Zits: Shredded

by Jerry Scott

  Now it feels like they’re in charge.

  “It’ll be okay, don’t worry,” says Pierce as he crawls out of

  the engine compartment. “And you might want to move away

  from that tailpipe.”

  Autumn makes an exasperated noise and stomps over to

  Hector and glares at him. Pierce motions at me to start the

  engine, and I move from the interpersonal tension into the

  driver’s seat. When I turn the key, there’s a choking sound,

  then a cough, then nothing except snickers from the girls.

  “Hang on,” says Pierce as he bangs on something engine-

  ish. Then, “Okay. Try it again!”

  Whatever it is that shoots out of the tailpipe skids across

  the yard and comes to a stop at Hector’s feet. D’ijon says,

  “What is that?”

  Hector picks it up, turns it over a couple of times, and takes

  a bite. “Filet-O-Fish,” he announces.

  “Guys, how many times do I have to remind you to strain

  the grease before you put it in the tank?” Pierce is slamming

  his tools back in the bag, the girls are gagging, and the engine

  sounds as happy as my dad after a bran muffin and coffee.

  “Gotta jump,” I holler, and the guys pile in. We wave to the

  girls as they stand there in our triglyceride exhaust cloud,

  stomping their feet and yelling responsibility-related threats,

  but we can’t hear them through the joy.

  Two blocks later, all our cell phones start vibrating. Hector

  picks his up and says, “More Freckled Children fund-raiser

  tasks.” We all look at each other, and then:

  But then:

  Okay, we may not be totally free, but we’re finally on the

  road with nothing in front of us now but weekend and asphalt.

  CHAPTER 6

  e may be driving a veggie oil–powered van, but we

  still need gas stations. This one is about a mile outside

  W

  Bloomington, Indiana, so we have almost officially made it to

  the first stop on the tour. I’m calling it that because “tour”

  sounds better than “random trip to Sheboygan.” The guy

  behind the counter hollers something about the restrooms

  being for customers only, so Pierce puts a quarter in the gum-

  ball machine on the way out the door.

  I pull onto the highway and glance over at Hector.

  “Navigator . . . ?”

  “Take a left at the next light, go seven-eighths of a mile,

  then turn right,” he says. “In eight hundred and three feet you

  will hit a small, oblong pothole, and the destination will be on

  your right.”

  And there it is, exactly where he said it would be.

  “What app are you using?” I ask Hector. “Because it’s dead-

  on accurate, dude.”

  “No app,” he says, leaning forward and resting his elbows

  on his knees. He stares out the window and swipes a hand

  over the puddle of drool that’s forming at the corner of his

  mouth.

  The gravel in the parking lot crunches under our tires like

  deep-fried Bubble Wrap as I pull up to the restaurant, conve-

  niently situated between a used textbook store and a hookah

  parlor. You gotta love college towns.

  We can hear some really cheesy eighties rock ’n’ roll com-

  ing from inside, and we can already tell that this is going to be

  our kind of place. I ease into a parking space right below the

  rusting neon sign, which says it all.

  There’s enough

  grease in the air that

  we could probably fill

  up our fuel tank by

  just sitting here with

  the gas cap off, but

  Chunky promised us

  eighty gallons of used

  veggie oil, and we’re

  going to collect. It’s a

  long way to Sheboy-

  gan. Hector spots a

  menu taped to the

  window by the front

  door and grunts.

  Pierce looks over his

  shoulder and gives a

  low whistle.

  “Rolling Stone calls Chunky’s ‘the hottest hot wings this

  side of the third ring of hell,’” he says. “‘At one million three

  hundred seventy thousand Scoville units, they’re hotter than

  the Trinidad Moruga Scorpion pepper and only slightly milder

  than Mace.’”

  “They used to mix my grandma’s habanero sauce in my

  baby formula just to get me interested,” Hector scoffs. “This

  stuff doesn’t sound that hot to me. I’m going to need some

  proof.”

  As proof goes, that’s pretty convincing, if you ask me. A

  demonic smile spreads across Hector’s face.

  “I need a snack,” he says, and leads us inside. I look back

  and see the guy in the leather vest scraping his tongue across

  the gravel parking lot. This could be interesting.

  Inside the restaurant, hanging above a bored-looking

  cashier, is a piece of plywood with the same flame-butted bear

  from that amazing outdoor sign. This time he’s screaming

  a challenge: “Finish an entire jumbo order of Scalding Anus

  Wings in under five minutes and win your choice of a selection

  of fine products from Chunky’s Used Textbooks and School

  Supplies.” The whole place has a real retro vibe, making it

  seem almost Photoshopped. Now that my eyes are adjusting

  to the gloom in here, I can see that the walls are covered with

  photos of some of the victims of Chunky’s wings.

  At the end of the line of photos is the Inferno, a beat-up

  wooden table with flames painted on the legs and a tripod-

  mounted camera off to the side. The table is surrounded by a

  bloodthirsty crowd of rowdy frat guys and over-the-hill jocks.

  It smells like armpits and chili powder, and I’ve never seen

  Hector more at home. He sits down and picks up a menu. He

  studies it again for what seems like a minute, and then looks

  up at the waitress, tapping his chin.

  “I’m between the egg salad and the JUMBO SCALDING

  ANUS WINGS. What do you recommend?” The crowd erupts

  in cheers and jeers like a tribe of Vikings. Guys pound on the

  table and slap money down, betting on Hector’s very survival.

  A woman at a nearby table shouts, “He’s just a child! Show

  some mercy!”

  The waitress stands there and stares at Hector, rolling her

  pencil between her fingers impatiently. She’s either slightly

  amused by Hector’s confidence or anticipating his demise.

  It’s hard to tell through all that eye shadow. She’s about my

  mom’s age (somewhere in her mid-frumpies) and dressed

  in I-don’t-care-anymore stretch pants and a green T-shirt.

  She takes off her pointy glasses and wipes the lenses on her

  apron, then looks down at Hector again. After a few seconds,

  she tucks her order pad into her bra, shrugs, and yells over

  her shoulder to the cook.

  Pierce says, “I’ll have the iceberg wedge.”

  “Dude, you sure about this?” I ask Hector, and he just winks

  at me.

  “I got this,” he says, and shakes a couple of drops of Tabasco

  sauce onto his tongue as an appetizer. The place goes quiet,

 
; and the regulars all turn their heads toward the kitchen.

  The wings are served on a galvanized metal plate that

  hisses and pops as it is ceremoniously slid in front of Hector

  with tongs like the ones used to pluck plutonium rods from the

  nuclear core at Chernobyl. Wagner’s the Ride of the Valkyries

  starts blaring out of the crappy speakers that are duct-taped

  to the wall. This is Hector’s moment.

  “For gawdsakes, man, what are you thinking? Use your

  common sense!” shouts Pierce.

  Hector picks up a wing

  and, realizing it’s hot, flips it

  from one hand to the other

  until it cools slightly. He

  crosses himself and takes a

  bite. The crowd holds its breath.

  We all go nuts. Guys are jumping up and down and pound-

  ing Hector on the back as he proceeds to polish off the rest

  of the order of wings with style, sucking every last drop of

  hot sauce off every last bone. Nobody can believe that he is

  actually finishing a plate of these heinous wings. Grown men

  ask him for autographs, and women ask him to sign body

  parts. Hector’s face is on the monitor above the bar with the

  word WINNER flashing underneath. It’s like Mardi Gras, New

  Year’s Eve, and the last day of school all rolled into one. The

  guy in the hazmat suit carries a huge box out of the back of the

  restaurant and sets it down in front of Hector.

  “I’m Chunky,” he says.

  And then he lifts a gnarly-looking machine out of the box

  and sets it on the table.

  “First prize for my new asbestos-mouthed friend. The

  ShredZall six thousand! Cadillac of paper shredders!” And

  then, like he could read our minds, he shrugs and says, “Look,

  I know it’s a weird prize, but it’s all I got. Maybe you can sell

  it or somethin’.” I guess that makes sense. And as far as used

  office equipment goes, you could do a lot worse. “This baby

  shreds paper, paper clips, cardboard, plywood, sheet metal,

  you name it. It’ll turn whatever you feed it into confetti.”

  “Um, thanks,” says Hector, opening and concluding his

  acceptance speech in two words or less.

  Then Pierce jumps in and flashes the Kickstarter screen

  at Chunky. “We’re the guys from the Freckled Children fund-

  raiser you donated the used grease to, remember?”

  Then everybody gets quiet. Chunky sits down on a bench

  and unbuttons his shirt cuff. As he slowly begins to roll up the

  sleeve of his shirt, he looks up at us.

  “Of course I remember,” he says.

  If freckles were stars, this guy’s arm would be the Milky

  Way. Chunky wipes a tear from his eye and shakes our hands.

  “Thank you for helping these kids.” A single clap echoes

  through the restaurant. Then another, and another, and soon

  the place is filled with wild applause for the cause. Chunky

  hauls his butt off the bench and calls to the cook. “Elroy, get

  these young gentlemen their oil. They have a job to do.”

  CHAPTER 7

  t feels like I’ve been asleep for a week. My tongue is pasted

  to the roof of my mouth with what tastes like a sour cream

  I

  ’n’ onion–based glue, and my clothes are soaked.

  “And nice umbrella work, by the way,” I add, just because

  I’m always kind of a snot when I first wake up.

  “Screw you. I’m not even one hundred percent sure where

  we are,” snaps Pierce. “I haven’t exactly had a free hand to

  check my maps app since it started raining around Indianapo-

  lis, SIX HOURS AGO!”

  “No way. I’ve been asleep for six hours? That’s amazing!

  We must be getting really close to Sheboygan by now. Let me

  see your phone.” I grab it off the seat and stare at it for a few

  seconds. Then I look out the window.

  “Here’s something weird, though,” Pierce says. “Did you

  know there is a Best Buy exactly every twenty-six point three

  miles on I-465?

  “And I mean EXACTLY twenty-six point three. This may

  be the gas station sushi talking, but I bet it’s happened at least

  twelve times!”

  “Um,” I say again through the flavor-packed phlegm in my

  throat. Gross. After a gulp of Mountain Dew, I start again.

  “They don’t build Best Buy stores exactly twenty-six point

  three miles apart, Pierce.”

  “No! I’m telling you! I’ve been tracking this, and every

  twenty-six point three miles there’s a B—”

  “Dude,” I say, rubbing my eyes, “we are exactly where we

  were when I crawled into the back to go to sleep.”

  “Oh” is all he says, and then lets go of the umbrella handle

  to wipe the windshield off. The defroster hasn’t worked since

  last winter, so when the windshield fogs up, you have to wipe

  it off with your sleeve or whatever. But you never do this if you

  also happen to be holding the umbrella that’s keeping the rain

  from coming into the van. Otherwise,

  So now we’re sort of lost, seven hours behind schedule, and

  getting soaked by the rain that’s now pouring through the hole

  in the roof where the umbrella used to be. “This sucks,” I say.

  “Totally,” says Hector, waking up.

  “Let me ask you guys something,” says Pierce, wiping the

  rain out of his eyes with his forearm. “Are we or are we not on

  a road trip?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Obviously,” Hector mutters.

  “And we’re making our own rules and following no sched-

  ule, eating all the junk food we want, hundreds of miles from

  our parents and school, right?”

  I don’t say anything, and Hector shifts in his seat.

  Pierce glances at us both. “Can somebody please tell me

  what sucks about that?” There’s a long silence, and then Hector

  and I both tilt our faces up to the rain.

  This is actually the most fun I’ve ever had, and I didn’t even

  know it. “I’ve got an idea,” says Hector, pointing ahead. “Take

  the next exit.”

  I have to admit that I thought Hector was out of his mind

  when he told Pierce to pull in to this strip mall, but it turned

  out to be pure genius. If you’re looking for a warm, dry shelter

  where a few quarters will buy you some dry clothes, you could

  do worse than the 24-hour Sir Suds-a-Lot in Carmel, Indiana.

  And we have the place to ourselves. Sweet!

  “Hmm-fump-a hmmm fump-a bumbumfump-a-bum . . .”

  The big industrial dryers toss our wet jeans, sweatshirts,

  and shoes around in circles, and Pierce picks up on the cool

  rhythm of it all. He starts to play along on an old Tide box, and

  Hector adds this chord progression in F sharp minor he’s been

  working on. It has a weird, wistful sound to it that for some

  reason makes me think of Frankenstein. Frankenstein . . .

  Freckles . . . Frecklestein! Not bad! I spot a pen that’s stick-

  ing out of a wad of lint on the floor and start writing some

  random lyrics on my leg. Freckles . . . speckles . . . heckles . . .

  this thing is starting to write itself! If there was ever a
n

  Instagram moment, this is it. I snap a few pics and a couple

  of selfies, making sure to capture the full skeezeosity of the

  environment. My mom would freak out if she saw this place. I

  mean, she gets grossed out when there’s dirt and soap scum

  in those little crevices under her washing machine lid. In this

  place you could base a whole semester of biology on the crud

  that’s smeared on the change machine alone. It’s awesome. I

  start humming a melody of some sort and it actually sounds

  pretty good. Better than pretty good, in fact. We sound incred-

  ible, partly because it’s three o’clock in the morning and we’re

  practically naked in a random Laundromat near Indianapolis,

  but mostly because the acoustics in here are amazing! I make

  a note on the back of my calf.

  My phone vibrates, and it’s a text from Sara. That’s inter-

  esting. She usually doesn’t stay up this late. “Idea for the

  Freckled Children fund-raiser: Get autographs from all the

  A-list freckled TV and movie stars and auction them off.” Not

  bad. Then, “Problem: There really aren’t that many. GAWD!

  Why is this so hard? Luv the pics on Instagram!”

  “Never fear,” I write back. “We have this thing totally under

  control.” I push Send and then look up.

  I see some movement

  outside through the streaky

  Laundromat windows, and

  then a blazing light slices

  through the dim room, send-

  ing Hector and me diving for

  cover. Pierce isn’t as shy, and

  takes full advantage of the

  spotlight.

  “Hello, boys,” a short cop with a bristly mustache says.

  “Having a little rehearsal tonight?” There’s another cop with

  him, and he snickers. The second cop looks sort of like my

  dad, if my dad were six inches taller with twenty-six-inch

  biceps, a semiautomatic weapon on his belt, and a look on his