Down Jersey Driveshaft

by William J. Jackson

  "Oh! I'm sorry Benny!"

  "It's fine. It's fine."

  Crank rushes to grab a towel, nearly spilling her own coffee in the process. She starts wiping Benny's pants, only to have the pilot jump back. "Noooooo! We're fine. Just sit and drink your Joe."

  Frederica moved towards him. "But..."

  The large hand of Benny clutches her head. "Drink. Coffee."

  Hurt, dazed, confused, and whatever else Frederica feels, she nonetheless sits down to drink. Benny zooms for the door. Once out, Crank hears him yell, a long, drawn out yell. She is reasonably sure he punches the wall, too.

  Frederica runs to crack open the dome's door. "Even though I'm not supposed to leave the hangar, are we still going to see a movie? Hey! Have you seen Laura?"

  Chapter Five: The Film Flim Flam

  The advance stipend from Special Technologies allows Benny to purchase a nice suit and coat from Prince's on Broadway, and retain a good chunk of change. Now looking more like a respectable man as opposed to a lumberjack, Haskins straightens his tie while waiting outside of the Fenwick. He tips his fedora with the navy blue band forward ala Warner Brothers.

  Green as a praying mantis, purring like a two-ton tiger, the Stylemaster pulls up on the street. Even in the cold, passersby stop to gawk at the machine with the buff hood and unreasonable engine power. Their eyes bulge near to bursting on seeing the driver step out. A dame!

  Crank steps out in style: while the black cap and lace gloves are ubiquitous, she dolls up in a golden high collar sweater brandishing the name 'Crank', a flowing circular, ankle length black skirt...and the boots. Add to that her peculiar choice of lipstick (black!) eyeshadow (gray) and eyeliner (gold?) and Benny doesn't know whether to propose or run. She fits her hand into a black muff, shuts the car door, and skips Benny's way.

  "Hey, Vecchio! You clean up nice! Reeaall nice!" Her eyes swell to owl size along with her grin. Benny loves seeing her wide teeth. He wants to lick her teeth, and then finds it odd that he's never had a thought like that before. But once Crank strokes his three-piece blue suit, he sees a tiny, petite girl. Suddenly, he feels like he wants to lick the teeth of a child and should be arrested.

  "Okay! Let's go inside, Kid!"

  "Why? What's wrong? You are very moody, you know that? Anybody ever tell you that you're moody?"

  "Yeah, yeah! Two tickets for Laura," Benny snaps at the teller.

  "I'm sorry sir. Last minute change of plans. We're showing a war propaganda piece." The teller clicks when she speaks, as if her tongue was printing out ticker tape.

  Not more war stuff! Can't I forget the war for one lousy night? Benny's brain wants to explode.

  Not more war! I'm trying to get this guy to notice me and I need a romantic movie! Perché?! Crank's heart takes a tailspin nosedive.

  "Well, Kid, what do you want to do?" Benny shoves his hand in his coat pocket. His shoulders slump in defeat.

  Crank gives it a twirl in her mind. It's still a date, right? "Let's see it, and make the most of it, okay?"

  Sighs, sighing and more sighing. So much sighing ruptures from Benjamin Haskins that Crank thinks it must be his gasoline, that the American war machine could power a whole fleet of vehicles on the Benny Gas Line.

  Benny plops down the dough, and snatches the tickets. He escorts Frederica inside, where they wait in line to purchase popcorn. The entire time she has his right arm in a tight hook, as if he were a prize fish that could, at any minute, slip free and return to the ocean. He allows it. It's an uncomfortable feeling, but Benny lets it stand.

  Two ladies in front turn their eyes repeatedly at Crank's footwear. One of them is the blonde waitress who had doted on Benny. When she sees 'her man', she gets right chatty.

  "Hey Sugar! You been working hard since you ate that big meal I fed you?"

  Crank's head performs a double back loop before looking up at her date. "This woman fed you, eh?"

  "No! I mean, yes. She's a waitress at the place I grabbed breakfast this morning. Yeah, I'm full still. How's it going?"

  "I'm fine. It's cute to take your daughter out to a movie." Her smile to Benny is as fake as a wooden nickel. Worse though, Crank sees Haskins has no idea the waitress is mocking her. When the two women lock eyes, alpha musk fills the lobby.

  "She's not my daughter, she's uh..."

  Crank taps her foot.

  "Uh..."

  Crank stomps her boots.

  "She's my date. For the evening. Yes. That she is." He pats Frederica's hand. Crank pokes out her lips and half closes her eyes in a display of silent victory (He's MINE!).

  You can just about hear an umpire declaring Benny...safe!

  "Oh?" the waitress moans. Her face stiffens. "Well, honey, maybe it's been awhile since you've been around women, but the ones what like men don't wear boots." She leans back, crosses her arm, while her female associate moves in as backup. Crank wishes she had brought her wrench.

  "I'm uh, afraid I don't follow," Haskins murmurs. Crank slaps her leg, rolls her eyes.

  "Are you saying I don't swing straight?" The accent becomes more vivid. Crank takes the initiative, surprising the gals by stepping into their space with a pointing index finger.

  "Oh look! An Eye-talian at that. Oh, honey, are the theatres in Vineland closed down that you have to come all this way to score a man in our town?"

  "You're from Vineland?" poses Benny as he nervously accepts two bags of popcorn from the vendor.

  "No I am not from Vineland!" Boots ram into the carpeted floor over and over. Benny feels he's correct in seeing Crank as a kid. The ladies step around their opponent, heading for the theatre door.

  "First they insult my womanhood, and now they put me down for being Italiana? Well...!"

  "They did? I didn't hear any slurs being used, so..."

  "Silenzio!" She storms to meet the gals as they exit the lobby. "Hey! You come back here!"

  "Sorry darling. We have to catch a film. Sugar, if you decide you like a real woman and not Frankenstein's Bride, I live on Chestnut Street, and I'm off at night."

  Benny hears a smoky scream, a hazy roar from a small body running at the two women like a pouncing vulture. Crank has had enough, and she wants blood.

  Benny idles like a statue. Gripping popcorn bags, he watches Crank take her size five boots and plant them squarely onto the waitress' backside once. Twice. Thrice! Hair gets pulled, eyes swell and skirts are ruffled.

  Benny feels a presence in the scuffle. He turns to see even the vendor, a pretty brown-haired lass with an hourglass figure, giving him the eye.

  "If they get arrested, you'd be alone, right? I get off in a few minutes, Daddy, so..."

  Crank rises up from her slaughter, her dark eyes beaming the vendor's way. Brown Hair throws up her hands in defeat.

  "Hey, Sister! I'm making moves like any woman would on a nice guy! Nevermind, you can have him!"

  Waitress and her friend never had a chance. If they had known Frederica spent her entire childhood fighting guys and gals simply because she was Italian, maybe they would have shut up. If they had known she had to fight men and women who passed judgment on her lifelong love of the dark, of spiders and bats and things that rev, they would have stayed quiet.

  The door to the theatre opens, and out comes plain-faced man, Andrew Carr. He ignores the beat up dames at the foot of the door, only looking out past, well, everyone.

  "The picture is soon to begin. Everyone come inside."

  "Hey, I apologize for this mess out here," Benny offers. The man never looks his way.

  "Nevermind that," Carr drones. "Enter, and enjoy tonight's feature." He returns to the theatre.

  The two losers run into the ladies room to tape their faces back on, tears and blood drops on the carpet. Crank marches back and forth. Benny forgets the battle, the scared vendor grabbing her coat to flee. He thinks only of Carr's voice.

  "Hey Crank, remember those lab goons at the airfield? Didn't they sound just like this cat?"

 
Crank tones down her victory prowl. She locks eyes with Haskins, a move that dulls her ferocity. She doesn't like the look of displeasure on his face. Why does he appear ashamed? She can't call it. "Yes. He sounded like them, like - - my brother. Oh my God! You don't think -?"

  Benny gulps. He sees traces of blonde hair and blood on the lobby carpet. He sees Crank's hands flexing. He hears Carr's dead voice in his head. Fighting should have gotten them booted, or thrown in jail. But, nothing happened.

  "In a war," Benny groans, "a soldier goes where the battle is. The battle seems to be in there. So, I guess we go in and watch this flick."

  "Benny! You can't mean that!" She stops the prowling.

  "Yeah, I am. I should know better by now. You can never leave the war behind. C'mon Kid. Let's see what they've got." For the first time today, his hands move with a reassured flow, like when he pilots Milkman.

  They open the door. Faint light from a projector greets their eyes. Benny and Crank inhale, and enter.

  Velvet darkness embraces the duo as an overhead projector flickers images on the broad screen ahead. Crank and Benny sit in the third row from the front, observing local Salemites, forty in total. On the screen, GI's in their trusty helmets storm some bombed out hovel on the French-German border. Crank holds up her arm to her chest, as if touching anything or anyone would give her Slick Cooties. Benny takes it in stride, only his eyes hold any symptoms of terror. People are quietly watching.

  That's what makes it so bad. People are supposed to watch in quiet, but if they're remodulated, how to tell?

  The split second Benny eases into the chair, Crank wraps her arms and one leg around him in a surefire anaconda grip. He looks into her eyes, and sees pure horror.

  "Relax Kid. We've done this dance before." He gently slides her leg off his lap. She returns it. He removes it. It comes back. He surrenders.

  "I'm terrified! What if the whole town is remodulated before we ever fire a shot?" Her attempt at whispering falters terribly. Women turn around to shush the young mechanic.

  "See? So far, so normal. Remods don't seem to get impatient, from what little I've seen of them. Calm down, Crank. Let's check out this flick so we can report to ST."

  Frederica relaxes her stranglehold. The war footage soon gives way to a fluttering black and white title:

  DAWN OF THE ALLIED NEW ORDER

  EPISODE ONE

  MOTHER'S CALLING YOU!

  Benny gives Crank a cursory look. He wonders for a time if the film might be some new version of remodulation, if they should avoid watching it. But as the title gives way to scenes of a picturesque house in Egg Harbor, a dutiful mother in a frilly apron calling her boys to dinner, Benny falls into the comfortable slump the mind takes viewing a movie. Mama summons her boys, who come in and wash their hands. They cleanse in detail, minutes of scrubbing, lathering, and more scrubbing of hands. They walk downstairs in a line, sitting to the dining room table. Each boy holds a fork in the right hand, a knife in the left, staring at their plate. Mama fills the plates with a helping of perfectly circular mashed potatoes, a square slab of meatloaf (the closest thing in Benny's mind he can conceive the 'food' to be) and, as Mama puts it loudly, "forty-seven peas!"

  The boys eat in a unified style. Cut. Bite. Chew 'forty-seven times'. Swallow. Repeat. For some reason, Benny's stomach gets sick. When it is about to worsen to the point of vomiting, the tiny laced hand of Frederica Musa covers his eyes.

  "I figured it out! Let's go! We have to telephone ST H.Q!" She lets loose from his eyes just enough for Benny to see her getting up and tiptoeing out of the row. He follows, trying not to view the film. People are staring, their eyes glassy. They stop fidgeting, stop eating popcorn. Everybody clutches their stomach, perhaps by instinct. As they make it to the theatre door, the entire audience begins group vomiting. It takes all of Haskins' profound strength not to follow suit as he creeps out the door.

  The lobby is barren. Crank kneels down, breathing heavy. "You want to throw up, right?"

  "Yeah," Benny gulps down revolting bile. He finds breathing to be a strenuous task.

  Crank seems a bit better, maybe because she's a tiny little thing. "They've done some studies, psychological ones. Subliminal messages. ST had a warning about them last year, in a film ironically. But this one is more in depth, altering the brain... I need to get into the projection room, Benny."

  Haskins clenches his gut. "What's that now?" He dry heaves. "Projector Room? Okay." Leaning on the wall, he shakes off Motherville's mental Castor Oil, and leads his partner to the thin curving stairs that point the way to the projector. Every step he takes, Benny feels like a new set of lead weights have been added to his ankles. He hears Crank's teeth chattering behind him.

  The door gives an eerie creak as if it has a dark sense of humor. Benny dips into the room, Crank behind him. The projector runs with the soft click hum of reliability. Two men stare out into existence: one in a lab coat, the other a brawny blond with an unlit cigarette on his lip. Benny grabs a metal film reel, the room lacking in variety of weaponry. He nods to Crank. She continues to be terrified. Haskins slinks up behind the lab coat...

  "Why good evening friend," Lab Coat dictates without looking back. "Aren't you missing the film?"

  Benny places the reel behind his back as the two men angle to face him. Yeah, Benny thinks, same dull eyes, same slow motions. They've been remodulated. Salem has been struck, and down below dozens were suffering a new, more intensive version of brainwashing. Would they be too late? Should they bother fighting back now?

  Yes! The reel comes up from behind in a swing the Babe would be proud of, striking Lab Coat right in the kisser. His neck sounds the gentle creak of the T.K.O as he drops. The blond guy pulls out a black box with a button. He presses it, sending Benny and Crank back in defensive postures. Nothing happens. Well, nothing except that Blondie actually gains a gleam in his eye, a wicked gleam that causes Benny to react.

  One whack later, Blondie joins Lab Coat on the floor. Crank dives and catches the box, fidgeting with its singular button.

  Haskins paces the room, watching his partner do her thing.

  "Well? What's it do? Blow up? Emit deadly gas? Mess up traffic?"

  Crank pops a screwdriver from her skirt (from her skirt?) and opens the device. Her big eyes narrow, lips curl in. "Oh! It's a beacon. He is summoning, I don't know, Slicks I guess."

  Haskins nearly has a stroke and a hemorrhage. "Slicks! On Broadway?" He recalls his nightmare. "We gotta get these people outta here, Crank! The theater's gonna get bombed!"

  "It's too late for them. They're already gone. We have to get to the hangar and warn the team." She bolts out the door.

  He follows, easily catching up and jumping ahead with his longer stride. "Crank. Crank! You can't be serious! We have a pledge to save Americans from Motherville, not abandon them! Crank! Stop walking around me and listen!"

  She listens alright, but it doesn't stop her forward momentum. Crank gets out of the theatre and down the street until he reaches La Donna. She gets in. "Benny, you going to get in or what?"

  He puts forth his big hands in a crazed move Frederica can't translate. But he gets in, looking at her, shaking his head. Crank turns the key in the ignition. The Stylemaster bellows, ever ready for action.

  Something clangs like a crashing airplane on the sidewalk.

  The partners screech as one. "Slicks!"

  Four of the skinny beasts fall, propellers folding up in their backs as they move to the Stylemaster, cold metal feet skidding on asphalt. Crank suddenly belies on an air of calm, while Benny takes up her staff of panic. "Crank. Crank! Watch how you drive now! You know you can get - -!"

  Crank hits the gas and reverses, taking the car down West Broadway and around so the rear of the vehicle skids up on the sidewalk on the other side of the street. You would think she would turn and drive forward, as the car now faces the direction to the hangar. You'd be wrong. She continues going backward, knocking out supports for storef
ront eaves, a move that stymies the oncoming Slicks. Three of the four are buried in a wood splintered avalanche. Benny never notices. The entire maneuver is performed to the sound of Benny's new song...

  "Crank! Crank! What are you doing?! CRANK!"

  La Donna backs down past the tall stone bank on the corner, over the Salem Star (step on it, and one day you'll come back) on the sidewalk and out into Market Street with a horrendous braking streak. It stops, but not before it demolishes the policeman's watch booth on the opposite corner. It is then that Crank pays attention.

  "Oops."

  She looks to her right. Behind the low stone wall to the Salem Courthouse, an officer with translucent skin gapes at her.

  "Sorry?"

  "Are you asking or telling?" Benny yells like her Dad. He hastily rolls down the window. "Geez, Officer, we're sorry about this. I - -?"

  The officer points at the sky, and gets to running. He runs around the brick courthouse just as Crank and Benny turn their heads. What is he pointing to?

  More airplane wrecks hit the intersection of Broadway and Market, taking out the traffic light. Nine Slicks. The fourth from the first drop clambers over to join in, ten in all. The one landing closest to the car lowers its scissor digit fist on the hood, denting it.

  The sighing returns. "Don't make this gal any more crazy! Can't you see you're making her nuts?" Benny hollers as if the Slick cares.

  "It hit my car. You - - you smacked by baby!" Crank flips a switch on the gear shift. The Stylemaster suddenly releases a .30 caliber machine-gun from its trunk, a mean sucker that blows the Slick into a thousand separate parts. The first one done, Crank puts the pedal to the metal, burning rubber off the sidewalk. She drives and swerves her baby around the slow Slicks. But they have guns of their own, and fire them at the fleeing car. Most miss. A good deal of Salem's main business center tastes the sour note of war, however.