Breaking into Cars

by Emery C. Walters

We ambled off to take leaks. I watched. He held something up to him and used it as a funnel. “Yes,” called Brandon, somehow knowing I was watching. “That’s how I do that!”

  By the time we were done, here came Busted with dinner, or breakfast, in his mouth. Hanging out of his mouth; both sides of his mouth. There was a long tail on one side and a small hissing head full of whiskers and sharp teeth hanging out the other side. Brandon screamed and jumped into my arms. I screamed and we fell down. Busted shook his head, there was a muffled snap, and dead dinner was laid proudly at our feet.

  Brandon said in what must be his girl voice, “I am going to throw up.”

  I managed to croak out, “Good dog!” before I bent over to muffle my laughter. Busted looked from me to the rat to Brandon, wagged his tail, whined, and ran off in a different direction. Shortly I heard a voice yell, “Give me that! Damn dog!” followed by another voice, squeaking, “Was that a bear?” and the bushes resounded with crashing again. Both Brandon and I ran and hid in some nearby bushes. Busted came galloping by with a large insulated bag hanging out of his mouth. There was muffled cursing and bushes being whacked, but no one ever came very close. After a while, all three of us met back at the mattress. This time it was easy to praise the happy proud dog, and we eagerly opened the bag to find it full of food. Bread, lunchmeat, apples, bags of chips, candy bars, and juice boxes. Someone had packed lunch for an early family picnic, and now they’d go without. For all of about ten seconds, I felt really bad for them. Then we all started reaching for the food, and I got over it.

  We would have finished it all off except when we were almost done with our second sandwiches, Busted burped, and ate the rat. “I’m done,” I said.

  Brandon replied, “Ugh, me, too.”

  We both looked at the food and started putting the leftovers back in the bag. “I’ll carry it,” said Brandon, who actually had nothing with him to carry. I had my backpack but it held school books, dirty gym clothes, homework, and my science experiment on how fast mold grows on cheese. Oh God no.

  Behind me, unnoticed, Busted was chewing on my backpack. He’d torn a huge hole in the side. My old gym shorts had a few more holes in them now, and the science experiment was history.

  “Let’s go,” Brandon said, stretching. “I don’t like being this close to home. How far have we come, anyhow?”

  I had my own question. “I take it the dog is coming with us, but will we be able to get rides with him?” We had started walking back toward the parking lot. Busted was right between the two of us, then he’d run out in front, then he’d leap aside into the bushes. The third time he did this he came back with a squirrel in his mouth. “No! Drop it!” I shouted.

  Busted shook his head, we heard a snapping sound, and he dropped the now dead squirrel on the ground. “That’s not what I meant!” I said.

  Busted waved his huge, fluffy tail. And ate the squirrel. Brandon looked sick and I started to laugh, trying not to give in to the urge to throw up.

  Brandon managed his quirky, cute smile. “Did he eat the squirrel’s nuts?”

  So we were semi-hysterical when we reached the parking lot. We walked past the restrooms and on toward the exit, not too far, just far enough so the drivers would see that we wanted a ride, but not so far that they were going very fast yet. We stood in a row, first Brandon, then Busted, then me. We’d put the food bag into my backpack and tossed out the school books and science project. Just looking at it made me wonder if I should laugh or cry. “Brandon, the dog ate my homework,” I said. He laughed. Buster wagged his tail and burped.

  “Yeah, homework makes me sick, too!” I said, petting his big head. It felt like a block of concrete.

  Two cars almost gave us rides, slowing and staring, but when they saw the dog, the drivers shook their heads and left. After what seemed like forever a third car pulled up. It wasn’t very new but it was big, a sedan of some sort, maybe a Chrysler. It looked pretty neglected, but then, so did we. The driver rolled the window down and said, “One in the front, two in the back. The dog goes in the back.” He looked okay, middle aged, nondescript, like you’d expect a history teacher or an accountant to look. Glasses, clean shirt, brown hair thinning on top. I don’t know why I thought that. Brandon climbed in front, grinning at me. Busted and I climbed into the back. There was junk everywhere on the floor, magazines, fast food containers, and dirty clothes of some sort that I didn’t want to look at closer. Beggars can’t be choosers, I thought, as we pulled away.

  Everything went fine for half an hour. He had the radio on to some religious program, and he and Brandon were talking quietly. Busted sat and looked out the rolled up window. At seventy miles an hour, I didn’t want his head out the window; so that was good. After a while I realized there weren’t any window handles, or even buttons. It must all be done from the driver’s seat. Then I noticed there weren’t any inside door handles back here, either. Then I got worried.

  Worried or not I might have dozed off after a while except just when I started to nod, someone on the radio screamed “Jesus!” only they said it, “Jay-Zus!” My eyes flew open. Buster burped. I could see his ears, which I hadn’t noticed before as they were usually lying down along his head. Now they were pricked up, at attention. Brandon’s back looked funny, and I realized all his muscles were tensing up. I could see him move his arm and he said quietly, “Don’t do that, mister.”

  I had no idea what was going on but I blurted,” I think this is our turn, let us out here please.” There was no road anywhere near by, just the deserted flatlands to the sides of the highway.

  Our driver just chuckled. He was reaching across the seat, and Brandon was trying to back up closer to the door. He said, “Look, mister…”

  The driver shouted, “You shut the fuck up! I do what I want in this car. You should have thought about that before you got in. What are you, stupid?”

  The car was swerving a bit as the driver reached toward Brandon’s leg. I leaned over the seat but couldn’t reach anything. I was fumbling with my seat belt buckle. Beside me, Busted whined, then growled. Brandon was just saying no over and over, and his breathing sounded terrible, like he’d come down with pneumonia or asthma. I was really scared, too, to be honest. And still having trouble with the damn seat belt buckle.

  “Ha!” laughed the driver. Brandon squealed. And then, Busted projectile vomited over the seat. It bounced off the windshield, splattered all over the dashboard and steering wheel, and piled up in a stinky, smelly, acidic mess of semi-digested squirrel parts and liquefied rat guts. You could still see bits of fur, and I made out a few tiny teeth and some claws. The driver screamed and yanked the wheel, barely able to see. He pulled off the highway and slammed the car to a halt barely off the roadway. Still screaming and cursing now, too, he leapt out of the car and started batting at himself, while cars and trucks flew by him scant feet away. Horns honked. I finally got my belt undone and Busted and I climbed over the seat. Brandon joined us as we piled out of the car. I even grabbed my backpack; go me. We ran past the driver and fled into the trees at the edge of the road. Behind us I heard brakes, screams, and growls, and then Busted came galloping up beside us into the weeds and brush. We all ducked down, and Busted wagged his whole body and burped. Even though he smelled terrible, we hugged him, and each other, our hearts pounding.

  After a long while, we saw the man climb back into his car and drive off.

  Brandon turned to me. “Well that went well, didn’t it?” Then he burst into tears.

  Busted licked his face with his long, drool- and slime-covered tongue. That made me laugh so hard that Brandon had to join in. It took him a while, but by the time he’d wiped his face on his sleeve a few times, he managed. We rolled in the dirt laughing hysterically, and Busted rolled on his back between us. Brandon managed to croak out, “And his car was a piece of shit, too!”

  Awareness came slowly. It was the odor…I realized it wasn’t just the dog’s breath. I realized it especially as he started lickin
g my face, then my neck, then my shirt. Evidently the mess had bounced back off the man, the dashboard, whatever, plus we had crawled through it on our way out of the car. I sat up and looked at Brandon. “We stink,” I said, as if announcing the Rapture, or perhaps the coming of a tornado. “What are we going to do? We don’t have any spare clothes.”

  Brandon sat up. We looked each other over. I saw what was probably a reflection of myself; crap decorating the bridge of his nose, streaks on his cheek and forehead, an unidentifiable gooey substance hanging off his eyelashes. We won’t mention the clothes. Smears and stains everywhere.

  “Maybe it will rain?” asked Brandon. Then after a moment of looking at the clear, sunny sky, he turned to Busted and snapped his fingers. “Busted—clothes! Fetch!”

  As Busted leapt to his feet, I said, “No, wait!” but the dog had rushed off on a mission.

  Brandon quirked an eyebrow at me. “Body wash?” he asked. “Hey what’s that song about masticated monkey meat? Wait, he can’t hear me, can he?”

  I roared. Laughter was the only thing left to us, that and singing the whole song.

  I looked closely at Brandon’s face. “You’ve got a little bit of…” but I couldn’t finish it because we were both laughing so hard again. But so close, looking into his eyes, and with him looking into mine, I was so tempted to kiss him. Even though my body seemed to know I shouldn’t because Brandon was still putting off hormonal girl vibes, I wanted to anyhow, but I didn’t, because we had glop all over us.

  Brandon must have felt it, too, because he said, “Yeah, me, too.” Then added, “Well, I guess we’d better find somewhere to wash, a creek, or a pond, or a bathroom.”

  “Uh oh,” I interrupted. “I hear bushes rattling and the thunder of hoof beats.”

  “Cheer up, it might be a zebra,” responded Brandon.

  No such luck. Busted ran into the clearing where we sat, dragging both a women’s jacket and a baby’s diaper. A used diaper. He dropped it at our feet and proceeded to, well never mind, you can guess. We both screamed and leapt to our feet, grabbing the jacket and standing there, laughing and crying at the same time. I held the jacket out away from me but it was too late. It was covered in drool and slobber and various other bodily fluids.

  “You know, yesterday was all angst and drama and today is just pure comedy,” I mused, watching Busted. “What do you say we have lunch?”

  Even Brandon couldn’t laugh. We both got to thinking about yesterday, and probably, all the yesterdays before that. “Never mind,” he answered. “Maybe later. I really want to get cleaned up. Shall we walk back by the road? I mean there’s nothing out here. Where are we, Indiana or Illinois?”

  But I had no idea either.

  Busted solved the problem of what to do with the jacket. He ripped a sleeve off and proceeded to walk back toward the highway with his prize. I grabbed the rest, and I looked through the pockets. I found $50 and a pacifier, shoved the money in my pocket, and offered the pacifier to Brandon. Busted had his sleeve. I threw on my backpack, and off we went.

  When we reached the road, cars were flying by. I wished we had a leash so Busted could be kept safe. He walked over to my left side and looked up at me. I got it. I took the other end of the sleeve in my hand, he kept his side in his mouth, done. After an hour or so of just slogging along in the sunshine, we came to a sign. See the Tomb of the Unknown Bunny! it read in big red letters. There was a crossroad with an arrow pointing to the right. We crossed the road and turned left, both afraid to say the words out loud because of you know who.

  Another hour passed. We hadn’t thought of even trying to catch a ride because of how bad we smelled. We didn’t look too good either, and I was at a loss of what to do. Finally, we came up to a small two-pump gas station, old fashioned, but not ancient. The sign out front read, Martin’s Garage and Shoppe. There was a small store but it wasn’t one of the chains like we were used to. We saw a sign for the restrooms, hoped we didn’t need a key, and headed to the back of the store. The men’s room had a small shower stall and I almost cheered. All three of us looked around, didn’t see anyone, and went inside.

  Clothes came off. The dog went into the shower stall, sniffed around, came out, and lifted his leg against the side of the toilet. Then, naked, not caring, our arms full of clothes and the dog twisting around our legs, we all got into the shower stall and turned on the water. Our screams must have reached the owner because I could hear him plainly, wherever he was, his huge guffaws echoing around the little bathroom. That water was like ice. You could make a cold soda with it, or an iceberg.

  We persisted though, and it did the job. Of course when we were done we were still naked and while our clothes were clean, they were dripping wet, and I swear I could see ice cubes forming in my underwear. Busted looked like he’d been out in sleet. There was a knock on the door. “I brought ya some towels, kids. I saw ya come in. There’s hot chocolate inside, so wrap up and come on in. Sun’s out so throw your clothes on the line back there. You’ll be all right.” The man chuckled as he walked away.

  We exchanged a look—then we really exchanged a look. “I’ve never seen a naked girl before,” I said, not that I cared, realizing I just had, actually. I was blushing now.

  “Well, huh, what? Is your dick, um, always that—small?” Cold or not, Brandon blushed furiously.

  I looked down. “Cold water does that,” I said trying to decide whether to snarl or laugh.

  “You want to hang it out in the sun a while?” Brandon had dimples. I hadn’t noticed them before. They were cute. I liked looking at them, more than, er, farther down anyway.

  I opened the door and got the towels, wrapping one around her. I mean him. Naked, it was almost impossible to remember to use the right pronoun and I just wanted him covered up as quickly as possible for my own sake, let alone his comfort. But I liked doing it, caring for someone.

  “You stick your tongue out when you’re concentrating,” Brandon said, his face close to mine.

  I think my heart stopped a moment.

  A few minutes later we were inside the office, wrapped and warming up, even Busted. We had rubbed him as dry as we could, and he was sitting on the floor licking his, uh, nether regions. Our savior, the owner, Martin, not only had hot chocolate for us, but cookies and hotdogs as well.

  We were extremely grateful and told him so. He was ancient, and looked like he might become mummified if he got dehydrated. Luckily he had a large soda in front of him. I saw him lace it with something from a flask he pulled out from under his desk. He put his booted feet up, and tucked one hand under the strap of his overalls. “What brings you boys out here,” he asked, “and what the hell kind of dog is that?”

  Brandon had just stuffed one end of the hotdog into his mouth, so it was up to me to answer. Unfortunately right then my dick decided that Brandon looked hot sucking in that hotdog. I held my towel tighter and prayed. Think, Jack, think! Oh, yeah, the ranch!

  “My grandfather’s brother is getting old and needs help on his ranch. My dad was going to drive us out there but he got sick (sick of me anyway) so we’re hitching. The ranch is in Arizona and while we’re there we’re going to check out colleges there, too. Um. Yeah.”

  He looked like he wanted to spit. One fuzzy gray eyebrow lifted toward where his hairline used to be. “Uh huh, and the dog is a Chihuahua and his name is Fluffy?” he asked.

  “Busted,” I replied.

  Busted looked up at me from his work.

  “Yup,” the man said. And he looked toward the door, grinning. It had opened without us hearing it, and there stood two, count them two, Illinois State Troopers. Well, all right then, now we knew where we were. Terrific.

  I gulped. Brandon squeaked out, “No, Busted is his name. The dog’s name. He’s a good dog.”

  “Busted,” I said again and this time he stood up and came over to me as if to ask me what I wanted. “Crap,” I said quietly, but Busted heard me. “No!” I shouted, grabbing for him. I was mi
staken, though, in thinking he was going to race off and bring us back some—crap. Nope, instead he started to hunch his back end and we all sat staring at him as he produced a large pile of—crap. You could tell he was proud. I dropped my face into my hands, and my towel dropped, too. Brandon stifled laughter. Luckily I was back to cold size again, down there. He managed to get out, “I’ll clean that right up, sir, thank you, and you’re welcome, uh…”

  The two officers looked at us, then at the owner, then at the dog who stood wagging his tail proudly. Then everyone, the adults that is, starting laughing.

  I was glad they were taking it so well.

  An hour later we were dressed, clean, and fed, and the police had left without scaring us any further. I was leery about hitching again so near here, and so soon, but we didn’t have a problem. The third guy who came in for gas offered us a ride if we’d help him when we got to his destination. I looked at Martin, who took the man’s charge card, driver’s license, and measured him with his eyes. He looked outside at what he was driving, and nodded. Maybe he just wanted us out of there, but it seemed like as good an omen as any. Plus we could always count on Busted.

  Martin shook hands. The man said, “My name, boys, is Alvin Dustwater, but you can call me Elvis. That car is a 1938 Packard custom limo. I did most of the work myself and I’ve had her since my dad passed away, and he got her straight off the assembly line. There’s a lot of history and some mystery about this vehicle. Supposedly only two were built and those were for William Wrigley to drive around Catalina Island, which he owned at the time.”

  A man and his car; it’s a wonderful thing, but I was afraid I was going to hear a lot more about it, especially as Brandon’s eyes lit up and he nodded eagerly at every word the man said.

  “Actually there was another one built, and this is it. My granddad and his friends managed to do it all in secret, using parts from other cars. The…” Elvis looked at us, made a face, and added, “Sorry. Anyhow, I’m going to Denver with it for a convention, and to sell it to someone there. I hope to be in the Topeka, Kansas, area in time for dinner, and we’ll stay there overnight. Now if there’s some way you or you and the dog, or hell, even just the dog, could sleep in the car overnight, I’d be grateful for that, buy your dinners, breakfast, all that. I’d do it myself, have before, but I have a…friend there.” Could a man that old blush? Good grief, yes. He turned to Martin, looked at Busted, who only wagged his tail. “They’d be safe as houses.”