Under the Bridge

by Michael Harmon

  He looked around, like he was making sure nobody could hear the sinful words coming from his mouth. “Sure. It would be sort of cool, you know? Pros make bucks, too.” He shrugged. “We’d have a chance to get noticed, man. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to spend the rest of my life making ten bucks an hour doing shit I don’t want to do.”

  “I haven’t thought about it.” Even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t true. I had thought about it. A lot. The spoken and unspoken code with the crew was that selling out to the sponsors was as bad as being a politician. But that didn’t make imagining being on top of that pipe, with all those people watching, any less real.

  “No sweat. See ya tomorrow, huh? Under the Bridge?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Bill Badger owned the Hole in the Wall, on a red-bricked side street in the downtown core, just a few blocks away from the church. Half of his shop held boards and wheels and trucks and just about anything else you would need for skating besides helmets, pads, and any other protective gear. The other half held punker hair dye and racks of earrings, gauges, bongs, incense, and various other counterculture merchandise.

  Mitch and I walked in, and Badger sat behind the counter on his stool as usual, popping Tootsie Rolls into his mouth from the huge jar next to the cash register. Badger was a throwback to the heavy-metal eighties. Not even a throwback, really. In the fog of dope surrounding his big head over the last twenty or so years, he’d been caught in a vortex of time.

  Probably around thirty-five years old, he once told me he woke up and noticed the century mark had passed, then went back to sleep when he didn’t like what he saw. Badger weighed in at a good 260 pounds, had long, scraggly brown rocker hair, and thought clean clothes were a waste of water. A truly odd recipe of lazy, environmental, hard-core, and hippy made Badger one-of-a-kind.

  This week he wore a Black Sabbath shirt with a huge mustard stain on it, and old-school metal blasted through the stereo system in the small place. We walked past the bongs, incense holders, punker hair dye, and rocker posters and up to the counter, where the skate stuff was. He grabbed the remote and turned the music down, tossing a Tootsie Roll to Mitch. “Today is Sabbath day. Name a song by the renowned band Black Sabbath and you may shop in here.”

  I smiled. “Hey, Badge.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Name a song or I’m calling the pigs.”

  “Um, ‘Livin’ After Midnight,’ ” I said.

  He slumped, pointing to the speakers, which apparently held the answer to the question. “You disgrace the hallowed band Sabbath, dude. ‘Living After Midnight,’ my young sinner, is from another and very respectable band called Judas Priest, which I must say is talented, but not of the Sabbath level.”

  Mitch spoke up. “ ‘Iron Man.’ “

  Badge grinned. “At least there’s one young soul educated in the historical wonders of where the trash you listen to now comes from. You may both stay in my store.”

  “We’re here to get a new deck.”

  Mitch put both ends of his busted board on the counter.

  Badger studied it. “You just bought this here. What’s up?”

  Mitch stuffed his hands in his pockets, grinning. “Some guy snapped it. Tate beat him up, though.”

  Badger shook his head. “Violence is never the way, Tate. Gandhi once said to turn the other cheek.”

  “Jesus.”

  He looked at me. “You called?”

  “Jesus said that. Gandhi laid down in front of soldiers or something.”

  He shrugged. “They both wore white robe things. Same difference.”

  I laughed. “Sure, man.”

  Badger picked up an end of the board and studied it. “Do I know the person who did this?”

  “No. Sponsored guy from the Wheelhouse,” I said.

  “Corey Norton.” Mitch spoke up.

  “Aaah. My competitor and the leader of their team. I rescind my previous statement and now condone violence. Only against competitors’ customers, though.” He stood from his stool. “Be right back.”

  Mitch and I stood at the counter while Badger grabbed an identical deck from the rack, bringing it over. He looked at Mitch in his torn T-shirt and holes-in-the-knees Levi’s. “On the house, kid. You come by after school and stock shelves for a couple of days and we have a deal.”

  I shook my head. “He has money, Badge.”

  Mitch smiled. “He took it from Corey. To pay for it. You shoulda seen the sucker’s face, Badge.” Mitch made a face mimicking a horror-flick monster. “All busted up. Bam!”

  Badge nodded, pondering as he looked at me. “I see. Violence and strong-arm robbery. You’re moving up the ladder.”

  I shrugged.

  Badger dug under the counter, bringing out a screwdriver and socket set. “We’ll get you set up, huh? Grip tape, buff the rails, a tweak here and there, and you’re set.”

  Mitch smiled again and watched as Badger worked. I dug in my pocket. “How much was it?”

  “Thirty-two bucks. No tax if you’ve got cash.”

  I put the two twenties on the counter and he opened the till, handing me eight back. I stuffed it in my pocket. “Listen, I’ve got to split. Thanks, Badge.” I hit Mitch on the shoulder. “Stop by sometime and we’ll get you set up on those trucks, huh?”

  Mitch smiled, staring at his new board. “Yeah, sure. Thanks, Tate.”

  “No problem. Take it easy, and let me know if that guy looks sideways at you, okay?”

  He nodded, and I went home.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Monday rolled around, and so did Indy. Under the threat of being shackled to a post in the basement for the next year, Indy went to school, but of course nothing could be so simple in my brother’s life.

  My third-period class is on the upper floor of the school, and Indy’s is seven doors down. When he did decide to go to school, we’d usually meet at our lockers and grab our stuff for lunch. As I made my way through the mass of people filling the hall, I spotted Indy at his locker. I smiled when I reached him. “Crazy.”

  He stowed his backpack on the hook. “What?”

  “You being here after three hours.”

  He took his board out, laughing. “Yeah. Doing nothing all morning has given me time to think about things.”

  I narrowed my eyes, looking at him. “I’d like to think when a person says that, it means good things.”

  He turned to me. “Depends on what good means and who it’s good for.”

  I grunted. “Shit.”

  “Look at it this way. The school is going to use that Becca Law if I skip, which will make Mom and Dad go to court and cost them money, and Dad will miss his treasured work if I do, right? He might even have to drag me across the table again.”

  “Yeah,” I said. If a kid skipped too much, the school could send the parents to court over it, and the parents could be fined if the kid didn’t start going to school. Indy was ripe for it.

  “So, I don’t want to go to school.”

  “So? You’re here.”

  He shook his head. “No. You’re not getting it, bro. The only way I can not be here and not go to court is if they don’t let me be here. Everybody wins, and Dad can’t do a thing because he told me not to skip. He didn’t say crap about being suspended.”

  I clenched my teeth. “Indy …”

  He set his board down. “Check it,” he said, then took off, skating down the hall, bumping past people, carving a path back and forth. People hugged lockers and cheered as he threw kick-flips and ollies, the clack of his wheels echoing through the place.

  Even though my stomach churned when I thought about what would happen later, I couldn’t help but envy him. He had no fear. No boundaries. Skating was about freedom and about breaking rules for a reason, and there was something inside my brother that lived for it. He did stupid things, but he never did them for stupid reasons. Regardless of the consequences. This was for my dad, and no matter how I felt about it, I understood wh
ere he was coming from.

  As he hit the end of the hall, turned around, and began skating back, a few teachers came out of their classrooms, wondering what the issue was. That included Mr. Halvorson, the baseball coach and head of the English department. He saw Indy rolling toward him and lunged, grabbing him by his shirt and yanking him up against a row of lockers. Indy’s board rolled on. I picked it up, walking toward them.

  By the look on Mr. Halvorson’s face and the way the tendons in his neck stood out as he growled at Indy, I knew things were going to get out of hand. Halvorson was a big guy with a reputation for being the ultimate jock, and he looked like he was about to make Indy a part of the locker. I double-timed it, getting there just in time to hear Indy ask him where he hid the steroid needle marks. Halvorson’s grip tightened on Indy’s shirt. “This school has just about had enough of you, young man.”

  Indy smiled. “You know what? We see things the same. You don’t give a shit if I exist, and I don’t give a shit if you get hit by a truck tomorrow. Even, huh?”

  I broke in. “Knock it off, Indy.”

  He looked at me, still pinned to the locker. “Awesome. It’s my brother. You want to join in, Tate? Maybe take turns telling me how much this school wants me around? At least this jackhole is honest about it.”

  Mr. Halvorson loosened his grip on Indy, and I saw something in his expression change. “I’ll escort you to the office.” He looked at me. “You can go on to class.”

  By fifth period I knew Mom had been to the office and Indy was back at the house, and for the first time throughout all the petty and stupid arguing between my dad and my brother, I didn’t want to go home. For the first time, I suppose, I knew something had snapped for both of them. We’d always been a family, and now that wasn’t the case.

  Things were going from bad to worse faster than I could count, and I didn’t know where it would end up. My dad was not a man to cross, Indy was born to cross him, and neither would stop. They were poison to each other, and I couldn’t be the remedy. Nobody could.

  On the way to sixth period, I spotted Corey Norton at his locker, sporting two black eyes and a swollen nose. I tapped him on the shoulder, and he flinched when he turned and saw me. We stood there for a moment, and I studied his face. Not bad for one punch. He frowned. “You broke my nose.” It came out nasally.

  I dug in my pocket, taking out the eight dollars left over from the deck. I held it out to him. I wasn’t too interested in feeling sorry for a guy who would do that to a kid. “Leave him alone.”

  He looked at my outstretched hand, then took the money. “I could press charges, you know.”

  I turned around and walked away. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. His entire credibility in this school as a skater would vanish if he did. He’d lick his wounds and avoid me, or he and his buddies would find me alone somewhere and beat the hell out of me, but I didn’t care either way. I’d been busted up a few times and could handle once more. Corey was a coward and a bully, and nothing would change that.

  The girl I’d seen in the church parking lot, Kimberly Lawson, sat three seats ahead of me in sixth-period English. When I walked into class, she was sitting at her desk as usual, on time, on the ball, and with her hair pulled back in a ponytail. I’d never seen her late, never seen her look bored or disinterested during the hour-long monologues Mr. Cassidy gave every day, and never seen her without her hair in a ponytail.

  Kimberly Lawson was every daddy’s dream come true. Pretty, smart, responsible, talented, a rule follower, and completely and utterly difficult to get close to, which I thought was funny. I’d seen half the football and baseball teams crash and burn with her since junior high, but they still kept trying. Like lemmings flocking over the cliff’s edge, they just mindlessly kept heading toward that fateful death drop.

  Word was Kimberly Lawson was a lesbian, but it was a quiet word, just like Kimberly Lawson was a quiet girl. Guys could be bitter when repeated attempts to get laid didn’t work out. Being a girl in high school, I thought, would suck. If you put out, you were a slut, and if you didn’t, you were gay. She’d had two short-lived boyfriends in the past three years that I knew of, but I hadn’t known either guy. Kimberly Lawson, besides being the best volleyball player in the school’s history, was a mystery if you wanted to know her and just another invisible student walking the halls if you didn’t. I’d never wanted to know her, even if she was pretty. Not my type.

  She stared at me as I walked past her and sat down, her big brown doe eyes neither afraid nor questioning. Just there, like she was. Two moving eyeballs stuck in a face painting. Mr. Cassidy began his lecture for the day, this one beginning a section on writing essays. I stared at him, not hearing a word he said as I thought about Kimberly. She probably thought I was some kind of criminal or street thug, and for some reason, it bothered me.

  Fifty minutes later, class let out and I followed Kimberly to the hall. “Hey.” She kept walking, her long legs outpacing mine. I hustled up behind her, tapping her on the shoulder. “Hey.”

  She stopped, turning. Her eyes sharpened. “Yes?”

  “I saw you. At the church.”

  She didn’t smile, didn’t say anything, just stared at me.

  I cleared my throat. “That was your family?”

  She nodded, her eyes flicking away.

  I took a breath. Talking to this chick was like pulling teeth. “It’s not what it looked like.” I don’t know why I said it, and I don’t know why I cared, but I did.

  “You mean beating up Corey and taking his money?”

  “Yeah. I mean, no. It wasn’t that.”

  “You didn’t beat him up and take his money?”

  I looked at her. “Yeah, I did. But not for a bad reason.”

  She smirked. “I didn’t know there was a good reason for beating people up and stealing.”

  I looked at her and knew it was useless. I knew what she saw when she looked at me. “I just … Never mind. You wouldn’t get it.” Then I walked away.

  I contemplated skating until dinner, but something in me pointed my board home. I chuckled as I went, reminded that my mom had once told me that people are sometimes drawn to what hurts them more than what’s good for them. For all I knew, the walls would be splattered with battle blood and I’d find Indy’s head hanging on a stake in the front yard, but I had to know.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I got home at three and the house was silent. Mom’s car was gone, and when I walked inside, the blinds were pulled shut and Dad sat in his recliner, staring at the dead TV. A bad, bad sign, because it meant he was brooding. He held a bottle of beer in his hand, and three more empties made a row on the table beside him. My dad was not a heavy drinker, and certainly not in the middle of the day. He wasn’t at work, either. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Hello.” He didn’t turn his head, just stared at the blank screen.

  I decided playing dumb was the best thing, even though I’d never seen my dad drink four beers before three in the afternoon. “Cut loose from work early, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “You okay?” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Indy around?”

  “No.”

  “Out skating?” I looked around. Then I saw it. Indy’s board. Snapped in half and lying on the carpet. The war had already been waged. “Holy shit,” I blurted out. “What happened?”

  “Watch your mouth,” he growled.

  I took a breath. “Yessir. Sorry.”

  A moment passed, and he cleared his throat. “Your brother is not living here anymore.”

  Silence. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “We decided it would be in his best interests if he left.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “That’s not my concern. He chose not to abide by my rules, and he’ll pay the consequences.”

  “Where’s Mom?”

  “Out.”

  I sighed. “She’s pissed at you?”

  He swiveled his h
ead to me. “Not your business, Tate.”

  “God, Dad, what happened?”

  He furrowed his brow, his thick neck flushed from the booze and his eyes fierce. “Let it go if you’re smart.”

  The tone in his voice told me everything I needed to know. “Sure. You need anything?”

  “Another beer.”

  I went to the fridge and grabbed a beer for him, not wanting to, but not wanting to have my head ripped from my neck, either. I handed it to him.

  Silence.

  I grabbed my board, heading toward the door. I turned back, looking at him. “Hey, Dad?”

  He didn’t look at me. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He slowly nodded. “So am I, son.”

  I left then, heading out to find Indy. The first place I went was Under the Bridge, but he wasn’t there, so I headed to the Hole in the Wall, where Badger sat behind his counter eating Tootsie Rolls. He popped one in his mouth. “He said you’d come skulking around here.”

  “Where is he?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. He said if he told me, he’d have to have you kill me.”

  “Come on, Badge.”

  “Totally serious. He came in, asked if he could stay in the back; I told him I wasn’t running a youth hostel and that it might look like I was boffing a teenager; he bought a new board and then left. But he made me promise on the rocker oath that I wouldn’t tell.”

  “A new board?”

  “Yeah. Nicest one I’ve built in a long time. Birdhouse trucks, fine deck, the whole shot. He paid my Visa bill this month.”

  I shook my head. I knew he didn’t have money for it. At least honest money. “Who was he with?”

  “Nobody.”

  My mind reeled through everybody he knew. Piper and Sid would be a decent bet, but he’d know I’d come looking. Maybe that guy Will. My heart sank at the thought of that. Then there was Porkchop, a guy he knew well enough but who I’d never met. Before he quit smoking, Indy got his stuff from him. I didn’t know exactly where he lived, though. “You know a guy named Will?”