Chapter 2
He hovered about 285. When the currents were warm, he'd rise, topping out about 300; when the currents were chilled, he'd bottom around 275. He was, when standing erect, slightly less than six-feet, two inches, when sitting; less than half that. He was beginning to bald above the temples, and all that remained was a thick mane down the center that thinned out around the edges and his facial hair enough to smooth wood. He had 20-20 vision and a horrifying sneeze when subjected to domesticated felines. And, darn I say it, he was one of the shiest people I've ever met - it's still hard to imagine him doing what he was doing, like a salesman without a personality, but he was.
As a child, he was just as frumpy and lumpy as this notepad I’m holding, and he marched on with a beleaguered brow in place of the usual sentimental childhood happiness. He enjoyed his elders and he enjoyed fishing, everything else was a chore. He’d had a friend but he moved away sticking him with a bitter taste, and even at this tender age, he’d figured it was troublesome to maintain relationships that would later falter. He was a mere nine years of age.
He thought of himself in an obtuse light; one that shaded his truths; his perceptions never matched his grin, and his humor was atrocious, if not dry and unorthodox, but I s'pose you'll hear more about that later. We enjoyed many a good cocktail and many a good story, and damned if he wasn't full of tales, but the boy couldn't spit them out to paint his house because he spoke as if his mouth was succumbed with belles-palsy.
@
We’d gotten to know each other quickly and discretely, I s’pose it was time for him to find a friend and he just happened to find me sleeping in the back of my 1986 Buick LeSabre.
I didn't remember much of the night; neither the empty bottle of J&B nor my notebook offered much recall.
He just happened to cruise down my street looking for a ride and he put his expertise to trial.
I'd say the boy was already speeding along the Shoreway by the time I'd sobered enough to realize we were moving, and we were already shooting up I-90 headed east before I could regain any wits about me. I decided to gingerly pull myself up over the seat, hand over hand, my head feeling much like I’d imagine a hot griddle feeling. Oddly my blanket reeked of gasoline and I really didn’t mind the crease the transmission path had made in my belly.
My mind kept recoiling, “why am I driving, how fast am I going?”
I pulled and clung for dear sin and eventually my brain bounced into action, but I still had to know, “why am I driving, how fast am I going?”
Finally my noggin crept over the bench seat and my eyeballs straightened enough to see my reflection in the rearview mirror - MY GOD DO I NEED A SHOWER!
I continued to ask myself, “why am I driving, how fast am I going,” and I added, “my god, do I need a shower!”
That's when he noticed me…
@
First there was a squeal, I was sure it was tire rubber on asphalt. Second, there was a higher pitched squeal - for sure this was rubber on asphalt. Third, there was an even louder squeal - this was definitely rubber on asphalt, because I found myself topsy-turvy across the floorboard in the front seat.
“How fast am I going,” I continued asking myself.
Somehow I found some equilibrium and sat myself upright, “say, you may want to pull off to the side.” My words were hollow, but I took the initiative.
There we sat, still, on I-90 headed east, blocking the first lane of traffic, him pale as a bed sheet, me smelling my armpits and thinking, “my god do I need a shower!”
Chapter 3
There wasn't much I could do but try talking to the kid through my haze. Yes, my head hurt and every word seemed to swell around me, but he was ready to throw himself across four lanes of traffic in hysterics (which wasn't doing much for the egg atop my shoulders in the first place).
“Say, you don't have an aspirin, do you?”
“No.” His words were icicles.
“I was holding out hope for a 'yes' there,” I mumbled best I could, but sensed I was going quickly nowhere. “Where we headed?” (I was rather proud of that one.)
He just looked at me, arms stressed and strained against the steering wheel. Although I was the one staring out through a fog, his wits weren't about him. I could tell I had his gonads on crispy in a skillet and he didn't know whether to dive into that traffic, toss an elbow across my nose, or slam on the gas and hope for the best. I'll give him credit though… at least he took the time to think.
“Buffalo,” again with the icicles, scraping against my noggin like the iceberg that did in the Titanic.
“Straight across 90, all the way? I'd say that'd take a good 4 hours, wouldn't you?”
“Probably.”
“We should stop for some coffee and Twinkie’s, I could really use a caffeine buzz to battle this hangover.”
That was it. I'd cracked the ice; his face began to pop like cubes dropped into a chilly beverage.
“Whaddya say we fire this bucket up and pull off to that BP station there before we commence this journey of ours.”
@
I’ve never seen someone as rigid. His arms didn’t collapse from the erect wheel grabbing he maintained, his noggin beaded with sweat bubbles and his knees clacked something fierce but my focus remained on knocking down this strain growing from between my ears.
“Guess I really slammed down the juice last night,” I mumbled into the passenger window, caking it with mist.
“Pardon?” He spoke eloquently. I was impressed. I was also thoroughly enjoying the squeeze I had on the kid.
“I must’ve drunk myself a better life last night,” I replied taking notice of his tears. The kid was actually crying. I painted him no more than twenty, but still he was practically a damn grown man and here he was silently sobbing and stealing away my roar. I could’ve screamed, told him to jump outta my car, and been done, but I had some reason about me through my addled mind and fury.
“Whoa. Whoa, just calm down their boy. Say, how old are you?”
“Twenty-one,” he hiccupped out the reply.
Damn getting worse, a year off, I thought, “say, although I would have loved to continue the game with you, I just can’t hold up any longer. While I can’t say I’m happy that I’ve woken to find you chauffeuring my rump around, I’m more than pleased to have someone listen to my prattle. And I have no intention of finding a pair of handcuffs to chain you down. That is why you’re upset is it not?”
“Yah.” He quaked, ripping away from his rigidity to swipe his eyes.
“Good then, now that we understand each other, I could really use that aspirin.”
@
I just about shit myself when he came crawling over the seat like that. I saw his little head pop-up and thought that maybe it was a bird or something outside, but then I did a double take and slammed on the brakes. I’m usually really good with checking out the whole situation, scenario, but I guess in light of everything else I slipped up. And man, did I get caught. Carlos is pretty cool though. I thought for sure when we stopped at that BP that he’d have a patrol car down here and my ass would be headed out to Grafton. But, he leveled with me straight away. It’s like everything was set for us to wind up in the same car, both looking for a trip to figure shit out. So it happened. It was like fate, that’s what Carlos calls it, but he says fate happens to him a lot. Puts him in position to meet all these cool people and I guess I’m just someone passing through his fate or something. Which is fine with me. I’m just happy I’m not getting locked down again. I got enough shit in my life and I don’t need that headache again.
He calmed me down pretty good; he probably thinks I'm a pussy though. I couldn't help it. I got the world crashing down on me and I got nowhere to turn. It's rough. So what, I cried? Big deal. Not like I shit myself. I was too depressed for that. And, what the hell was I thinking just stopping on the highway like that? That would for sure signal the white and black siren boys. Man, I really am slippin' up!
I figured we were outside Geneva when he popped over like that. All I wanted to do was drive. I didn't care where, what or how I just wanted to cruise. I do my best thinkin' when I'm drivin'. Guess that's why I do so much of it. I saw the signs for Buffalo and went. Been meaning to get up there and check out the Sabres anyway. Since they're in the Stanley Cup and all. But seriously, I'd gone like sixty miles since jackin' this car and all the sudden I got a guy poppin' up in the back. Talk about freaking me out. I should've shit myself, but the only thing I could think about was the siren boys slapping the long arm of the law across my wrists, bindin' me up and all. And Meighen, I could see her sitting across from me, hand up against the glass, her tears dropping into puddles on the counter, phone falling from her ear as she says, “goodbye.” I had this whole illusion running through my mind - she stood up and turned her back, rubbing her belly as she walked completely out of my life. Shit, I was due to get five to ten, repeat offender over age, I was so doomed and all I could do was cry. Can you blame me?
@
He'd simmered down a bit, but it was still a tense situation. My brain was begging to be relived of duty, but I surged through scenario after scenario. I like to cover all my bases: was this kid gonna cruise off with my car if I went to get aspirin (I'm looking out for ya here brain); if I brought him in with me, would he book; if he stayed, then what? I was a buzz with questions slumping off against the glass as he pulled up the ramp.
“BP or Shell?” He asked me.
“BP… do you know what BP stands for?” I queried hesitantly.
“Better Petroleum.” He stately replied.
“On the contrary. My grandfather gave me a good story when I was of your age, perhaps a bit younger. It’s a refuge, the BP is, where all the bumble bees go to pee, bee pee.”
He was humorless, this kid. His stare out the windshield grew even more glazed than it had been. He smirked, I could see his cheek rise gently, but he didn't really acknowledge I had said a damn thing.
“I figure at that stage he was going a little off,” I wagged my fingers flightily through the air, “the easy chair of sanity. But he was a jolly good man and I loved every second we spent together. I'm thinking maybe that's where I get my handsome good penmanship from.”
Still the kid was statuesque, “say, isn't that a cop?” I figured that'd get him moving.
“Where?” He scanned the parking lot madly, like a sprinkler head on a hot Sunday.
“I'm just messin' with you kid. Say, what can I call you?”
He hissed back, “Lenny. Why?”
“Just curious. If I'm to spend three hours on our way to Buffalo with you, I should at least know your name, Leonard-”
“Don't call me that. Or Leo. Please. I'm so sick of that. You tell someone your name is Lenny then they should call you Lenny, ya know. Everyone does that shit.”
“Sorry, Lenny,” I sighed, “it's so refreshing to hear you come out of that shell you wear so well. Me, you can call me Carlos, not Carl, not Los, Carlos.”
He chuckled putting the car into park. That was the first time I caught a look at him square on. His face bulged with chubbiness from chin to cheek, his brow was bushy and flamboyant, and his hairline receding to his ears; his grin was wide and his jaw scruffy.
“Carlos,” he repeated it. “Carlos it is.”
“Indeed,” I mused around for words, “so, what’s your poison? Coffee, black? YooHoo? Pepsi-Cola?”
“Mountain Dew.” He was still rather brief but warming. I could smell his brain turn on.
“A dew it is. And to wash it down? King Dong, apple pie?”
“I’ve always liked those squishy cake things. What’re they called-”
“Twinkies, Sno-balls?”
“Yah, with the coconut all around them.”
“Okay. A Mountain Dew and a Sno-Ball coming right up, my treat. Oh, and Lenny, please don’t drive off without me.” I had to say something to the kid, but my head was on a rampage for aspirin that prevented my usual wits from appearing.
@
A gas station used to be a gas station; at least where I came from, who ever decided to turn them into a convenience station should be blessed. I walk through these huge glass doors into the BP Express and after being accosted by the ambiance of the yellow and green fixtures and Mozart’s third symphony blasting through a wind tunnel I found the aspirin at the counter. A twin pack of Pain Aid ESF screamed from a cardboard cutout display and slithered down my chute sans liquid under the beguiling eye of a green-jumpsuit clad lady.
I knew I looked like hell in August but she didn’t have to keep her gaze penetrating threw me, I’m sure there was a Motorcycle Mamas Weekly or something she could’ve turned to. She shot out these beams of fire that followed my every advancement.
“You got a restroom?” I asked with a smile, thick on the charm.
“Sure do, you gonna pay for those aspirin?” She shot back.
“I figured I could have them added to my tally. I’ve got some more shopping to do.” With the convenience added to the gas station this shouldn’t have been an uncommon assumption.
“Usually people pay for things ‘fore they eat ‘em.”
“I see, but-” my argument was losing steam. “Yes, how much?”
“$4.59-”
“Four dollars and,” I was appalled, “fifty-nine cents?”
“For one. You had two.”
I struggled with the math, “nine dollars and eighteen cents for four aspirin? I can buy two bottles for that-”
“Bottles are down aisle two, maybe if you’dve asked first, ‘stead of swallowing four of my aspirin you could’ve saved yourself a little.”
“Well damnit,” I dug through my pockets hoping to retrieve something. Anything. Nothing. Shit. I was broke. “I’m going to grab a few other things and I will put them on my credit card, how’s that? Acceptable?”
“Make it snappy-”
“But first, where’s that restroom?”
@
I’ve always been curious why the restroom was called the restroom, for most of my life actually. I’ve heard many expressions, but none really grasp the essence of its precise value. John, head, commode – all refer to the piece of porcelain itself. Loo while a nicely orchestrated term for the bowl seems too damn British. The lavatory; too proper, too pre-school and just too scientific, I feel like I’m going to blast off walking into a lavatory. Restroom, doesn’t offer any place to rest, as I’d hardly call squatting through a lengthy crap resting. Bathroom, particularly if it has no bathtub doesn’t really qualify. And then there’s the verb usage. I’m going to take a piss – just doesn’t work for me. I’d rather not think about what you’re actually doing in there, although I’ll wonder anyway. And, washroom, I think is the most satisfactory of all but still it doesn’t emit the same presence as toilet room. But, alas, I’m a member of this society of ours and toilet room just sounds rather raunchy when you get down to it. Truth is, I’d rather have the damn thing called what it really is for almost all of us – relief. How about the relief room?
@
She pointed to a hallway.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes. Just gonna clean myself up a bit.”
“Whatever.” She could’ve cared more if I was cleaned up in the first place, but then again, I figured she wanted no knowledge of what I would actually do in the relief room anyway.
“Thanks.”
I made my way down a slim corridor, bypassing the relief room, into the stock room. Stumbling along on my tiptoes, attempting to prevent my sandals from flopping against the concrete floor, I found a rear exit, and much to my wonder a full carton of various Hostess snack cakes. Wiggling the crate along the floor behind me, past the walk in cooler – I stopped in the cooler grabbing a handful of YooHoo and Mountain Dew – and busted through the rear exit, triumphant.
@
I was sitting in the car really trying to decide if I was going to bail or not. I could’ve run for it, grabbed a ride with some bored trucker and been back in Lakewood by two. In fact, I had made my decision and since Carlos was in the place so long I knew that a white and black was gonna pull up any minute. So, I was looking for anything of use, anything that could score me a couple bucks with Barney, when I heard it.
I looked up from the dash and saw Carlos standing outside the side door with this huge blue crate sliding along in front of him, making this god-awful noise while he’s screaming, “kid, kid,” in a hush. I thought the guy had stood up the joint and I was doomed an accomplice. No way dude, I was outta there.
I threw the car in reverse and punched it. Next thing I know Carlos is on the hood, Twinkies and cupcakes and chocolate sauce squirting all over the windshield and there’s this tubby bitch standing out the back door shooting up the place with a twelve-gauge. She clipped the back taillight.
I figured it was safe a few miles up the road to pull over and book. Carlos was still clinging onto life by a wiper arm.
@
The wench had a gun! What, I’m supposed to die over ten dollars worth of aspirin? Oh, and a crate of snack cakes and soda, but still. She shot at me! No warning shots, no anything, let’s just open fire on the guy waltzing out the back door. I’ll tell you what, I was so ecstatic to see that she had aim for shit and Lenny was already flying toward me. I leapt airborne, snagged the windshield wiper and prayed silently that we’d survive this crazy bitch as a cloud of snack cakes and YooHoo rained down on me.
He’d done a good job, that kid, scooping me up like that. Just wish we had a few more seconds before she cocked that thing again for me to actually get inside the car, at least that way my headache wouldn’t be twofold and perhaps I wouldn’t have bruised my ribs such.
We pulled over a few miles down the road, the whole way my eyes are squeezed tight and his foot seems to get lighter on the pedal.
“Man, what the fuck did you do?” The kid was screaming at me from inside the car.
I couldn’t help but laugh uncontrollably, allowing the circumstances to sink in, “that was the best fun I’ve had in… so invigorating!”
“Are you fucking nuts?”
I climbed from the hood dusting myself off, “wow. I could’ve died back there.” The shock was setting in, but I was still having fun with the pomp.
“You are nuts,” he exclaimed, pushing the shifter into drive and pulling away with a splash of gravel.
“Well, I’d call that overreacting!” I giggled to myself.
I’d watched him squeal the tires and disappear over the horizon, deep into Rock Creek, Ohio.