Going Nowhere Faster

by Sean Beaudoin

  “They haven’t taken over,” I said. “Really. I can prove it. But you have to come with me.”

  “It’s comfortable down here,” he said.

  I began to whack him with the broom. I started with his feet and worked upward. When I got to his shoulders, he stood and said, “All right already.”

  “Go get dressed,” I told him. “And get your car keys. I’m driving.”

  Outside, there was a new note on the crossbar of my bike. It said: YOOURE GONNNA GET ITS. GETS IT. GET IT. For a second it terrified me. After that, I was just plain scared.

  “What’s that mean?” Keith asked.

  “Nothing.” I put the bike in the trunk of his massive Lincoln. Inside, I adjusted the seat forward and then pulled a pair of his boxers out of my pocket. I’d found them in his dresser. They had little blue lambs all over them.

  “Those are my boxers,” he said.

  “This is your blindfold,” I corrected, and pulled them over his head.

  “I can’t see.”

  “That’s the point,” I said, and then peeled out into the street.

  “You’re driving too fast,” he said.

  “How do you know? You’re blind.”

  “I can smell it.”

  “That’s not driving too fast you smell,” I said.

  Keith shrugged and then began forcing potato chips through the fly.

  We pulled behind the store, crunching slowly over gravel until we were a few feet from the back door.

  “Are there doctors at the surprise? I don’t like doctors.”

  “No doctors,” I said, taking Keith’s hand and leading him into Happy Video. I turned on the lights and arranged him in the center of the room.

  “Okay, you can take your boxers off.”

  Keith reached down and started unbuckling his belt.

  “The other boxers,” I said.

  “Oh.” He pulled the lambs off his face, freeing his mustache and eyes and afro. Happy Video was completely cleaned up. The holes in the walls were fixed and the whole thing was repainted a pleasing yellow. There were new pine shelves along one wall, my father having figured out a way of building them so they had twice the display room of the old shelves. And they only leaned a little to the left. There were new cubicles in the center to display New Arrivals. There was an expanded Classics section. There was a display case my father had built for cameras and VCRs and DVD players, with a sliding glass door that actually slid. In the wrong direction, but it still slid. There were new posters and bunting that Olivia had picked out and strung. There was even a porno room, with a swinging saloon door, like in a John Wayne movie, instead of the old curtain. The place smelled a little farty, but even that felt right, a loving contribution from Chopper.

  “Wow,” Keith said. The place looked great. It looked fantastic. “Wow,” he said again.

  “Well?” I said. “What do you want to do?”

  He wiped a tear from his eye. He ran his big hands over the new cabinet, and then along his new desk.

  “Open up, I guess,” he finally said.

  I went to the front of the store and tore down the yellow police tape. I propped the door open and turned the CLOSED sign around. I looked back at Keith, who was still in awe. By the time I got to the desk, one of the BMX kids had stuck his head in and said, “Hey, guy, you got The Terminator?”

  I worked most of a shift, and when it was over accepted a hug from Keith.

  FIVE THINGS MORE DESIRABLE THAN KEITH-HUG:

  1. Lowered into oatmeal vat

  2. Forced to wear Timmy the Sock Puppet costume

  3. Hugged by reasonably hygienic Sasquatch

  4. In the center of a week-long group sneeze

  5. Being the favorite soft thing in the pocket of Lennie from Of Mice and Men.

  “You, Stan, have both impressed and surprised me.”

  I said “Mmmpfhneff” for a while, until Keith let go, and then I said, “thanks.”

  Outside, my bike was gone. Completely. Just not there. No notes or further damage. Gone. Actually, it was a relief. My shoulder already felt better. By the time I’d walked home, what with having to dive into the bushes fifteen times (fourteen Chevettes and a Corolla), it was getting dark. Miles was in the driveway, leaning on his car.

  “You, Stan, are covered with dirt and leaves.”

  “I just applied for a job as a tree,” I said. It made so little sense, he didn’t even bother responding.

  “Anyway, I think we have a problem.”

  “What?”

  “My car’s acting weird. I think there’s really something wrong. I’m not sure we’re going for Slurpees, let alone to Cali.”

  He leaned over the hood and pointed to a bunch of stuff: tubes, valves, metal parts.

  “Maybe it’s that tube,” I pointed.

  “It’s not that tube.”

  “Maybe it’s that valve.”

  “It’s not that valve.”

  “Maybe my dad could check it out.”

  Miles looked askance. He peered back at his engine protectively. “I dunno. You sure I let him get his hands on it, it’s not gonna suddenly run on Pop-Tarts?”

  “Shut up,” I said.

  We walked into the backyard. My father was at his worktable, lowering rusted gears into a bucket of some solution. We peered over, watching the grease and rust flaking away.

  “New thing I’m working on. Smith’s E-Z Instant Cleaner.”

  “Looks like it works pretty good,” Miles said.

  My father stroked his beard. “Unfortunately a bit too good.” He pointed to the bucket, where the gear was now completely shiny, almost new in parts, and then to other buckets where the gears themselves had begun to dissolve. My father went to the chalkboard and erased part of an equation, then wrote in a missing cosine. Then he added a four and an NaCl.

  “Dad? Miles is having some problems with his car. Can you look at it?”

  “Are you going to tell me the truth if I ask why Miles has a swollen nose?”

  “Definitely,” Miles said.

  “Not,” I said.

  “Fine,” my father said. “How about your eye? Or wrist? Or neck? Is this a NATS thing?”

  “No,” I said.

  “NATS?” Miles asked.

  “I was busy hating you then,” I said. “I’ll tell you later.”

  “Chad Chilton?” Miles guessed.

  “Who?” my father asked.

  “Can we PLEASE go look at the car?”

  My father scratched behind his ear with the tip of a plumb bob. “How about we go see this car?”

  “Good idea,” Miles agreed.

  We walked out to the driveway, Chopper following behind and panting heavily from the thirty-yard exertion.

  “Miles and I are going to California,” I said. “Instead of college. Or whatever.”

  My father blinked. He looked at his feet and his hands. “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “And I assume, since the house is not on fire, you haven’t told your mother yet?”

  I nodded. “Correct.”

  When we reached the car, my father sighed. “You intend to go in this?”

  “The MilesMobile,” Miles said proudly.

  My father peered under the hood. Then pulled out about three feet of worn rubber tubing. “Not if you want to make it over the county line.”

  “I told you it was that tube,” I said.

  “That’s not the tube you pointed to,” Miles said.

  My father then pulled out a little metal box that looked like a fan. It was a fan. “Bearings are shot here, too.”

  “We’re screwed,” I said.

  “We’re screwed,” Miles said.

  “Well, I have a surprise for you.” My father smiled. “I was saving it, but I suppose now is as good a time as any.”

  “Smith’s E-Z Flying Carpet?” Miles guessed.

  “Smith’s E-Z Atomic Transporter?” I guessed.

  My father led us into the garage.
A round shape was hidden under three white tarps. He yanked them off, one at a time, as an orange VW bus was slowly revealed.

  “Whoa!” said Miles.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Yours,” my father said.

  “Mine?”

  “Yours.”

  “COOL!” Miles said. “OURS!”

  He popped the rear door and checked out the engine. I checked out the big whale-fin spoiler on the roof. There was also a huge pair of metal antlers welded to the front, and a red button on the dashboard that said LIFT OFF beneath it.

  “What’s that do?” I asked.

  “Never, ever touch that,” my father said. “Ever.”

  I immediately pressed it. Nothing happened. He smiled.

  “Dad, you do have a sense of humor.”

  “Shhh,” he said. “Don’t tell your mother.”

  Miles climbed off the luggage rack and slapped my father five. “What a ride! Way to go, Mr. S!”

  “But what does it run on?” I asked.

  My father smiled. “What do you think? Vegetable oil.”

  He was so proud, I couldn’t act disappointed. But I didn’t have to when I looked at Miles and he was beaming. “Vegetable oil! Awesome! Those hippie California chicks love the environment!”

  Miles threw the door open and climbed inside. There was red carpet in the back and posters on the sides and a tiny fridge and a little desk and tools and bunks on the walls that folded in when you weren’t sleeping. It was unbelievable.

  “It’s the van I always wanted when I was in college,” my father said.

  “Mr. S, this so rules!” Miles said.

  “Is this what you’ve been working on all this time?” I asked. “This must have taken forever.”

  My father shrugged.

  “But what about your other inventions? And where did you get the money?”

  “Well, actually, I sold my plans for bio-diesel conversion to GM twenty years ago. As it turns out, we’re pretty well-off.”

  “But — but . . . ,” I stammered.

  “You’re a rich kid?” Miles laughed. “You need a new haircut, Trump Jr.”

  “Your mother and I wanted you to work for what you have. To understand that things aren’t always given to you. The money is tied up in investments. In the meantime, we were determined to live a normal life.”

  “Normal?” I said.

  “Normal?” Miles said.

  “Well, I suppose you could make an argument either way,” my father admitted.

  “What about the store?” I asked.

  “Your mother enjoys the store, but I don’t think we’ve made a cent since it opened.”

  “Finally, something I already knew.”

  He laughed. “But that’s between you and me.”

  I slapped myself on the forehead. “Then I need to borrow some cash, Dad, like, right now!”

  He reached into his back pocket for the wallet he’d invented, Smith’s Secure-a-Let. He struggled for a while, unable to get it open.

  “Let me try,” Miles said, squeezing and pulling. He couldn’t open it, either.

  “What do you need money for, anyway?”

  “Dos’s bail.”

  My father nodded. “A very odd Mumper woman called this afternoon. It’s already taken care of. Dos is at his house right now, I believe.”

  “Well, then,” I said, amazed that things seemed to be actually, kinda, sorta working out, “let’s go see him.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  THE fourth, fifth, sixth, and SEVENTH blubbery SEAL

  Miles and I walked across the field.

  “Your dad is so frickin’ cool, you know that?”

  “I guess I do now,” I said. Why hadn’t I noticed before?

  Miles felt his cheekbone with two fingers. “Does my bruise look like it’s healed any?”

  “I can bring it back for you,” I said, cocking a fist.

  He laughed. “I’ll pass.”

  “What were we fighting about again?” I asked.

  “I dunno? Some girl or something? Or maybe it was just bad kielbasa.”

  “That’s right,” I said, and slapped my forehead. “Never trust German food.”

  We got to Dos’s front steps, and had a hard time staying on them as they were slanted to the right.

  “Cool as your dad is, he isn’t very level.”

  “I know,” I said. “I think it’s an inner ear problem. I think it’s genetic.”

  Miles almost fell off the step. I grabbed his shoulder as Dos opened the door.

  “Amigo!” I said.

  “Dos!” Miles said.

  Dos didn’t say a word. Kids ran around behind him, playing some sort of game with a ball and sticks and pillows, screaming in Spanish. Mrs. Dos stood in the hallway, beaming. Dos got me in a bear hug and then pulled us into the house.

  “Ohmygod, I’m stuffed,” Miles said, holding his stomach as we walked back across the lettuce field. Mrs. Dos had made an enormous spread and I’d eaten enough steak to choke a cow.

  “Tell me about it.”

  The stars were bright and the field smelled like fresh greens and it was a beautiful night. I pointed out Orion for Miles.

  “The deer?” he guessed.

  “No, the hunter.”

  He pointed to Pleiades. “Constellation Hendrix?”

  “Nope,” I said. “Good guess, though.”

  “What is it really?”

  I was about to say the seven sisters, when I noticed something on the roof of Smith’s Natural Foods. It sure wasn’t a weather vane.

  “Do you see that?”

  Miles squinted. “You mean that extremely fat thing on the roof?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Nope,” he said. “Don’t see it.”

  “Let’s go check it out.”

  We circled around the side of the store and hunkered in a corn row.

  “Why are we playing marines?” Miles whispered.

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Why am I whispering?” Miles asked.

  “I think it’s Chad Chilton. He’s probably painting dolls up there. We’ve got him dead to rights. Finally someone will believe me.”

  “We?” Miles said.

  I signaled for him to follow and began flanking the building, coming around back, until we could pop out of a furrow and be at the side door.

  “What are we going to do after we surprise him?” Miles asked. “Like, he’s big and we’re small. It’s really not that surprising.”

  “No time for thinking,” I said, palming his forehead. “It’s time for action! It’s time to channel Van Damme!”

  “I hate Van Damme.”

  “How about Bruce Lee?”

  “He’s cool.”

  “Good, ’cause all this BS needs to end. Like, right now.”

  I ran out into the yard first, Miles behind me, but there was nothing on the roof. Had we been imagining it? Just another case of hallucinatory beef overload? Then I saw my bike. In the middle of the yard. Half-buried, with the other half stuck out of the ground, handlebars bent like sculpture. It looked like a deer. In pain. Plus, the whole thing was painted. Bright red.

  “Ohmygod,” I said, my body hot and cold at the same time.

  “Really, really weird,” Miles said. “Seriously twisted.”

  I wanted to run. It was so far past a joke. I needed ten eyes, to see in every direction instead of swiveling my head and panting. There was someone seriously and majorly bent. Like jail and injection bent. Jason in Millville. It was Wednesday the twelfth. Close enough. Miles and I squatted, looking around. Were we being watched? It was quiet, just crickets and the occasional bird, no movement or sound.

  “You know what this is just like?”

  “What?” I hissed.

  “So Scooby-Doo.”

  “Shh . . . ,” I said.

  “Except there’s no hot Velma,” Miles whispered. “Or a cool crime-fighting van. Or a talking dog. Or snacks
.”

  “Will you shut up?”

  “I have to pee.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Too late,” Miles said, then grabbed my hand and stuck it in a puddle near his foot. I almost yelled, then saw it was just water.

  “Got ya,” he said.

  The yard was still quiet. The cricket sounds were gone and the bird sounds were gone. Maybe we were just freaking each other out.

  “Maybe we should go,” I said.

  “Good idea,” Miles said, standing up.

  “Hang on.” I grabbed his arm. “Do you smell something?”

  He sniffed. “Actually . . .”

  I sniffed. “It smells like —”

  Prarash ran out from behind an old tractor wheel and grabbed Miles from behind. We both screamed. Really and truly like little girls. It was almost funny, except it wasn’t. Prarash was naked from the waist up, just a sheet wrapped around his midsection. He had a big red dot painted on his forehead and was covered with hair, like an ape. A fat ape. He glistened, even under the stars. He also smelled like very, very old beer. It was a smell I could not mistake. It smelled like Keith after his worst night, times a thousand. Times twenty thousand.

  “You’re the one, Fred?” I said, in disbelief. “You’re the one with the tires and the car and the notes?”

  Prarash gripped Miles tighter. “What did you call me?”

  “Umm . . . sorry,” I said. “Prarash.”

  His grip relaxed a little, but not enough for Miles to pull away. Prarash held him against his sheet.

  “But you don’t even own a car,” I said stupidly. “Cars are bad for the ozone.”

  “What is owning?” he snarled. “None of us owns anything.”

  “Okay . . . but why were you on the roof? And what’s with the dolls?”

  “What’s with the dolls?” he mimicked, in a baby voice.

  “You want a beer, dude?” Miles offered. “Just let go of me and I’ll grab you one from the car.”

  Prarash yanked his hair, and Miles cried out. I heard a bark. It could have been any dog, really. But then I heard a fart and there was no mistaking it.

  “Chopper?” I said.

  “Scooby?” Miles guessed.

  “Stanny?” came a small voice, from inside the store.

  “Olivia?”

  “Don’t move,” Prarash said. Miles cried out.