Chapter VI: Cars Part II

Chapter Six: Cars Part Two

Vance was mumbling as we passed Jones Avenue. I imagined flames glowing through the forest of telephone poles, Youthfire flames that brought the Wraiths their blood. My capture the flag song might buy me a moment of peace but this was the time of night when the Timewraiths ruled. I was cruising a part of Bone Harbor where there was nothing by Youthsong reminders. I found myself rubbing the soft blue thread of my cap against my cheek.

One more strike. Savor the sweet celebration so you can tell your kids about it. Just give me what I want and you'll bring the victory to New England.

Victory? How could I claim this victory? What weapons did I have left? My survival knife was now stuffed away somewhere in my room, rusted and chipped after I tried to break into the dump after it had been declared hazardous in 1984. I only managed to break the blade itself. This fallen Excaliber was now packed away with my warped rubber nunchucks, my collection of throwing stars and my dusty Ninja outfit that I had outgrown a month after I had bought it.

I also recalled that just two weeks after John Lennon was slain in New York the Red Sox failed to send contracts to All-Star players Fred Lynn and Carlton Fisk by the December 20^th deadline. At the time I did not know the mistake would lead directly to Lynn being traded to the California Angels. Nor did I know that Fisk, my Pudge, the namesake of one of my hamsters and the captain of my bedroom wall, would soon sign with the White Sox as a free agent and hit a game-tying three-run home run in the very first game of the 1981 season at Fenway Park. Rich Gedman, whose first at-bats had just been in the 1980 season would get tapped as Fisk's replacement, and the closest I ever got to replacing Gedman as the Sox catcher was handing him a 1983 Red Sox yearbook to sign his name under Yaz's long cursive signature. The light-hitting Rick Miller had replaced Fred Lynn in center field and had hit only eight pitiful home runs in five seasons. These were facts I hadn't known in 1980 as the storm gathered force over Bone Harbor, but I knew them now as well as the conclusions to many other contests of strength.

One more strike. One more strike.

“I’m just waiting for January,” continued Vance. “I’m starting an escort service with some buddies. I'll pay off some of these damn debts and then the good times will roll. I will make The Deal go down.”

“Naw,” I said, shaking myself back into 1986.. or was it 1991? “That'll never happen. Do you think you're Tom Cruise in Risky Business or something? You don't have the Buddy Huggingtons to start an escort service.”

We navigated a sharp bend in the road and accelerated down a straightaway at twice the speed limit though the speedometer claimed we were going ten miles an hour. Fortunately, it was one thirty in the morning and the good folk of Bone Harbor were asleep in their beds.

“Bet your ass I do. It’s easy money. And I need it. USC lost again tonight. Between you me and the rusting floorboard, I can't catch a break.”

“Vance, you were losing money before I went to Florida. Did it ever occur to you that you have a gambling problem?”

“Yeah,” laughed Vance, “The problem is that USC keeps losing. I had to double up on Kansas State last Saturday. Big frigging mistake. I swear that game was played last week in a Vegas hotel room. Fixed like your cat. Bowl games are my nightmare. My nightmare!”

Trying to steer the conversation away from sports betting, I asked, “So now you want to do what to make money?”

I didn't take Vance seriously, but if I didn't prod him the conversation would die and allow the Wraiths in. Or, worse yet, Vance would describe the latest slag heap he had slept with.

“Escort service. I know about 100 chicks around town who’ll go for it.”

“Go for what?”

“Hey, you do the lending and they’ll do the bending. Understand?”

I was intrigued, but I couldn't show my hand.

“You’re going to be a punk gigolo? Who are you? Brutus Beefcake?”

“Don't be stupid, Ogden. I’m selling them.”

We climbed up South Street and passed a hapless pedestrian walking his dog, caught a little air at the peak, and as we climbed into the air I decided that Vance lived in a perpetual free fall. He had never hit the Sagamore River after his fall from the cliff at the dump. He sought the ultimate high even as we crashed and nudged the curb on landing with an angry squeal. The interior lights came on for no reason so Vance hammered the roof with his fist until they turned off. Christmas lights blinked in the windows of the houses, decorating trees. Ghosts of the past present and future flitted on the rooftops. I waved some cigarette smoke away from my face, without success. I was about to suggest we go egg Cristo's house just for something to do when we passed Ted “T.T.” Tully's house.

“You don’t have the Ray Knights to do it.”

“Not only do I have the Ray Knights to do it but I’ve got the Rolly Frenchs too.”

Ted Tully's house stood next door to Roland “Rolly” French's house on South Street.

Remember T.T.? Remember Rolly? Remember Cul? Remember Flash? Tell the story about T.T.'s house. Tell the story. Sing the song. The War is no more. You were there. Tell that story, Oggy, the one about T.T.. Remember? Come on. Don't be lame. We really respect all your stories. Come on. Tell that one about T.T.. Remember?