by Dan Cummings
‘DODD! WHAT’S YOUR UGLY ASS DOING OUTSIDE THE CAR? YOU’RE SPOOKING THE HONEYS,’ a smooth cocksure voice boomed from across the way. Lloyd Hagan, tall, dark and handsome in his purple and proud Hawthorne High basketball team apparel and short hair dyed an eye-catching blond. His presence meant Shit Storm was no doubt right beside him. Sure enough, Staubach’s nasty little chuckle warbled through the still air.
The hopeless trio practically felt the net tighten around them. Neil leaned in on Sam, carefully peeking through the van’s greasy window to catch a glimpse of Staubach and Lloyd’s position. For the moment, they were safe. The springy bounce of a basketball grew sharper with each approaching step, ringing closer, and closer, Lloyd casually swatting it into the concrete from hand to hand. Capitalising on the sustained resonance from each bounce, Sam timed the rhythm, bit his lip and popped the lock as the rock rang into the ground again. The ensuing seconds felt like an eternity to Sam, like he was having an out of body experience, waiting to hear one of the nerd hunters step into view. The ball bounced, and Dodd vainly tried to join in on the verbal abuse at his own expense, wanting to be loved.
Matt looked pale. Quietly, Neil slid the side door open and the three of them slithered in with impressive stealth. Inside, the same problem dawned on all three of them simultaneously. The door needed a healthy dose of momentum to slam shut. In their clammy-palmed, stress-choking passage to the van, none of them had even considered this problem. They heard several other cars starting up and pulling out, the lucky bastards who weren’t currently wearing targets on their backs, but the gentle chugging noise of the engines was too distant to use as audible cover. The Dodge Ram had no windows in the back, a double-edged sword in this case; it was a relief that Staubach or Noakes couldn’t peer inside but then, they couldn’t peek out to see whether they were still loitering around the Firebird…or closing in to check out the van as a mean-spirited group.
Sam had closed the door over but couldn’t bring himself to thrust it shut. He thought he heard more laughter and the low, conspiratorial tones of the hoodlums talking, but it might have been other classmates joining the emptying lot.
Matt scratched his itchy scalp beneath his cap, his skin hot and flushed. ‘What if they’re waiting for us to show up?’
No one had anything useful to contribute to this grim possibility. Sam still leaned near the partially open door, the crack of daylight in the murky, pot-smelling belly of his beast. A sudden sharp crack of glass clinked the air followed by a sudden volatile exclamation of bad language making Sam shudder, his palsied fingers almost slipping from the door handle. It was Noakes’s voice. Further animosity and challenges rang out throughout the lot. Neil wasn’t sure what just kicked the hornet’s nest outside but he watched as Sam squinted in fear and shouldered the door closed.
‘WHO THE FUCK THREW THAT?!’ Noakes roared. Seconds passed by and no sound or commotion seemed to congregate outside the van, just the reduced sounds of outrage from Noakes.
Neil sat with his back against the passenger seat, out of sight should someone stare through the windshield. ‘If they’re waiting for us, we’re just going to have to step on the gas. There’s no way we can sneak out of here with four of them watching.’
‘What do you think he’s flipping out over?’ Matt had his ear against the poster-strewn van wall, his lobe against Gene Simmons’s demonic tongue-lolling rock face.
Neil was tempted to do something foolish and clamber into the passenger seat to see what was happening. The notion quickly fell apart as he imagined putting his face to the glass just as Staubach stepped into view. ‘I don’t know, but anything that flips his switch can’t be a good thing.’ His curiosity continued to mount and he couldn’t believe he was still entertaining this madness. ‘We can’t just wait here and hope they have busy schedules. I’m going to look out the window.’
Sam throttled him with his stare. ‘What if they see you?’
‘What if they don’t? Whatever’s pissed Noakes off might have taken any attention off us. Might be our only chance.’
A loud bang slammed into the side of the van with the volume of the apocalypse. The three of them all jumped at least six inches off the mattress and dirty floor. A second bang, followed by muted combative murmurs further heightened their sense of dread. Another bang, this one right by Matt’s ear; it was the powerful and springy bounce of rubber and leather, Lloyd hurling a vicious pass to the paintwork.
Noakes’s clear, cutting voice could be heard from outside. ‘Staubach, leave it the fuck alone. I need to get this fixed. Get your ass in the car.’
Not Lloyd then, but Staubach practically denting the Dodge’s panels with the basketball. With an impatient grunt from Shit Storm, a final defeated whack shook the door followed by the scuff of retreating shoes. Sam was practically chewing his knuckles to the bone. After an appropriately safe amount of time, Neil pulled himself up using the passenger head rest and cautiously craned his neck around to the window in time to see a stroppy Staubach dump himself into the Firebird’s passenger side. The windshield of the waxed muscle car was cracked into a glassy spider web on the right side, leaving an unobstructed view of Noakes’s seething rage as he thundered the machine out of the bay like the phoenix had given it wings.
Neil looked back at the taut forms of Sam and Matt, his expression dumbfounded. ‘Someone smashed Noakes’s windshield.’
Matt and Sam seemed to clutch at a new lease of life. ‘You think we’re in the clear?’ Sam asked, begged rather.
Matt addressed the pair of them. ‘Whoever did that is a fucking walking corpse. Might keep their focus off us.’
Regretfully, Neil had to do a rain dance on this little parade. ‘Apart from Staubach, he’s fucking rabid. Let’s just keep our distance?’
Sam huffed, ‘Don’t need to tell us.’
Matt sprawled out on the mattress as Sam and Neil made their way over the seats into the front.
Sam sank into the driver’s seat, relief unkinking his tight neck. ‘Beer?’
Neil turned to him, on the fence about the offer.
Sam decided for him. ‘I think we all need one after that.’
‘I’m in,’ Matt accepted.
*****
The Ram only got thirty yards off the school premises when Neil perked up in his seat, his hand guiding Sam’s attention towards Lindsey walking down the street towards the bus stop with Deb. Some measure of colour and life started to permeate the slowly subsiding tunnel vision of Neil’s panic. ‘Pull over a minute.’
Sam’s stiff arms were still straining against the wheel, his expectant eyes constantly jumping from windshield to wing mirror, convincing him that the Firebird was going to roll down the street any second now to offload its anger upon him, but when he saw who Neil was pointing to he managed to ease some of his pressure. ‘You going to ask her if she’s brushed her teeth?’
‘Shut up,’ Neil smiled. ‘We just had a near death experience, might as well grab the bull by the horns.’ The van crunched over a heap of leaves and Sam honked the horn lightly. The girls slowed to a stop and turned, watching the driver’s window roll down smoothly.
‘Oh God, it’s the braindead,’ Deb moaned. ‘C’mon, Linds.’ She yanked Lindsey’s khaki coloured MA1 bomber jacket.
‘Hold on,’ Lindsey protested with a floaty laugh, seeing who was riding shotgun. Sam seemed to meld back into his seat, bored and distant whilst Neil hung over him with his most charming smile.
‘Hey, you two want a lift?’
Sam drilled him with a quick look of surprise. Deb wasn’t impressed with the chivalrous offer. ‘You expect us to just climb into the back of that scuzzy van? We’ll probably end up on tonight’s news.’
Neil laughed off the insult with, ‘Err, okay,’ and returned his attention to Lindsey’s alluring interest. ‘We’re going to pick up some beer. Hang out at the skate park.’
Shunning Deborah, Lindsey seemed to consult some inner sounding board and quickly came round t
o the idea. Neil watched the playful energy crackle out from her pert exterior. ‘Okay,’ she beamed.
Deb looked at her like she lost her mind. ‘We’ve got homework…and lives.’
Lindsey pivoted a few inches in her direction, a private dismissal in plain view. ‘It’ll only be for an hour or two. Homework isn’t going anywhere.’ Turning back to Neil she said, ‘Right?’
Neil took a moment to register, amazed at his luck. ‘Err, right, absolutely.’
The side door scraped open and Matt leaned out. Oddly, he noticed how Deb seemed to grow suddenly demure in his presence, losing some of her snobbish hostility. ‘In or out?’ He attempted to catch Deborah’s diverted bottle green eyes.
Lindsey led the way, jumping into the back with an undecided Deb bringing up the rear. Deb forced a weak smile for the roguish grin of Matt and hopped into the back. ‘Okay, you guys would be screwed if the cops pulled you over.’ Lindsey’s nostrils were smothered by the permanent aroma of cloying reefer smoke. Lying her violin case on its side, Lindsey found a space on the mattress, taking in the enormous collage of classic rock bands. Deb stuck close to Lindsey but didn’t drop onto the mattress with the same enthusiasm as her friend.
Matt shut the door and turned to see unimpressed mockery knitting Deb’s eyebrows together, her veneer of disapproval slowly reasserting itself. ‘Who the hell are all these old guys?’
Matt followed her search and sat cross-legged on the corner of the mattress against the rear doors. ‘Not a fan of real music?’
Deb scoffed, ‘Dad rock?’
‘Don’t let Sam hear you say that,’ he warned.
Lindsey, on the other hand, felt like an eager anthropologist inserting herself into some anachronistic tribe. Unlike her friend, Lindsey recognised a few of the bands but wasn’t a large enough aficionado of 70s and 80s hard rock and metal to identify them all.
‘Should we play some Katy Perry for you or fucking—’ Matt had to think, ‘—Black Eyed Peas?’
‘Ew, no. You got any Drake?’
Matt’s sardonic smile answered that and without being asked Sam turned up the volume on his iPhone, solidifying this as hallowed ground where only rock legends were permitted to play, the palm muted opening riff of Van Halen’s Ain’t Talkin’ ’Bout Love being the introductory hymn.
Lindsey had a genuine question which was not devised to oppose the guitar phallus mandate but rather to understand the era prejudice on show. ‘Don’t you like any contemporary bands?’
Without taking his eyes from the road, a muttered sound of reproach came from Sam’s husky form. Neil voiced his contrary opinion; ‘Yeah, some are cool. Sam just has an old head on his shoulders and condemns most of the modern metal bands as—’ he turned to Sam for confirmation, ‘—“screaming cry-babies with gay haircuts”?’
Sam remained fixed on the road, curtly nodding this to be an accurate quotation. Deb consulted some of the live gig photos of seemingly androgynous head bangers. Matt noticed how highly strung Deb seemed. Maybe it was his unprovoked but utterly justified victimisation of the Black Eyed Peas, or maybe it was because he blatantly caught her unexpected coyness. Instead of hounding her, which would be mean but potentially a great deal of fun, he cordially asked Lindsey, ‘So who are you into? Being a big shot in music class and playing violin you must have a bit more class than us Neanderthals, right?’
‘Didn’t you say you like Weezer?’ Neil knew full well, he remembered the little details of their few previous conversations.
Lindsey smiled, impressed, her brown eyes making him feel like he just won big on a scratch card. ‘They’re cool.’ She looked back at Matt. ‘Playing the violin doesn’t mean I can only listen to classical stuff. If anything we’re encouraged to listen to all kinds, you know, expand our horizons.’ Her eye caught a still of Jimmy Page using a violin bow on his Gibson with aplomb. ‘Right there. Led Zeppelin. Page used a bow on Dazed and Confused.’
‘Her story checks out.’ Matt looked pleased.
Lindsey sat back and seemed to be analysing the loud music. Deb was beginning to grow impatient with Lindsey’s little rebellious streak of late and was starting to feel a little lightheaded from the mattress’s perma-second-hand high. Right now she just wanted some fresh air. ’Do you guys have fake IDs?’ Lindsey asked Neil.
Neil nodded. ‘You ever see that kid from Pendleton High with the flat head, gets called Anvil? Hangs around outside the school sometimes.’
‘Pretty sure I’d have remembered him.’
‘Well, Anvil can sort these counterfeits. They can be pretty hit or miss but on average they get us past most discerning liquor store clerks.’
Deb rolled her eyes. ‘What great company you guys keep. Potheads and disabled people who fake IDs.’
Lindsey dug a short, sharp knuckle into Deb’s thigh and scrambled to diffuse any atmosphere, not noticing that Neil and Matt merely seemed amused.
‘Anvil’s not disabled.’ Matt was shocked. Shocked.
Neil, who by this point was making a mockery of the road safety laws by practically sitting in reverse, wanted to show that there was a little more depth to him, that he wasn’t just some waster. ‘And we’re actually laying off that stuff for a while now.’
‘We’re? The three of you? Cute. Do you guys all wear matching pyjamas too?’ Deb admired her manicure.
‘If you want I’ll get you a matching set, princess,’ Matt retorted.
‘Final year, it seems like we should at least do the bare minimum to graduate.’ Neil’s smile was lopsided and a little insecure.
Lindsey listened to this with curiosity, admiring how he was putting in some effort. Better late than never, she supposed. She considered offering to help him study but hung on to the suggestion for the time being, not wanting to look too eager.
Sam broke his quiet spell, unplugging his brain from the assaulting guitars and drums and turned the wheel into the quiet strip mall. ‘Here we go. One of you guys can go in—’ as an afterthought, Sam turned to face Lindsey and Deb, ‘—Anvil fucked me on my ID.’
Matt guffawed at the memory of Sam’s woeful laminated ruse. Neil volunteered, crossing his fingers and quietly hoping he wouldn’t get turned away by the clerk. Stretching his long legs on the sidewalk, he tried to appear natural and walked with his head held high into the store.
Chapter 8
Garth’s Auto was a long, ugly brick building just on the outskirts of town, nestled beside a long curving switchback of beaten, pot-holed black top. More reputable mechanics could be found within the town of Birch Creek proper, leaving this particular establishment to partake in some additional forms of revenue. The back of the polluted lot was bordered by roughly an acre of spruces and cedars, adding an extra sense of fortification and anonymity to the premises.
Noakes’s sub-zero stare almost cracked audibly like splitting ice as the eponymous Garth, a prison-tattooed, wire-thin fifty-year-old mechanic, slowly cut out the broken plate of glass from the Firebird.
Garth lowered the screen cutter for a moment and picked up a nearby wrench in one laboured hand, his eyes creasing suspiciously at the spider-webbed glass. ‘What’s this?’ Garth resembled a plucked and sun-baked mottled chicken in a dirty sky blue cap and coveralls, nosing in close to peck a worm up from the broken pane.
Noakes angled over like a quiet storm cloud, wondering what he was supposed to be seeing. ‘What?’
Garth probed the epicentre of the crushed glass with the wrench, bringing it away in a thick, syrupy translucent gloop. ‘This,’ he said as a sagging arc of the substance lethargically drooped off and spattered on the cracked concrete. ‘What were you hit with?’
Noakes looked at Garth like he was simple. ‘Like I said, none of us saw anything. I thought someone threw something, but I couldn’t find anything lying nearby.’
Garth used a filthy rag to smear off the foul coating. ‘Well, this sure as shit ain’t the damn vinyl.’
‘The what?’
‘The adhesi
ve, holding the panes together,’ he said with a grunt, as he placed the wrench back and continued to carefully slice through the glass’s moulding adhesive. ‘Getting a new windshield won’t be any hassle. At least it’s only superficial, it’d be a damn shame if any real damage came to this beauty. I remember your pa and uncle once had a helluva tear in this thing. Up to no good as usual.’ Garth’s nostalgic grin displayed some nicotine-yellowed teeth. ‘Now that was a major repair job.’
Noakes huffed quietly to himself, not exactly feeling any better in the knowledge that his inconvenience was only minor compared to what transpired between his father, his uncle and probably some long buried scumbag. Unless they totalled it trying to impress some stranger.
‘Don’t worry about it, Jason, I’ve seen how much you care for this old girl.’ Garth patted the gold screaming chicken on the hood. ‘Have you mentioned this to Ralph yet?’
Noakes shook his head moodily. ‘I was on my way to see him anyway. May as well tell him in person.’
‘Don’t worry about it, kid.’ Garth laid his wrinkled eyes on the ruined windshield momentarily. ‘This is weird, but I’ll fix it for you. This old girl is too stubborn to die. And I suppose it ought to be. 4.9 litre, V8 engine and slow as constipated shit by today’s standards, but she’s a vintage beauty with attitude to spare.’
Noakes nodded in quiet deference to the withered old hand. ‘Thanks, Garth. I appreciate it.’
Garth nudged his peak up and scratched at his grey hairline. ‘Still, those scoop lights seem a bit gaudy. It’s not 1981 anymore. You sure you don’t want to put this girl out to pasture and modernise?’
Noakes’s clamped lips cut into a tiny smirk; the scoop facing the driver was a design borne from pure tasteless excess, three rectangular lights labelled NORMAL, MEDIUM, and HIGH would glow red as the dated machine boosted its way to TURBO CHARGE. It all seemed so quaint these days. ‘I’m going to run this thing till the wheels fall off.’