The bell rang, jerking me back to reality and signaling the end of class. I opened my eyes and found my head collapsed on the desktop seemingly cracked open like a pumpkin. I had a slight headache. I peeled my face from the hard desk and wiped a string of drool, or was it pumpkin seeds, from my cheek.
To my left Nico shook his head, “Dude, you were completely asleep. And you were drooling like a drunken baby. Come on, wipe that crap off your face and let’s get outa here. Wake up, man. It’s Friday.”
I squinted at Nico and put my flannel sleeve to good use, wiping the drool from my cheek. Orienting myself, I looked around our chilly classroom. Kids were getting ready to leave, shuffling papers and jamming books into book bags.
Remembering my earlier effort I looked down to the open pages of my science text book. Before falling asleep I had finished coloring an entire page black, filling in all the white space separating the page’s lonely letters.
Before my coloring efforts the letters had rested at arm’s length as if placed in graves at a for-profit cemetery. All alone in space the letters stood, shivering just out of reach from respective neighbors. From above I could see they were joined together to create something bigger. I could see it; they couldn’t. Poor lonely letters. They wanted to reach across the white space between; they wanted not to be alone.
So, I helped. I started by connecting a couple of neighboring letters, first coloring a box to cloak each of the two letters making up the word “at” in a veil of privacy. Starting from the simple II I then filled the space between the ‘a’ and the ‘t’, allowing the two letters to dissolve within a larger pool of black. With the constraints of white eliminated, the two letters responded by flowing across space to touch a previously untouchable neighbor.
Witnessing the singsong of activity produced by the newly connected ‘a’ and ‘t’ neighboring letters pushed against insurmountable boundaries, yearning for such a connection. I obliged and proceeded to methodically fill in every space between every letter on the page. Soon the entire page was covered in a cloak of intimacy and letters and punctuation marks alike slipped into a sea of black. Under this cloak they embraced, finding connections across recently unimaginable distances. I watched.
Nico shoved me, “Come on, drooling baby. Let’s go.”
I pushed away from my back-row desk, turning to grab the gray Snorkel jacket resting on my chair. As I pulled myself together two front row girls scooted up to Lurch, our science teacher, seeking to fill in spaces of their own before weekend studies. They held yellow highlighted science books tight against their budding breasts as Lurch gestured with his hands and filled in the space outlined by their question. They stood three in a row, I I I, with the petite brainiacs nodding in unison. Soon, though, Lurch turned his attention from their questions to the back row; to me.
My pace was slow as it took time for me to surface from the world of the letters (and, it’s not easy to put a broken pumpkin back together). So, I lingered. As I did so Lurch eyed me. And he eyed Nico. Then he drew a deep breath before saying goodbye to the girls. Keeping his eyes on us, he began to make his way to the back of the class, filling in more space. I I I
“Let’s move it you two. Hit the road. And, Kinkade, you better catch up. Do you even know the reading assignment for this weekend?”
Diverting my eyes from Lurch, I looked towards the reunion of letters milling about on the darkened page below. I imagined the letters as newly freed prisoners, previously held hostage by the white space, coming home to the warm embrace of an entire city of celebrating letters. Then, remembering Lurch’s question, I tilted my head to face him, “Atoms?”
He slowed his pace and stopped after passing the second row of desks. He gently placed both hands on top of his head and then, ever so slowly, pulled them down to cover his face, taking care to cup his fingers around his coke-bottle glasses.
He took a second deep breath and then removed his hands, “Atoms? Atoms? My God Kinkade do you even understand the English language I use to convey scientific knowledge? You have to read chapter seven, Kinkade. Chapter seven. And, quite frankly, I’d suggest you wake up from your stupor and read chapters one through six before thinking about the ‘atoms’ in chapter seven. My God.”
Lurch’s neck became blotchy as our interaction went nowhere fast. He was now less happy than he was just a moment ago and he would be even less happy if he spied my blackened page of rejoicing letters. Ignoring him for the moment I reached down to turn the page, offering the milling letters a chance to continue making connections without interruption.
Things seemed to slow to a crawl in our cold classroom as I pinched the lower corner of the page between thumb and index finger. The weight of time poured across my shoulders as the page bent upwards and then rolled like a tsunami of scribbled blackness.
The page’s incline slowly increased. Tilting over, the letters piled over themselves within the sea of ink. They reveled in their swarming mix and, as the tsunami fell across that world within a page, a wave of warmth fell across me. The feeling lasted for something measured in degrees as opposed to seconds.
I floated in the wake of this feeling. I thought of my dad bathing me when I was among the littlest of boys, naked in a white-enameled cast iron bathtub in our Bronx apartment. Steam rose from the bath and stuck to white tiles as he splashed the soapy water on my chest and shoulders. He scooped up the water in a bowl made of grownup hands and, before gently pouring it over my head asked, “Ready, Bease? Now close your eyes tight. We don’t want any soap stinging you!” As he released the warm water it flowed over my face and, I couldn’t help it, I opened my eyes to peek. A few drops stung my left eye and I rubbed it hard.
“I’m OK, daddy.”
He smiled and drew his fingers across my forehead pushing some wet hair to the side. His fingers felt cool, like a layer of white snow chips on a stream covered with ice.
“Don’t worry, Beasley. It only stings for a second. And then it goes away. See? All better.” Bound to his words, to his touch, I nodded. II
The page and wave full of letters fell forward without a sound, coming to rest out of Lurch’s site. Braced by the creeping cold of Lurch’s classroom I returned his stare, “Reading chapters over the weekend? Not gonna happen.”
His real name wasn’t Lurch of course. On the first day of class Nico took one look at him and screamed, “Lurch! Look, man, it’s frigg’n Lurch from the Addams Family. A Lurch with glasses!”
Indeed he did look like Lurch; so much so that the nickname stuck and for the rest of the year we screamed “Lurch!” at every opportunity. When he turned towards the blackboard – an act he eventually eliminated from his teaching routine – our back row spontaneously clicked fingers in honor of the Addams family. After staring at us he looked away and, as he did, we belted out snippets of the show’s theme song, “We’re gonna make a call on, the Addams family.” Snap. Snap.
Now he was staring at my book. “Kinkade, what the hell was that in your text book; on that page you just turned?”
I slammed the book shut. “Nothing. Look, school’s over. And, I ah, I gotta go. I gotta meet someone.”
“You’re not meeting anyone until I see that book, young man.” He pursed his thin lips and strode towards me. “Get over here and give me that book! Right now!”
Like a letter surrounded by cold white space I stood still. My breadth was just barely apparent as a wisp of white seeping into the now icy classroom. With his next step my breathing quickened.
With winter outside the classroom’s circa 1970s windows let pass a constant stream of cold air. Despite the stream of cold air Lurch sweated profusely. Perspiration stained his armpits, casting gray shadows along the sides of his white shirt reaching for his pants. His rat-like eyes were made even smaller by the curvature of his black Clark Kent glasses. One side of his frayed white collar was unbuttoned, pointing out at a weird angle like a mangled whisker. His thinning hair was matted down on a blotchy scalp, incrementally worn away by decades of rubbing his head in response to a tide of tiny battles with the likes of me.
Continuing his plodding approach he held out his hand. “Let me see that book.”
Frozen in in his glare I remained motionless. This is what it feels like to be a lonely letter.
“Now!” he screamed.
The room seemed to fly forward and the warmth from the page’s earlier turn thundered through me. For a moment I saw summer sky above me. Disoriented I watched as Lurch made his way to a place where a single desk separated us. The warmth left my body as he stretched his arm towards me. I grabbed my book and, with a lunge, shoved the desk forward, filling the space between. Lurch reacted quickly and blocked the desk with his hands, protecting himself from what might have been a painful blow to the thighs. I ran for the door, cutting towards the center of the classroom as desks scattered behind me. He wheeled his sweaty body around in time to watch me run from the classroom.
And, as you can imagine, Lurch didn’t yell or run after me. He sighed.
Not wanting to be left holding the bag, Nico bolted after me, screaming “Lurch!” as he cleared the classroom doorway. Making our way into the hall we continued running from class, blending in with students belching from classrooms and joining the newly formed stream in the hallway, milling about like an orgy of liberated letters.
Though free from Lurch, caution was warranted. Lurch was known to take his time and plod his way to our lockers in response to an indignity. Memory has a long reach. With the thought of Lurch’s long arm reaching from behind to grasp my shoulder at any moment I quickly darted through the crowd to my locker.
As planned Tony was there waiting for me, “Where the fuck were you? I cut outa gym early so we could do the running of the cars today, man. And I’ve been waiting here for like five minutes. I’m goin’ for the record today and we need to get there on time! Jesus Christ.”
“Sorry, man. I had to deal with Lurch. He gave us some shit.” For appearances sake I opened my locker and shoved a couple of books in my book bag. “Come on let’s get outa here before he comes looking for us. It was weird – like, warm then cold – in his class.”
Nico jumped in, “You mean you’re weird and it’s not warm anywhere. It’s winter, you moron. And let’s get this straight. He gave you shit. Not us. You.” Nico turned to Tony, “He caught Kinkade scribbling in his book. Then falling asleep and drooling like a baby in class. He must think you’re like two years old or something.”
“Yea, well, so what. Lurch can think what he wants… Oh crap, wait. That reminds me.”
I reached into my locker to grab my science book. Quickly flipping the pages, I opened the text and ripped out the blackened sea of letters. First holding it up to the overhead light to see if the shadows of the letters were visible through the blacked ink – some were, some weren’t – I crumpled the page into a tight ball and hurled it over the sea of kids milling around me. Truly free, the page and all the newly connected letters arced into the future.
Tony agitated, “Come on, moron. Let’s go. If we’re gonna run the cars we gotta get outa here and be there by 3:30. You know, before the 3:30 train shows up. Once the 3:30 shows the early birds get in their stupid cars and leave; and they’ll be gaps. They’ll be spaces. I need the cars to be all lined up in a row, with no spaces between them, man.”
I nodded and turned to Nico, “You coming? We’re gonna run the cars parked along Main Street; you know, by the train station. Our record, my record I should say, is 15 cars. Tony thinks he can beat that but he’s too much of a pussy.” Tony gave me a good natured shove as I continued to apply peer pressure to Nico, “Come on; join us. You in or out? 15 cars, man. 15 in a row.”
I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I
Nico shook his head, “No way. You two are way too fucked up doing shit like that. Way too fucked up. Ya know, maybe Lurch is right. Someday, man, someday you’re gonna run across the hoods of those cars and you’re gonna land on some old Caddy and a big huge construction worker is gonna be waiting for you and, when you clomp across the front hood of his Caddy, he’s gonna grab your ankle and throw you to the ground and beat the living shit out of you. Beat the living shit outa you. Or, maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll just get caught by the cops. That stuff is just too messed up for me, man. So, no. No fuckin way. I’m not running across a bunch of cars in the middle of the day with you two idiots. No way.”
“OK fine you big pussy. Well then just walk with us down to the tracks, alright? Come on, we have to hurry to get there before the 3:30 train.” I kicked my locker shut and spun the lock. Tony wound up and gave the locker a ferocious kick, denting one of the bottom slots.
“Good one. Come on.”
Leaving school and entering the lightness of the air outside, we moved quickly through what remained of winter’s snow. The lingering snow was blackened and slightly soft, huddled against the creeping warmth of spring in the form of mounds. We made our way along a two lane road as moms driving kids home from school passed by. After three blocks we turned left into a long thin clearing known simply as the Gully. Rumor had it the Gully was the home of an old abandoned trolley track. Now it was a thruway for kids.
On weekends the Gully was a place where older kids smoked and drank. Someday I would smoke and drink here. The cops frequented the Gully looking for kids in or on the verge of trouble. Someday the cops would find me here, in and on the verge of trouble. Today the entrance of the Gully was guarded by two large mounds of snow, deposited by the DPW after the season’s last snow removal effort. Though we still had to hustle to make it to Main Street before the train we had just enough time to stop and join a group of eight classmates preparing to throw snowballs at cars. Some smoked. Some peed their names into the smaller of the snow mounds. All made tightly packed snow balls from the un-peed upon pile. We joined them.
I I I I I I I I I I I
I went to grab some snow, “Shit, I left my gloves at school.”
Nico and Tony didn’t have gloves. Nico shrugged, “Fuck, it. You don’t need ‘em. Just rub your hands together.”
I pulled the hood of my Snorkel jacket tight around my face. The risk of missing the train was nothing compared to the risk of being recognized by a mom as you beaned her car with a snowball. The reward, however, was the delivery of a little sliver of mayhem on a Friday afternoon. Worth it.
With my hood high and tight I worked quickly. I alternated shaping snow into baseball sized projectiles and rubbing warmth back into my bare hands. After a minute both hands were a bright shade of red. Without words, we stood behind the mound and created a small cache of snowballs, taking turns to gently bend and place the finished products at our feet. After making four snowballs I joined the others, crouching down and waiting, letting our breath form a line of rhythmic dragon swirls before us. I I I I I I I I I I I
We didn’t have to wait long as a group of three cars carrying their student cargo approached. We pelted the first car. As expected, the car screeched to a halt. We watched as the driver’s head jerked forward and silhouettes of children without seatbelts tumbled from their perches. Like clockwork cars two and three slid to a halt behind car one. I I I
Drawing from our cache of snowballs we began pelting the second and third cars. From the second car, a mom with a cigarette hanging from her mouth threw open the driver’s side door. She stamped a rubber boot to the road and stood from the car, “Hey you little shits, get your asses over here so I can smack the living shit outa each and every one of ya.” She was thick and presented an attractive target. We unleashed our remaining inventory. She moved quickly, ducking away from Tony’s well aimed snowball. She jumped back inside her wood paneled station wagon as our salvo slammed into the side of her car.
Our inventory depleted we scattered to safety. I didn’t want anyone to see my face so I ran with my head down. History has taught me when I am recognized nothing good happens; history has taught me memory does not fade like snow.
Earlier this winter my mom received a call from a woman claiming to witness me hitting the panel truck in front of her car with a snowball. After taking the time to speak with the woman on the phone, mom called me into the kitchen, “Beasley. Get in here!” Not a good tone.
“Now!” she screamed.
When I entered the kitchen mom still had the receiver in her hand and, rather than return it to the phone cradle screwed into the kitchen wall she simply dropped the receiver to the floor. I watched as the receiver met linoleum at the exact moment her right hand met the left side of my head, the noise of the two events joining into a single crack!
That said, the scariest response to a snowball infraction happened a couple of years ago when the recipient of a snowball attack recognized me at a baseball game, long after the original pelting. Half a year later, she spied me and suggested to her husband that he communicate her displeasure to me. As a half dozen parents looked on, the thick waisted husband walked the distance from winter to summer and, without warning grabbed the collar of my baseball uniform before settling his fingers around my neck, “Listen you little shit, do not ever, ever, fuck with my wife or my car again, understand?” Trying to pry his fingers from my throat I shook my head in agreement before he shoved me away, causing me to fall backwards.
“You ever hit my car again with a snowball, I’ll choke the life out of you, hear me?” Looking up from the ground I rubbed my neck and nodded. The jury of parents nodded as well, approving of the husband’s sentence as they returned to their previous conversations.
I I I I I I I I
Though terribly risky, I couldn’t let such an affront stand. I seethed with anger as I imagined that lady telling other moms, “Yea, well, my Louie took care of that Kinkade kid, huh? Last time he ever gives us trouble!” Like the mom’s memory my memory grew in intensity as the page of time continued its turn.
I waited a respectful three to four months, maybe less, before retaliating. And, one evening, with a rock tied to the memory of his fingers around my throat, I snuck out our basement window and under the cloak of darkness smashed the windshield of Louie’s truck. Nearly a year passed before I saw him again. He glared at me from across the town pool as I waited for an adult swim to end. Hiding a sense of dread I faked a deferential smile and nodded. He stepped towards me but stopped, then looked around before turning away. Our truce in place I respected the length of his memory and kept my distance. I I
So we ran from the three cars into the Gully.
Fueled by a fear of getting caught, as well as by his short but powerful legs, Nico plowed through pockets of snow and dead grass to pull away from us. Before turning the corner towards town he slowed to look back at us.
“Don’t look back!” I screamed, “Ever!” He turned forward and continued running as we crossed a field, clambered across a small bridge covering a busy street and cut behind a row of stores; a Laundromat, the 5 & 10 and a gas station among them. Nico ran farther than was necessary, stopping only after he made it to the safety of the hidden alley behind the town’s small line of stores. He waited, bending over and gasping for breath as Tony and I caught up. When we caught up, Nico was rubbing his hands together, condensation flaring from his nostrils.
I peeled my hood back, “Dude, never look back, they’ll see your face, man.”
Tony bent over joined Nico, gasping, “Nico, man, you’re too fast. Why… why’d you keep running? No, no one was after us.”
Trying to catch his breath, Nico stood up and placed his hands on his hips, “You guys live with trouble, man. Like, you’re used to it, right? Me? If I get caught I’m screwed. So…” he took a couple of breaths, “so I just kept running.”
We snuck down the alley, behind the stores, stopping only to look for breakable items in the garbage bins. The ideal find was a discarded fluorescent light bulb. Once found it was treated as a treasured spear and hurled like a javelin into the future. Finding no such treasure we continued to the end of the ally, jumped the chain link fence and crossed the parking lot towards Main Street.
On the far side of Main Street, and running parallel to the road, was a set of train tracks carrying commuters to and from New York City on a daily basis. In the morning, the earliest of these commuters pulled their cars nose first into one of 50 parking spaces perpendicular to the tracks on Main Street. These parking spaces represented ideal commuter parking spots. The 50 parked cars occupying the spaces represented our objective; the running of the cars.
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
Making our way across Main Street I walked between two parked station wagons and leaned forward to walk up the eight foot incline to the station’s platform. Tony ran ahead of me, kicking small pieces of gravel behind and beating me to the top of the platform. Nico stayed put, filling the space between the two parked cars. From this slightly elevated vantage point 50 pair of lonely headlights stared up at us. Joining the headlights Nico looked up thinking of what lay ahead, “Dudes, I’m outa here. You’re on your own with this one.”
“Oh, come on, Nico” I yelled down, “Just be a stupid lookout and watch for cars with me.”
Tony jumped in, “Come on, man, I’m gonna break the record, today Nico. I can feel it. 50 cars! 50! Come on and watch me make history.”
“Watch you make trouble, you mean. Besides, it’s slippery. You’ll go sailing off one of those cars and break your frigg’n neck.”
Tony, held up his boot, showing off the Vibram-clad sole. “Not with these. This shit grips.”
As Tony stood there trying to stay balanced while holding his right foot up between he and Nico, Nico turned and walked away. We screamed after him. He didn’t look back; just waived his hand in the air as he kept walking away. I I I
Tony turned to me, “What an asshole. Why’d he just leave us and not watch me when I asked? I mean, come on.”
I shrugged, “Don’t worry about Nico. He’s probably gotta work or, ya know, maybe he’s just smart enough to avoid trouble, ya know? He’s not gett’n busted and smacked around like us all the time is he?”
Tony ignored me, “I don’t see any cars should I do it? Should I just go for it and do it now?” His head swiveled from right to left looking for potential witnesses, “Come on, hurry up. Look around. What do ya think?”
My head swiveled in unison with Tony’s, looking first at the platform behind me. Clear. Then down the tracks to the west, then to the east. Clear. Clear. Then at the parking lot across the street. Clear. With one last glance at Tony, I placed my hand on his shoulder and yelled, “Ready?”
“Now!” he screamed.
Tony bolted off the platform and down the incline as the earlier wave of warmth returned to me. It felt good.
Starting his run, Tony jumped onto the hood of the first car, a Lincoln Continental. After taking one last look behind him he sprang into action. Tentatively at first he jumped to the next car and then the third as he began to find his stride. Soon he was bounding across the car hoods at a steady clip joining them together in his wake.
I alternated watching for traffic on Main Street and counting Tony’s cars. If he was going to beat my record I wanted an accurate count. He was really moving now. He hurled across the fifth, sixth and seventh cars, some of which now sported new dents. He was careful to focus on his footing to avoid the catastrophic spill Nico warned of.
Looking ahead I saw the kiss of death in his run for the record; a VW Bug. The rounded Bug offered no front hood and therefore no running room. Oh well, he’d hit double digits before stopping at the Bug. My record will stand. I nodded thoughtfully as the cold returned to my core, washing away the fleeting feeling of warmth.
I pointed ahead, “Watch the Bug.” He turned towards me. “The Bug,” I screamed. “Watch out!” He flailed his right hand at me then slowed his pace, looking like a juking running back scouring the line in search of a hole. Upon landing on the red Pinto parked before the Bug, Tony searched for way to fill the space between the stoic cars. He lurched to a halt, then, stepping on the windshield, clamored to the top of the car before leaping across the gap onto the roof of the Bug. Sagging under his weight, the Bug’s roof held! From the newly concave top of the Bug he sprinted forward gliding across the tops of cars joining them in a string of powerful strides.
“Fucking A,” I whispered. I looked all the way down the line to see if he could possibly run the entire row of cars. No gaps. He could do it. Then I swiveled to look up and down Main Street. No witnesses. It was possible he’d run all 50 cars. I had to contain myself. I was on lookout and couldn’t leave my post. I kept scanning, when honing in on what would be Tony’s 39th car, I gasped. I reached up to grab the top of my head in an unintentional imitation of Lurch. Tony was heading towards a convertible with a soft canvas cover; a rag top.
I screamed, pointing at the weathered rag top, “Tony, Tony! Stop! Look out. Rag top, man. Rag top! Look! Out!” Without losing his stride, he turned towards me, thrusting both arms in the air. He was lost in the moment, pounding from roof to roof, leaving a trail of dents in his wake. Seeing my spastic display of horror, Tony turned just as he jumped from an AMC Javelin towards car number 39; the rag top.
I watched as he swung his arms like a long jumper in an attempt to control his forward progress. His motion slowed to a crawl as he hurled through the air towards the flimsy convertible roof. Time accelerated as he crashed through the roof of the car, shredding the canvas top. He fell into the car smashing his balls on the back of the front seat. His momentum carried his upper body forward ripping the roof from passenger side to driver side. His motion stopped as the canvas enveloped Tony in an off-white prison. His hands went down towards his balls before he slumped forward, listing over like a ship waiting to sink. He didn’t move as the world became quiet.
Involuntarily I squeezed my balls before bolting down the platform towards Tony. Frantically I stumbled down the incline, catching my foot on the curb and falling forward towards the parked Continental. I saw a brown spot hurtling towards me just before I hit the left side of my head on the car’s rusted metal bumper. Crack! Stars, surrounded by blackness, filled my head. I found myself on my back. As the world continued to spin above me I tried to get up. I fell backwards onto my rear. I held my hand to my eye to see if I was bleeding. I was. I rolled over on all fours. Blood fell from the left side of my face dripping onto the pavement. Drip. Drip. Drip. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” I watched as blood fell through my heaving white breath.
Like Ali getting up after a Frazier left hook I staggered to my feet. I tried to catch my breath as silver stars floated across my eyes. These stars, man, these were minor league compared to the stars I’d see if we were caught. My face felt warm. My eye stung like a mother and I reached up to wipe blood from my face.
“Fuck!” Now blood was all over my jacket sleeve.
“It only stings for a second.”
I peeked over the cars and, seeing no witnesses, started towards Tony, running the distance with my hand on the side of my face. Tony was trying to extract himself. He was wedged within a white tangle of wiring and canvas.
Reaching him, he screamed, “Help me! Help me! Get me the fuck outa here, man. I’m trapped!”
I yanked on his arm trying to pull him from the roof. His arm jerked forward but that was it. I couldn’t budge him. He was right. He was trapped. I started to tear at the white canvas holding him in place. Riiiiiiip! It pierced the afternoon air. As the canvas peeled away the space was filled with the view of the car’s black leather seats. Without the supporting canvas, Tony tilted sideways towards the rear seat. “Tony, come on man. Come to me. Get the door, Tony. Open the door and get outa there,” I screamed, “Open the frigg’n door!”
He fell into the car.
The back seat’s cold leather creaked under his weight. Upon landing on the seat he simply curled up like a baby wearing a big winter jacket. Rocking slowly, he held his balls and moaned, “Ahhh, my nuts, man. My nuts.”
Leaning over the side window I peered in. In addition to smashed balls Tony had a bloody nose. The car looked like a horror movie; a movie in which a tidal wave had scooped up Tony and carried him through time and space to crash him into the back seat of a lonely car; this car. There was blood all over the ripped rag top and now the back seat. Adding to the scene there was now blood all over the door as I yanked the handle with my bloody hands in an effort to reach Tony.
“Come on, forget your nuts! Let’s get the fuck outa here, man. Move it! We’re screwed if we get caught.”
“My fucking nose, man. My nose is broke.”
“It’s not broke! It’s just bleeding. Come on! Just shut the hell up and move, man!”
He wailed, “My balls! I can’t, I can’t move.”
“Please! Just shut up and move it!”
I opened the door. Reaching in, I dragged him by, first the foot, then the waist. “Here, put your hood up and cover your face! No one can see us!” I pulled his hood over his head and then zipped my Snorkel hood as high up as I could, tight around my face.
I kept yanking on his leg and, finally, Tony began to participate in the effort; slowly at first, and then fueled by fear, his pace quickened. He began to clamber out of the car. Feet first, he scurried to exit the vehicle as the first witness of the day slowed her car to a crawl behind us. I covered my Snorkel enclosed face with my bloody left hand as the driver – an old lady with a scarf around her head – leaned across the passenger seat to roll down her window. I I I
I didn’t wait. I jerked Tony from the car and he fell to the pavement, “Get the fuck up and run! Run!”
Pulling him from the space between the cars we scrambled up the embankment and bolted down the tracks away from the station. Tony was really hurt and I had to pull him by the jacket as he stumbled forward. He tripped, landing hard and squealing like a baby. I yanked him up, “Come on, man, just keep moving. And don’t look back!” I pointed forward, down the tracks to where the two rails seemed to converge into a pin point. “There. The woods.” I gasped, “Down the tracks and to the woods. Run to the woods, Tony! Run!”
We ran along the Main Street tracks as fast as could.
We ran without thinking and, once the woods swallowed the rails, we cut to the right, piercing through thickets into the safety of the trees. We plodded our way down well-known trails towards the stream. We knew these trails and didn’t stop. After what seemed like hours but must have been all but five to ten minutes we came to a halt at the edge of the stream. It was partially frozen. We couldn’t walk across so we followed the stream to a fallen tree and, with practiced effort, walked the length of the tree across the mix of ice and water to the safety of the other side. Far from the threat of capture we fell to the ground, gasping, struggling to catch our breath. It poured from us in white bursts.
I crawled over the hardened dirt towards the edge of the water and placed my hands on a band of white ice separating me from the water. Unlike the ragtop it took more than one blow to pierce. Using my elbow I broke open a half-moon hole to reach the water. I plunged my hands into the water. It was freezing. Drops of blood turned to swirls as they let go of my hands and swam away. ‘Bye blood,’ I thought. Tony crawled over to the half-moon. We didn’t say a word as we washed our hands and faces. The freezing water dulled the pain in my head.
My adrenaline started to slow and I could think again. I looked over to Tony. He held a big piece of ice to his cheek and the side of his nose. The bottom of the ice slowly stained red from the trickle of blood. With each of his heavy breadths white puffs belched out from behind his ice. As he settled down he surveyed his body.
“My balls, man. Oh man, they’re killing me. I don’t know what hurts more; my balls or my nose.”
I nodded. “Man, you hit that car hard. And you ripped right through it; right through it, man.” I broke off another piece of ice, handing it to Tony, “Here put this on your balls.”
He pulled up his jacket and shoved the ice down his pants. He fell backwards resting there without moving. His chest heaved as two pieces of ice comforted his face and balls, respectively.
Through a filter of white breadth I watched Tony lie motionless. I grabbed some ice and rubbed it against my sleeve trying to scrape away the remaining blood. It didn’t help. All I succeeded in doing was turning the stain from red to brown as dirt stuck to the bottom of the ice mingled with my blood, or maybe it was Tony’s blood.
Finished sullying my Snorkel I returned my attention to Tony. A racing stripe of blood ran down the front of his chest. It was matched by a big blotch of blood across his left shoulder.
I grabbed another piece of ice and crawled towards Tony, “Don’t move. I’m gonna try to get this blood off you.” I scrubbed for a good minute, getting some off and turning the remainder into a mixture of red and brown. Under his right arm I found a huge gash, running up the seam to his armpit, “Uh oh.”
“What, what is it?”
“Tony, man, you ripped the shit out of your jacket. Look. Here.” I pointed to the split.
He sat up on his right elbow and discovered a new injury. “Oh, shit. My arm…” He twisted his jacket and found the gash.
“Oh, no. Oh man, I’m screwed. My mom just got this for me at McHugh’s. My dad’s gonna beat the crap outa me for ripping this so soon. He just told me; just told me, ‘this better last three winters, young man.’ It lasted half a fuck’n winter.” There were tears in his eyes.
I tried to divert his attention, “How’s my eye?”
He didn’t answer but instead pulled away the reddened block of ice from his cheek, “How’s my fuck’n nose, you mean.”
His was worse off and I obliged, “No cut, but red and pretty puffy; here, and over here.” I gently moved my reddened index finger towards the side of his nose. The blood was seeping from his nostrils. Involuntarily he pulled back. “Not so bad, though. Here. Take a new piece of ice.” I turned and broke off a clean piece of ice and handed it to Tony.
“What about my jacket? I’m gonna get whooped.”
“Yeah, that’s a problem. Hey, wait, we can, we can say we cut through the Gully and got beat up.”
“No, my father will wanna know who did it. He’ll choke it outa me.”
I nodded, “Alright. Street hockey. We played street hockey after school. No wait, we went to the stream, here in the woods, to walk on ice and you fell through. Yeah, and your jacket ripped when I pulled you out. Sound good?”
“My feet, man. My feet will have to be wet.”
“Well, stick ‘em in the water,” I shrugged.
He hurled his piece of ice at me, “Are you fuck’n kidding me! You stick your stupid feet in the water, asshole! I’m not freez’n all the way home. We’ll say you fell in. And my jacket ripped when I saved you. How’s that, asshole?”
I held up my hands as the ice sailed over my head. “Alright, alright. Calm down. Jesus, man. No falling through the ice. Don’t be such a dick. I’m trying, trying to… Come on, we need a story that’ll stand up.”
Tony struggled to keep it together as I continued, “Alright, how ‘bout this? We walked home, through the Gully, right? Kids were hanging out there, right? Some were throwing snowballs at cars, OK? But we didn’t want to. We won’t mention that unless they ask. And, some, some other kids were playing Pick Up & Slaughter; older kids with a Nerf ball. A green one. And so we stopped to play and they kept throw’n the ball to us and they then, well, they kept tackling us, trying to hurt us. But, we, we didn’t quit, right? Our dads will like that. And then, they, ah, when they ripped your jacket we left. OK?”
Taking care to mind his injured arm and balls Tony leaned back on his other elbow. I noticed the ice down his pants had melted and it looked like he pissed his pants. He saw me looking at his balls, “Now who’s the baby? Peed your pants, huh Tony?”
“Fucking ice!” He shoved his hand down his pants and twisted out the remainder of his ice. He took aim at me and then caught himself. He heaved the ice across the stream.
Dignity restored he nodded, “Yeah, ya know, we can say we got hurt – and all dirty! – playing Pick Up & Slaughter. Yeah. And if anyone saw us in the Gully pelting cars we can say, ‘yeah we were there but we were playing not throwing.’ That’ll work.”
We were both nodding now.
“OK. Done. Gully. Snowballs. Walked past. Pick Up & Slaughter with big kids. Nerf. Didn’t want to quit when we got hurt. Ripped jacket. Went home. And we’ll stay here for a while and, before we start home, we turn our jackets inside out so we won’t look like trouble. Good?”
“Good,” said Tony.
Our plan in place Tony returned to the moment, “So how’d I do?”
“How’d you do? How’d you frigg’n do, man? 38 cars! 39 if you include the rag top.”
“What? Of course you include the goddam rag top, man? My foot landed on it! It fuck’n counts, man. It counts!” he wailed. With one side of his nose now swollen shut, puffs of white steam slipped from his remaining open nostril.
I thought for a while then rubbed my eye, “Ouch! Shit,” my eyebrow was tender, “yeah, you’re right. We gotta count it. We gotta. If you think about it, for one split second, maybe even half a split second, your Vibram touched down on the roof of that car; right before you ripped through and smashed your frigg’n balls, man! Shit, that was crazy. Crazy! Does it still hurt?”
“Everything hurts.” He nodded as he rubbed his newly flattened balls. Following the wisps of white dragon’s breadth my stress continued to float away, up towards the tree tops. Then, for the first time, I started laughing, “Man you paid for that record with some smashed up balls, huh?”
He shook his head, “Yeah man, but it was worth it.”
“Man, Tony, you were like Franco Harris climbing up a pile of Cowboys, ya know, when you jumped up that windshield before the Bug. That was totally awesome. 39, man. 39 is now the new Running of the Cars world record. Congratulations.”
I reached over and we shook hands. His hand was warm.
Gingerly Tony, rolled onto his back again. He fell to rest, staring upwards towards the sky, visible through a filter of bare branches.
“39,” he repeated, “Do you think anyone will ever beat it?”
“39? Are you kidding me? Think of what you had to do back there, man. Think about the shit you just did. So, no, man, I doubt anyone will ever touch that one. Shit, man; 39.”
Joining Tony I fell over onto my back, laying to his left. I closed my eyes and focused on the blackness on the inside of my eyelids.
I didn’t see it, but Tony lifted his left arm, stretched it straight towards the sky and, like a cresting wave let it fall towards me. He must have been looking at me as his hand came to rest on my right shoulder, startling me, “Thanks, man. You know, for not leaving me back there. Thanks.” II
I turned to open my eyes as if from a daydream. I was standing. And I was older; much older. Involuntarily I reached for my left eye. It felt fine. I pulled my hand away looking for blood. Except for a slight film of sweat my hand was clean. I looked around. It was summer, not winter. My father’s younger brother, Uncle Ken, stood next to me. He reached out and, slowly at first, began to turn the page of time to the present.
His hand came to rest on my right shoulder, “Ready?”
Time had accelerated as the page rolled over, throwing me forward like a tumbling letter and landing me back on Main Street in front of the refurbished train station. It was now a fancy little coffee shop and newsstand. Tony was long since gone, having moved to Arizona after college to start a business, father two children and fight to keep his family together.
I continued looking around, turning my attention from the running of the cars so many years ago to a crowd of runners milling around me, waiting for the start of this year’s 5K Fourth of July race. My sister, Caitlin, and her friends had started the annual event in 2003 as a fund raiser to pay for a scholarship program and maintenance costs associated with the town’s 9/11 memorial.
The memorial stood on the other side of the street across from the train station. It carried forward the names of my dad and 10 others from our town, all lost one day when the page of time turned without warning. With some commuters not returning that day their cars were left parked at Main Street long after the 3:30 commuter train had passed. Like quivering letters the cars stood alone until family members uncovered second sets of keys and retrieved the lonely cars, wondering how they were ever going to fill such a space.
IIII IIII II IIIII IIII I III IIIIIII IIII II II I
I looked up towards the tracks thinking of 50 uninterrupted cars and, as if trying to return to an early morning dream, my eyes came to rest on what looked like Tony standing high on the platform. His head swiveled as he scanned first right, then left, looking up and down Main Street at the sea of disjointed runners. He nodded towards me, letting me know it was time. I didn’t hear a word as he looked right into me and silently screamed, “Now!”
Crack! The start gun went off. Cold air seemed to fill my lungs as the page of time neared the end of its fall. Jockeying for space, I mixed with other runners and surprised myself as a wisp of winter’s dragon breadth slipped from my lips. I reached forward ever so slightly touching the runner in front of me and, like a letter able to cross white the space for the first time, he turned and smiled. Then, as the page of time fell to rest, a mix of letters broke loose, pouring onto the next page to fill the space between past and present; pouring onto the next page to fill the space between me and you. II
