Chapter IV: Cars

Chapter Four: Cars

Like fake fog in a Michael Jackson video, a mixture of ass gas and cigarettes seeped from the open passenger door of Vance's car.

“You ready to rock?” asked Vance. I couldn't tell if the cloud coming from his mouth was smoke or frosty breath.

“I guess,” I moaned. “I’m feeling kind of...Calvin Schiraldi. The Sox lost again on that cheap-shit single and a wild pitch. Gedman was so close to catching the pitch, you know? Inches away.”

I demonstrated with my left hand how Gedman reached across his body to catch Stanley's pitch but couldn't close his glove in time. I stood there opening and closing my hand, snapping it shut like Gedman should have done.

“It was so close, Vance. Centimeters. He just couldn't close his mitt. He should have used his bare hand. Damn! Why? Maybe I should go back and watch it again. If they positioned Boggs behind Gedman I think...”

Vance stared straight ahead, ignoring me as he always did. My obsession with the 1986 World Series was no more important to him than a raccoon drowning in a river.

“You’re either in or out, Ogden. What’s it gonna be? You gonna wear a skirt or be a man, eh? The pigs are on the block and it's as cold as a witch's titty out there.”

He gunned the engine angrily while an unexpected wave of nausea passed over me. Stanley's wild pitch was still plowing into the backstop that was my stomach. I wanted to go back in the house and watch the videotape again. Sooner or later Schiraldi would strike Knight out and Gedman would catch the ball. I leaned my bare hand against the car and felt the sting of frozen metal bite.

“I hate Bone Harbor,” I said as I blew on my hand. “Why would anyone live here? It's colder than Eskimo vomit. In the summer it is as humid as a bathhouse. There are swarms of mosquitoes almost all year long. Snow. Heat. Storms. The roads are bad. The beaches are too small. The skiing is better in Maine. The schools suck because there's no sales tax. Rent is too high. All we have is a sea port and maple syrup. So why live here?”

“Because this is where we live,” said Vance. “We grew up here. Accept it and get in.”

“But we have a choice, don't we? Even Ethiopians have a choice. Right?”

“I guess. Look, it's cold out there, Ogden.”

I glanced at the Lincoln Ave. neighborhood, the lights from the old hospital, the church downtown past the quiet basketball courts and the frozen mill pond. This, I thought, is where I live? This is where I grew up? This place is tied to my history forever? Was there no way to turn back the calendar so I could have another chance?

History doesn't write itself, Oggy. Haven't you figured that out yet? You can only have those years back if you make me happy. Why don't you tell me about what happened with you and Vance at the dump?

“I should have stayed in Florida,” I said as the Wraith slipped into the shadow of my house. “Bathing suits and surfing. Goddamn Bob Stanley. I could have gotten laid every day of the week in Florida. The girls down there, Vance, were Molly Ringwald cute and they loved me. I never should have come back. Never.”

Never. Never.

“Yeah? Well, instead of having sex, you should have eaten those girls,” said Vance. “I can't believe how thin you are.”

“I was sick. I hurt my foot again. And I brusied my spine. I just couldn't get better.”

“Well,” asked Vance, “were you smoking pot and shit?”

I nodded my head. “Of course.”

Vance looked dismayed. “Then what's the problem, kid? Must be the food. If you don't start eating I don't think you could get laid at Whaleswood Beach.”

This was an unacceptable exaggeration. Getting laid at Whaleswood Beach was as assured as a rash if you went in the water.

“Come on, dude. Please. The Florida girls loved me. I was like a sexy foreign exchange student.”

“You got laid?” Vance asked dubiously.

“No, but I stole a pair of Sunny O'Neil's shorts and squirted on them every weekday and twice on Sundays.”

This admission was hardly worth acknowledging, but Vance managed a quiet “Nice” before telling me to get in the car again.

“And,” I continued, “I met a girl at UCONN. Nothing less than a Goddess. Dark hair. Smurfy ass. She was a little reluctant, though. A little suspicious, but she loves me.”

“I'll bet she loves you. I'll give you 5 to 1 odds she's banging some UCONN stud right now and hasn't thought about you since you left.”

“Fuck you she is. Lacy is loyal. She understands that a man like me is like a gold mine.”

“Yeah, empty, closed, and too expensive to reopen.”

While Vance chuckled at his cheap joke I licked my chapped lips.

“I should have stayed in Florida. You know homeless people in Key West live better than I do. Then I should have stayed in UCONN with Lacy. No matter what I never should have come back here.”

Did Lacy remind you of your mother, Oggy? Was she pretty? Did she tie her hair in ribbons? Did you hold her hand? Did you feel her up?

“Never!”

“Quit your bitching! You're back. Fahk it. Take the tampon out of your ass and get in. The Deal is about to go down.”

“But what if I don't want to be in on The Deal?”

“Maybe you don't have a choice. That is why it's The Deal. It goes down whether you like it or not. The only question is if you win.”

Don't worry, this code-speak between Vance and I meant nothing at all. I'd like to pretend we were in on some secret, but we weren't.

Remember the traffic ticket? Remember giving Flash a ride to Langdonville over the singing bridge? Tell the story. Or what about the Dump? What secrets are at the dump, Oggy?

I swung into the passenger seat and slammed the door, looking over my shoulder.

“Fine, just go. Hurry.”

“So why not throw a screwball in the dirt? Just throw it away on 0-2.”

“Oggy, it’s two in the friggin' morning.”

“Listen, Sticky. What do you gain by throwing a ball over the plate? Why not waste a pitch? We used to do it in Whiffle Ball. Remember? I struck Clutch out on an Ephus pitch that time. Remember? The count was 0-2.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you know the pitch right before Mitchell got the hit, he almost swung at a breaking ball, a sinker, I think. Why not throw him the same pitch? Get him reaching. It is so simple. A child would know to throw him junk on an 0-2 pitch.”

“Mitchell? Mitchell who?”

“See, Carter is on first. He’s no threat. They didn’t even pinch run for him. No point. So they were conceding defeat.”

“I don't have time for this, kid. Screw Gary Carter.”

“Exactly! They gave up. The Mets were done. The whole world recognized the Sox as World Champions. My prophecy was coming true.”

“Your prophecy? Your prophecy was...No, Ma, it’s just Oggy. I don’t know. My mom wants to know what you want, Oggy? What do you want from me?”

“I want the Sox to win. They have to win.”

“Oggy wants the Sox to win...she says they will win...no, I won't tell Oggy to be careful.”

“Just answer this one question. Sticky? Hey Cristo?”

“What?”

“Why pinch hit Greenwell for Clemens? Why do it? Why pinch hit that snot-nosed rookie for the best pitcher in baseball?”

“But you were just talking about Kevin Mitchell.”

“Forget Mitchell. Mitchell doesn’t deserve our attention. What I want to know is how you can forgive McNamara for pulling Clemens after seven innings of great pitching.”

“Forgive him? I don’t even care, Oggy.”

“Of course you don’t. I forgot. Only real fans care. Only faithful fans care. You know what the word 'fan' really means? Do you? It means fanatic. It means that the destiny of the team, the Sox, is one and the same as your destiny. See? Being a fan, a real fan like me, means that your own little meaningless life means nothing compared to the destiny of the Sox. See? I don't mean anything, Sticky. My life is shit. Anyone can see that. All that matters is that Roger Clemens remain in Game Six. He needs to pitch the eight inning and the ninth inning and the twentieth inning if the Sox need him. Really, Roger and me are one and the same. I am Roger Clemens. We both work for the good of the larger organism. We see our lives in perspective. That is what sacrifice means. That is what being a fan means. So what are you willing to sacrifice, Sticky? What are you...Sticky? Cristo?”

Off we sped, burning rubber, squealing up Lincoln, running a stop sign at the intersection of Lincoln and Junkins near the Police station which was once the hospital. The speedometer quivered around 60 before falling spastically to 20 and then up to 80. This was not the only defective instruments in the car. According to the instrument panel the car needed oil, water and the battery had one volt of charge left. It also said that we were going 95 miles an hour. AC/DC's Back in Black cassette blared from the industrial speakers mounted in the back window. The sound was terrible. For the moment I relaxed in the sense-orgy and looked at Vance.

Vance had a thin, smug chin. His eyelids hung over his squinting, shit-colored eyes like they were hiding something or else not fully evolved from the chimp. Vance didn't smile much because his teeth were crooked and discolored. He was wearing a punk-ass English driving cap that made him look like a complete idiot. This cap suddenly blew off his head and into the back seat as a gust of wind blew through an 2-inch wide crack between the windshield and the roof. Freezing air funneled freely through this crack and only by diverting it with the sun visor was I able to avoid hypothermia. Vance reached behind his seat with one hand, swerving through my neighborhood. He retrieved the hat and put it back on with the bill facing backwards so he looked even more like a punk. His T-shirt read “I've been weeding too much smoke.” A bumper sticker on the dashboard stared back at me with Vance's standard reply: “Fuck You Too.”

“So, Ogden, you don't call your buddies anymore, ya fahk? Too good for us? Your pussy too clean?”

“Listen, punk, my dad has been busting my shine box from the hour I got back from Florida. It didn't occur to me that you could be of any use to me.”

Not only that, but I didn't even have Vance's phone number. He was always moving around. He had been living with his mother when I went to Florida. Apparently he had moved.

“You're right. I can't help,” Vance replied cooly. “So, how's Bone Harbor treatin' you since you been back?”

“Like crap in a blender,” I said as I wiped my nose on my sleeve. “I ache all over. I've got this thing in my throat. My neck hurts. I'm really, really sick.”

With a sideways glance at my gangly legs, Vance said, “You look it. They feed you in Florida?”

There was no “They” in Florida to feed me. It wasn't like I'd gone there to live with relatives or work in an ashram. Vance was just assuming (safely) that I had figured out a way to eat on someone else's dime.

“Yeah, lost of pizza and tacos,” I recalled pleasantly. “There was this place that had white pizza that was so damn good, Vance. Whole garlic and Ricotta cheese no tomato sauce. Does Bone Harbor have a good pizza place? No. It makes me cry.” I held my hands out to pantomime how I ate pizza at the beach in Florida. “I ate so many slices. Thousands.”

“It wasn't enough,” Vance said. “You look like shit, Oggy. I got an old Cabbage Patch doll that I'd give 2-1 odds would knock your ass out by round five. What you weigh? A hundred stone?”

This was a predictable slight on my slim build. I'd never been a big kid, even when I could tuck away three or four Fenway Franks during an afternoon game, but the last few weeks of a starvation diet, imposed by my father's lack of shopping sense, didn't help out the old waist band. Since becoming a Vegetarian I had been forced to replace the flesh and bone part of the food triangle with snack crackers and candy so now I had the opposite of love handles, called my exposed pelvic bone.

“I was on a tight budget in Florida. Some chowderhead didn't send me the money he owed me,” I said pointedly. “Some thief would have seen me starve to death on the beaches of East Florida rather than honor his debts. I see our car is still running, though.”

Ignoring my bait, Vance said, “We'll get you some grub out at Cuzin Richie's. Some onion rings?” Vance said temptingly. “Pepper steak sub with cheese? Mmmmm! There is a waitress out there whose real name is Dot.”

“I'm boycotting meat,” I grumbled.

“Come on. Other people are just vegetarians,” griped Vance. “You're mister Boycott now? Is that a cool thing in Florida? Are you special?”

“No, but everyone in California boycotts flesh,” I said. “No meat until the occupation of Iraq ends. That is my demand.”

That was actually just one of my many demands, including the unconditional return of all land west of the Mississippi to the Indian Nation, the reduction of Fenway Park bleacher seat prices, and the legalization of highway hitchhiking.

“Fine,” said Vance. “Eat the onion rings. I'll eat the pepper steak sub.”

“I don't have any money, Vance. I don't eat meat and I don't have any money and that bastard Kevin Mitchell got the cheapest base hit I've ever seen. He could try a thousand times to get that base hit on a 1-2 pitch and he couldn't do it. That dude didn't do a single thing in his whole career to match that 1-2 single. Why did he have to do it against the Sox? Ah!”

I punched the dashboard, injuring my knuckles.

“I mean, a 1-2 bloop base hit to center field?” I continued. “All Dave Henderson had to do is play three or four steps in and the game was over. Three or four fahkin' steps...”

“Sucks,” said Vance. “You should've seen how USC lost last week. Ogden, I was on my knees praying to Allah on the cross to give me a field goal. I swear I would have become a Jew or a Muslim or a Buddhist or even a Martian if that ball goes through. I really would have believed in a higher power.”

“So what happened?” I asked already knowing the answer.

“Blocked kick that was run back for a touchdown. Fifty seconds left. How do you like that? So not only does USC not cover, but I lose the over/under. There's a god, alright. His name is Satan. I renounced my Unitarian membership. I renounce god!”

“Uh, uh.” I mumbled. “Speaking of Satan, I went to the clinic the other day.”

Vance recovered quickly.

“Willowville?”

“A-yup.”

“Were the crazies out there with their bibles?”

“Didn't see them. I sort of kept my head down. No one bothered me until an old lady stuck a fahking Q-tip down my dick. I cried like a scalded dog. Vance, she hurt me and there was nothing I could do but take it.”

Vance nodded the bean in a knowing way. I could tell he was no stranger to the old q-tip torture trick. I mean, you go to a health clinic to make sure you aren't going to die of some acronym, and a woman who looks like your grandmother asks you with questions about anal sex, drug use, orgies, and other subjects I would safely classify as personal. Then she inspects your privates like a jewelry salesman, picking and prodding and examining and writing little comments in a manila folder while you sweat in a paper robe. And, just in case you haven't been totally convinced you should heretofore lock your penis in a closet, she takes out a foot long q-tip and drills that baby into your urethra like she's getting paid by the inch. After all that you walk outside and some nut from the local chapter of “Operation Overpopulate The Planet” hands you a comic book warning you of hell fire and calls you a baby killer. Really? Give me your address, buddy, and I'll show you what a baby killer looks like. I'll bring my q-tips.

“Get some work done?” asked Vance as he adjusted his sun visor to divert the gale howling through the windshield onto my face. Did I mention that the windshield came about 2 inches short of meeting the roof?

“A-yup. Cleaned me up. Checked my transmission. Dug around in there. But no bible thumpers.”

“Good,” said Vance sagely, “Got to keep the pipes clean and free of gunk.”

“Been there lately?”

Vance took a beat to answer.

“Don't much like to talk about it, Ogden. Dark things happen there. Dark and painful. Things that go on in there ought to just stay there. It's like Chernobyl: Off limits to the public. Hey, if you didn't get laid in Florida, then why did you go?”

I wondered the same thing myself. I was pretty sure I couldn't get herpes from a pink neon sock.

“I just wanted to be sure I wasn't dying,” I said. “I haven't been feeling like myself since I got back. I've got a rash on my arms. See? Probably cancer.”

Vance nodded. “So, are you afflicted?”

“Don't know. I was supposed to call 'em back for the results but I'm scared.”

“So why take the test?”

“Because I'm sick, Vance. I thought just taking the test would make me feel better.”

This strategy had worked on other occasions. For instance, the VW Superbeetle I drove during the summer of 1989 started stalling every time I came to a stop. But the day I scheduled an appointment with a mechanic the problem went away. Why shouldn't such a strategy work for my immune system too?

Vance shook his head. “You have to eat, kid. You're sick because you're starving to death. Eat.” He pointed to his mouth like I was some bootblack who couldn't understand English.

“Fine. I'll eat a Moe's tomorrow. So what’ve you been up to?” I had to scream over the music as we flew through another intersection near Gentle Gena's old house.

“Absolutely nothing. I sleep real late. Stay out real late. Get some pussy when I can. Beat off more than I should. Work on the car. Fight with my dad. Nothing new. I...”

Vance paused to concentrate on running a red light on South Street. I closed my eyes and waited for the impact but all I heard was the sound a bat against a ball and the hiss of the right field grass bent in defeat. The Timewraiths hovered out of sight.

“Remember playing War out at the dump?”

“What dump?”

“We played Capture the Flag with Kurt before he went to California. We should get the gang together again. I loved Capture the Flag. Remember that time I cut...”

“No,” said Vance, “but you know that kid Grady who used to live with his mom next to Moes? Had a nasty mullet. I read in the paper that he robbed a bank in Whaleswood. You were in Florida when it happened. Cock Sucker owed me money too.”

The air smelled different in 1980, didn't it, Oggy. The beach sand was softer, the rocks near Stinky Creek weren't as sharp. The Jones Ave. dump was a playground in the fall, an uncharted summer treasure ground. Didn't the sun reflect differently off the Sagamore Creek when you were nine?

While Vance described the details of Grady's poor planning and even worse execution, I was walking again down Jones Ave toward the old battlefields where the YouthFire first started in fourth grade.