by Craig Dirkes
Thankfully, Sheriff Buzz said he would keep my role in the bust on the down-low. So, for now, I’d need to keep my dink in my pants. I could blather about the bust after I’d left the YK Delta.
Speaking of, I needed to figure out, immediately, whether my departure would come two weeks from now or much further down the road. I only needed six hundred to pay my (and my truck’s) way out, but I also had a girl to kiss. Considering all the positive momentum I had going, I had to strike while the iron was hot.
After strutting through the airport parking lot, I peeled away in the FJ. It was just after four o’clock. Taylor told me she’d be volunteering at the elementary school every afternoon this week, helping teachers decorate their classrooms before the new school year started.
I arrived at the school and backed into a parking space in front of the main entrance. I sat in my truck and stared at the glass doors nervously. Teacher after teacher filed out.
Screw it, I thought. I pulled out my phone and sent R.J. a text: “Just helped bust one of the biggest bootleggers in the YK Delta. Am the shit.”
He texted back (“Seriously? What’s the story?”) just as Taylor floated through the school doors. She wore black short-shorts and a tight white tank top. Her long, muscular legs belonged in a magazine. I put my phone away as she approached, got out of the FJ, scrambled to the rear of the vehicle, and opened the tailgate to retrieve my backpack. I unzipped the top of the backpack and rummaged through it, just to look busy. To my left, I heard the click of Taylor’s shoes on the pavement.
“Eddie?” she said.
I looked in all directions, acting befuddled. “What? Who said that?”
“Right here!”
I looked left and our eyes met. I threw my hands up in surprise, as if running into her were some crazy coincidence. “Taylor! Good to see you!”
“You too!” She gave me a smile.
“How was your day?” I asked.
“Really good. I had a —” She narrowed her eyes and peered at my mouth. “Wait, what happened to you?”
I’d almost forgotten that my lower lip had been split open. It had stopped bleeding during my flight but still felt raw. “Oh, that,” I said, touching it gently. “Joanie got excited and accidentally head-butted me.”
“There’s blood on your shirt,” Taylor said, her smile gone now. “When did this happen?”
“It’s nothing,” I said.
I could practically feel the awkward silence descend. I had to talk, so I told her I was there for the paper, that I wanted to get some teacher reactions to the school-lunch controversy.
“Actually, I was hoping I’d bump into you,” I added. For as fearless as I felt about wanting to kiss her, there was no easy way of doing it. We were in a parking lot, in broad daylight, with teachers walking past, and my efforts toward a little conversational foreplay petered out. But I was having a powerful day, and I wanted to act while I had the momentum. Stop being a pussy and get on with it, I thought. “Actually, I mainly wanted to see you. Actually, that’s the only reason I came.”
“Yeah?” Taylor said, her grin returning. “Why is that?”
“Because I wanted to give you something.”
“Give me what?”
“This.” I took two little steps toward her, cupped her hand, closed my eyes, and went in for the kill.
I never got there. She let go of my hand and pulled away.
I backed up a step, with my eyes still closed. When I opened them, Taylor looked at me like I’d puked on her shoes.
“Oops,” I said with a dumb smirk, feeling like a world champion dipshit but trying to make light. “Can I try again after my lip heals?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, her expression as blank and empty as the tundra.
Gut punch. She might as well have gotten a running start from across the parking lot, drove a sledgehammer into my stomach, and stomped on my entrails when they seeped out. If only Taylor knew what was going on behind the scenes. I wanted to tell her I was about to leave Suckland for good, that this was her last chance, that she’d probably never see me again. But I couldn’t do that. If I did, I’d have to explain everything I’d gotten into.
“Sorry, Taylor. I know I jumped the gun. But after the look you gave me in the steam bath —”
She glared at me with both eyes locked in perfect alignment.
“You’re leaving and I’m staying,” she said. “What part of that don’t you understand?”
She walked three parking spaces away to her parents’ silver truck, hopped in, and sped off.
* * *
Soon I got to my place, parked the FJ, and took a moment to calm myself. I sulked my way next door to Finn’s place and entered without knocking. He was crouched in the center of his living room, taking a shit on a honey bucket — a five-gallon pail with a toilet seat on top and a disposable plastic liner inside.
“’Sup, dude?” he said with a smile, seemingly finding it funny that I’d walked in on him dropping a deuce.
Seeing him pooping really was funny, but I was in no mood. “Out of water?”
“Until tomorrow,” Finn said with a wipe of his ass. “No money for an emergency water delivery.”
There were so many things I wanted to talk to Finn about — the sting operation on Bronco, my knowing about the shitty house he grew up in and how hard he’d had it, and my getting Heismaned by Taylor. But I was too glum to talk about it. I shifted gears. “I’m going to need another ounce.”
“Your final delivery!” Finn said, pulling up his pants. “But what about Taylor?”
“Don’t ask,” I said.
Finn explained how it was a good thing I was asking for weed now, because he might not be selling the stuff much longer. That surprised me. But it was a good kind of surprise.
“I was late for work the other day,” he said. “I’d stayed up all night. I can’t be late again.”
“You’re going to stop smoking and stop selling?”
“I’m thinking about it. I’m living on my own now. I can’t fuck around.”
I asked what he would do to earn the extra money he needed to get by. He said maybe work nights at Kusko Dry Goods, or weekend janitor shifts at the hospital.
“But I can still put this last order in for you,” Finn said, pulling the plastic liner from the honey bucket and tying it off. “No problem there.”
“Thanks, Finn,” I said, heading toward the door. “And good for you.”
Finn still wouldn’t tell me who his supplier was, or why I couldn’t sell in villages near Suckmont. I’d given up on asking a long time ago because the conversations always went nowhere. I didn’t even care about the identity of his supplier. I just didn’t like that he couldn’t trust me with the information.
* * *
Dalton knocked on my bedroom door. “Are you awake, Eddie? Time to get going.”
I’d been up for a while, lying in bed in a T-shirt and plaid pajama pants. Quickly, I grabbed a spray bottle from underneath my pillow and squirted water onto my face. I put the bottle back and rubbed my eyes to make them look puffy.
“I can’t,” I moaned, feigning misery. “I have tuberculosis or something.”
Dalton trampled in and saw me underneath my covers, looking like a sweaty mess. “Whatever, Eddie. You don’t even know what tuberculosis is,” he said, calling bullshit. “But you’re right, you don’t look so good. Stay home and get some rest. I’ll head to the office and hold down the fort.”
Fifteen minutes after he left, I sat down on the living room couch and placed my phone on the coffee table, along with a piece of scratch paper with some phone numbers I’d scribbled.
My first call was to R.J., but he didn’t answer. I left him a message: “I’m coming back, sucka! Expect me in a week or two. Got some crazy stories to tell you besides the bootlegger thing. Cal
l me.”
I knew that living with R.J. again at Chateau Eagle River wouldn’t be an issue. He’d be pumped to have me back. But I wondered how I’d handle living in a party house again. Could I resist the temptation?
Next I called my admissions counselor at the University of Anchorage, Mr. Westbrook. He didn’t answer, either. I left a message saying I’d be moving back to Anchorage a few months early. “I’m wondering what other types of local jobs or activities would help me toward getting in position to reenroll in college this winter. Please call me.”
If Mr. Westbrook didn’t have any ideas or leads, moving back to Minnesota wouldn’t be out of the question. I was borderline clinically depressed, suffering from a nasty case of the fuck-its.
I saved the worst call for last — Yute Cargo. The customer service lady said they could fly my truck out four days from now, on Friday. “Pencil me in,” I said.
I sunk into the couch and sighed. Scheduling my truck for delivery to Anchorage was supposed to feel terrific. It was supposed to be the triumphant culmination of all the hard work I’d put into getting myself out of Suckshire.
But it didn’t feel terrific. It felt demoralizing. All because of a girl named Taylor Sifsof. Until I’d met her, I never imagined that anything could make me want to stay in Suckramento.
“Thank you, Mr. Ashford,” the lady said. “But I’ll need a two-thousand-dollar nonrefundable deposit by day’s end.”
“Done,” I said, feeling extra grownup to have that much money. “I’ll drop it off this afternoon.”
Although I only had twenty-four hundred, and was still short of paying Yute Cargo the entire balance of three thousand, I wasn’t worried about counting my chickens. With Bronco out of the picture, earning the final six hundred was a non-issue.
I’d become an old pro at selling weed. I could unload that final ounce in my sleep, blindfolded, with one hand tied behind my back.
CHAPTER 20
CHANGING COURSE
Casey Cotton needed more weed, and in forty-five minutes, I’d be on a plane to Unalakleet to give him some. I’d gotten to Finn’s house early in the morning, and we were almost finished with the packing ritual. Having torn off a third strip of duct tape, Finn knelt behind me in his living room and ceremoniously placed the last strand he’d ever strap over my butt cheeks.
“How’s it feel?” Finn asked.
I sipped from a mug of instant coffee he’d mixed me. “The tape is pulling. I didn’t have time to shave.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Finn said, smoothing the tape.
I knew what he meant. In a few days, according to my plan, I’d be leaving Sucksburg for good. I’d net six hundred with this delivery, and I’d be free to pay my way back to civilization.
“I’m jacked to get out of here,” I said before taking a long sip. “The only bad part is you. I’ll miss you, brother. I really will.”
“What do you want, a farewell reach-around?” Finn said.
“Get the hell out of here!” I said with a laugh, swatting his hand away.
I’d spent all my extra money on a flight scheduled to leave Saturday. Having become preoccupied with leaving Suck Center — even more intensely once it seemed at hand — I hadn’t bothered to tie up loose ends with Finn, Dalton, or Taylor during the past few days.
Not that I had much to smooth over with Finn. Although I’d told him about the Bronco sting — he was aghast it had happened — I didn’t mention that I’d discovered the truth about his childhood home and the circumstances he’d grown up with. Between the condition of Linetta’s place and Finn’s never talking about his family, there was no sense in making him dredge up bad memories. Some things are best left unsaid.
As for Dalton, he had no clue I was leaving. I didn’t even have a story to cover in Unalakleet, where’d I’d be delivering to Casey. Even if I did have a story, by the time it was due on Tuesday morning, I’d be gone. So whatever. Whenever I started thinking about how angry Dalton would be when he found out I’d left him high and dry, and how guilty I’d feel about screwing him over, I stopped thinking.
And Taylor. I hadn’t heard from her since she denied me five days earlier. Nary a text or email. Again, whatever. I couldn’t wait to get far, far away from her. It was embarrassing to be in the same town, to know that Bristy and Hope had heard all about my failed move, to know that I could run into any of them anytime.
I pulled up my overalls. “It’s my birthday, you know,” I told Finn. “I’m nineteen.”
He stood up and high-fived me. “That’s awesome! Why didn’t you tell me sooner? We could’ve had a little party.”
“Thanks,” I said, buckling the straps on my overalls. “But it doesn’t feel awesome. A year ago, practically to the date, I was driving the FJ to Alaska, ready to take on the world. Instead, the world kicked my ass. I pissed away the last twelve months, and somehow nineteen sounds a lot different from eighteen.”
Finn opened the fridge and pulled out two Mountain Dews for the drive to the airport. “Did you learn anything in the past year?” he asked.
“Tons of shit,” I said. “Mostly bad.”
“Mostly bad, my ass. You didn’t piss it away. Since January you’ve lived in a part of the world few people get to see, doing a job few guys your age get to do. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.”
I smiled. “Thanks, Finn.”
“Happy birthday, Eddie.”
It was time to leave. I stepped into the kitchen to retrieve my backpack resting against the stove. My phone starting ringing as I walked toward the door, and I debated whether to answer. My flight would be taking off in a half hour.
I pulled the phone from my front pocket. I didn’t recognize the number. This better be quick, I thought.
“This is Eddie.”
“Good morning, Mr. Ashford. This is Gordon Westbrook, your admissions counselor.”
I dropped my backpack onto the floor, surprised, and sat at the kitchen table, listening to Mr. Westbrook talk. Finn sat down on the couch. “Yeah?” I said to the counselor. “What’s the good news?”
He said he’d checked out my work in the Delta Patriot on the paper’s website, and that he spoke with the UA admissions board about it. All were convinced that I was ready to be a college student again. I dropped the phone to my chest and mouthed “Shit yeah!” to Finn.
I put the phone back to my ear. “Can I enroll for this fall?”
“Yes. But first you’ll need to — ”
Just then, my phone hiccupped. Someone else was calling me, and when I checked, I saw “Dad” on the screen. Perfectly terrible parental timing. As always.
Why’s he calling me now? I thought. He should be working at the car wash.
“Mr. Westbrook, I’m going to have to call you back. My dad’s on the other line. I’m afraid I have to take the call.”
I hadn’t spoken with my dad since Father’s Day, and that talk had only lasted a few minutes. I had ended the conversation quickly because every word I’d told him was a lie about how well school was going, that I’d be taking a few summer classes to get even further ahead. The longer we would have chatted, the better the odds of me tripping up.
“Happy birthday, son,” my dad said. His voice was slightly high-pitched like mine but had lowered with age.
“Thanks,” I said. “Are you at work?”
“No. Max and I took the day off to go walleye fishing on Mille Lacs Lake. We just docked the boat in Garrison to eat an early lunch. We figured we’d call now. There’s no cell coverage on the water.”
My dad said they’d been fishing since six a.m. and that he was going on just a few hours of sleep. He’d poured drinks at the Zimmerman VFW until one a.m.
“Enough about us,” my dad said. “How’s nineteen feel so far?”
“Pretty good,” I said. “I’m on my way to Kusko Dry Goo
ds to buy cigarettes. I’m a smoker now.”
“Sure you are,” my dad said, chuckling. “What’s Kusko Dry Goods?”
Crap. My head wasn’t clear enough to formulate proper lies. I still hadn’t woken up completely.
“It’s this store by me,” I said.
“Kusko? Where does that name come from?”
“I don’t know, Pops.”
He didn’t respond. “Hello?” I asked. “Are you still there?”
“I’m here, son.”
I waited again. Still nothing. I watched fifteen seconds tick on the clock above Finn’s kitchen sink. And in that moment it dawned on me what his silence meant.
“You know,” I said.
“Yes, son,” my dad replied calmly. “I know you’re in Kusko.”
I glanced at Finn sitting on the couch. He pointed at his watch. “Hurry, dude,” he whispered from across the room. “We gotta go.”
I asked my dad, “Did you know when we talked in June?”
“I did,” he said flatly.
“Then why didn’t you say anything?”
My dad paused. “I wanted to let you figure it out on your own.”
“Figure what out?”
“Life,” he said.
Total shocker. My dad wasn’t known for playing games. He was an old-school, straight-shooting man’s man. He explained that he’d known since April, when Max stumbled onto one of my stories online. My dad had then made a bogus call to the University of Anchorage, saying it was a family emergency. Then he learned they had no record of an Eddie Ashford registered for spring classes.
I sat there speechless, duct tape straining against the stubble on my ass, facing the reality that I had no clue about what other information my dad had gathered. Had the college people told him I’d been kicked out for a year? If so, how would I explain my early departure from Suck City?
Finn waved his arms frantically from the couch. “You’re going to miss your flight,” he said.
“Where’s the FJ?” my dad asked.