in the garage.
Since Phillip’s family was broken into pairs, every group had their own space. Phillip’s two brothers, Tim and Tom, had their own room with bunks beds and everything from basketballs to BB guns. Tara and Tonya had a pink and yellow room, daintily decorated with dolls and daisies. Even the cats and dogs had a section in the basement for their little litter boxes and puppy pads.
Life in the Thorpe household was loud—a little too much noise for that small house. Phillip was usually surrounded by screaming siblings, barking dogs, and yelling parents so even if he did want to say something, no one would hear him.
Birthdays came and went and Phillip awkwardly grew into his teenage years. But what was he always doing in that garage? Behind that paint-chipped, partly smashed dilapidated old garage door was Phillip’s workshop. Harold Thorpe, Phillip’s father, was a mechanic—and a packrat. He would bring home flawed spare parts and pieces that weren’t fit for customers and throw them in the garage. And these parts became Phillip’s toys. He would connect mufflers to steering wheels and mirrors to bumpers. A lot of his creations looked like something you would, and should, find in a dumpster.
But one day Phillip started making his own muffler—piecing together the biggest pipes he could find because Phillip knew one thing from having a mechanic as a father; the bigger the muffler, the louder the sound.
The time had finally come. Phillip turned seventeen. He could drive. He could escape his house of lunatics. He could have freedom. But on the day of his seventeenth birthday, there was no cake, no candles, no presents—there was nothing. His family had forgotten once again. “Surely they will remember my 17th birthday,” Phillip thought. But he was wrong, they didn’t.
That night, when everyone had gone to bed, Phillip took the keys for his dad’s car and went to the garage. He pulled out his tools—saws and screwdrivers—and went to work on putting his muffler on his unsuspecting father’s car. He finally finished are 3am. Covered in grease and sweat, Phillip stepped back and marveled at his creation. He now knew what he had to do. Phillip slid those keys into the ignition and with a flick of the wrist a loud roar of the engine rung through the night. “Wow,” he muttered, the only word that had left his mouth in years. He revved the engine, filling the air with a deafening growl. At this point, every light in the Thorpe’s house lit up. One by one, his whole family poured out onto the front lawn to see what all the commotion was. Phillip had done it. He had created the loudest muffler known to man. And boy did it feel good. This was the first time the family saw Phillip smile, ever.
Phillip turned his head towards his parents, winked his left eye, and peeled off into the night; leaving that small town without ever glancing in the rearview mirror.
What became of young Phillip you ask? He currently owns a company called
Injen that sells
Mufflers—and still has that smile on his face. –Mike Rosania
