The car was door-deep in water.
The back was higher than the front. The engine was almost submerged. Even from where I was standing, I could see the pleather of the roof was slashed. There was writing in the paint.
I was not surprised. I hadn’t known exactly what the BQ crew would do, but I’d had my suspicions. They’d gotten an anonymous call. It said that Turner had stolen the troll. It told them where to find it. Here, in his car, the night of this party. I’d growled, “You don’t get here soon enough, and we’re burning it in effigy.”
They’d gotten here soon enough. The troll-shaped promotional condiment dump had been sitting in the back seat of Turner’s car. Shunt and I had left it there.
So what had they done? I was proud of them. They had removed the troll. They had drowned the car. I suspected they’d pushed it with a truck. They’d keyed the paint job. They’d scratched:
on the doors. And they didn’t lie. In the back seat, where the troll had sat, they had left a dump. It must have been several people’s. You could tell it was a BQ dump. O’Dermott’s doesn’t serve onion rings.
I didn’t know whether to be impressed or disgusted. It was so completely disgusting it was almost impressive.
Turner had fallen to one knee. The other knee couldn’t decide whether it was standing or sitting. It tried to straighten. It made him hop. He made a strange noise which I guess could be called a baying. He started to pound the dirt with his fists. At first it was left, right, left, right, left-right-left-right-left-right slamming the earth, and then together. Again. Again. Again. Again.
It felt very good. It was like someone had taken my heart and smeared it with a lotion smooth and cool.
Turner rose to his feet. He was slumped like a Neanderthal. He waded out beside his car. The water got deeper and deeper. It was up to his thighs. The picture was touching. He caressed the finish. He bent down low and whispered tearful things.
We all stood and watched. The moon was high above the pond. The trees were black. Things flew overhead.
Shunt muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Bet it was those BQ bastards.”
A couple of guys started to murmur. One called out to Turner, “Hey, Turner. Shunt said he thinks it was the BQ guys.”
Turner looked up. He nodded fiercely.
With hard, strong strides he plowed out of the water. His hands were clenched. He stood on the shore. Water ran from him.
He cupped his hands around his mouth. His arms were thick with tension and muscle. He yelled into the darkness, “You listening? We’re gonna whip your flame-broiled asses! You hear? I’m gonna personally claw out your throats and eat ’em to go!” He looked at all of us. “You in with me? Are you in with me? Don’t just stand there, peckerheads! It’s time for violence!”
He reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a Swiss Army knife. He unfolded the blade. He held it different ways in the moon to make it glint. He held out his hand.
Someone stepped forward and handed him something. He held it in his other hand. He raised the knife up. It was like he was performing a sacrifice. The knife came down.
He’d punctured the can of beer. He put it up to his mouth. Popped the top. The shook-up beer started to squirt. He clamped his lips around the spray. He was shotgunning. He hardly missed a drop.
When it was done, he tossed the can aside. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He let out a sigh.
Then he folded the knife. He put it back in his pocket. He smacked his fist into his hand. He and several of the guys went into war council.
Some people wanted to go back up to the fire. They were worried about the darkness. Others wanted to hunt the BQ crew down like pigs. Nobody wanted to leave. Who would want to miss the action?
“We have flashlights!” Turner yelled to everyone. “You want to join the fray, hook up with one of the light guys. We’ll form posses. Search the woods. There are five cars which will give chase, in case they’re already out of the woods. The rest of you, stick to the paths. Search high and low. When you find them, here’s the plan: Beat the shit out of them. Make them scream. If you can, record it so I can hear.”
People waved flashlights in the air. “Flashlight!” they sang. “Flashlight here.” “I’m going over toward the river.” “I’m going over toward the field.” People collected in groups. There was a rustling all around us as posses headed off into the woods. We could hear branches snap. Cars were turned on. Headlights shot out across the water. They picked out bugs in the air. There was a clamor of three-point turns. The rattle of suspensions on washboard dips and bumps.
Turner’s posses were spreading out. He looked savage with anger. He banged a square red flashlight on the hood of a truck. His thumb hit the nubbin. The light went on.
“Follow me! Follow me!” he screamed. A group of guys holding sticks and flashlights whooped. They followed him.
We could hear underbrush torn and stomped on. Instructions hooted through the woods. Catcalls to summon. The honking of horns. The forest was alive. Soon, the clearing at the bottom of the hill was almost empty.
I went down by Turner’s car. There was a small group of kids there. They were looking at the damage. They said, “Wow,” and, “Whoa.” One said, “Man.”
Stacey was there. She was craning her neck. Looking into the back seat. Sniffing.
I stood next to her and made a show of trying to see the mess. “Here,” I said. “Steady me.” I grabbed her arm. I leaned far out over the water, leaning my hand on the car. With the other hand, I held hers. In the back seat, the heavy brown coils were just above the level of lapping water. One low dollop was disintegrating.
“What’s it look like?” she said.
“Pull me back,” I said. “It’s pretty solid stool.”
“Good,” she said. “It serves the bastard right.”
The little group was breaking up. The others were wandering away. They shook their heads.
Stacey and I were alone in the night. We could hear the distant hunting calls. “Another beer?” I offered.
Soon we were sitting by the pond on roots and drinking. Trees hung far out over the water. I felt relaxed. Triumphant. Nothing was going to take away my victory now. She was almost mine. We talked. I tried to concentrate on her body. I checked out its length and excellence. The hair with its complications. When I ran my fingers through it, would it crackle with mousse? The face with just enough flesh that it would yield soft as warm butter when I kissed it.
Keep concentrating on the body, and how I want to bring it close to me. Forget about the rest. Don’t make up scenes of anger afterward. Don’t think about the things you’ll have to say. Just think about desire. Her arms were silver in the moonlight.
I was consoling her.
“Can’t believe he was scoring with that whore,” she said.
“I know,” I said softly, rubbing her arm with my hand. “He can be a real bastard.”
“He can,” she said. “Sure can.”
We talked about his bastardry. I watched that she kept drinking.
“You’re nice to talk to me,” she said.
“No,” I replied with a slim smile. “I’m not nice at all.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I asked him about you,” she said. “He called you bendy-boy. Why’s that?”
I stopped the rubbing on her arm. “Because,” I replied, “I’m a contortionist. You know. I can bend myself into the most amazing positions.” I built up pressure in my fingers, gripped the muscle, squeezed. She was swaying toward me.
“Want to go in the water?” I asked, taking my hand away.
“Swimming?”
“Let’s search the car.” I rose and unbuttoned my shirt. “I’m going in,” I said. “Come along?”
The night was warm. When I took off my pants, the air wasn’t uncomfortable. I stood in my boxers. My toes were wound in the moss. I crossed my arms on my chest. My own bare skin on my skin felt good. She undressed in front of me. She lef
t on her T.
The first shock of the water numbed my toes. Except at the very edge, where the mud was warm and soft, the water was chilled. We waded in together. When one of us tripped, we’d grab the other’s flexing fingers.
And I thought to myself, Baby’s play. She was mine. I flexed my toes in the soft mud as if discovering new muscles.
My legs prickled with the cold. I could feel the hairs standing stiff. Pulpy weeds sucked my calves. I turned to look at her. She was breathing deeply with the chill. The water was wetting the belly of her shirt. Her eyes were closed. I could smell the stench of beer.
I led her to the car. I climbed through the driver’s window. I sat in the driver’s seat. She was laughing. She was trying to clamber over the passenger’s door.
“One sec,” I said. Something was floating on her seat. I reached down and pulled it from the water. “Look,” I said, with a smile. “His O’Dermott’s jacket.”
The green sateen looked almost black, it was so wet. The elastic cuffs sagged.
“I hate that goddamn jacket,” she said. “It is so . . . it is so . . . I don’t know.” She blew out some air between her lips and made them sputter. She tried again to climb the door. She almost fell. I was worried she would bark her shin. I quickly reached up to take her hands.
We were sitting side by side. I draped the green sateen jacket around her shoulders.
Now, Turner, I thought. This is it. I’m taking what you took and more. There’s nothing left of you.
Water bugs skated between us, rebounded off the dashboard. Their dimples on the water were bright with reflection.
Okay, I thought. Now what? The final touch.
We sat in the silent car, our limbs so numb they were like blue marble. The pond was like a road before us. The moon was high.
“Where — where do you want to go?” I asked, and put my arm around her shoulders. The cold sateen clung to my skin.
“Don’t know,” she said sloppily.
“This,” I said, “is like a drive-in for salamanders.” And somehow I realized: That’s all I need to say. I can kiss her now. Water wandered in and out of my boxers. It was like they weren’t there. My legs were numb, but I could feel the upholstery intimately against my butt. As if I were nude. My parts were moving in currents of their own.
Ignore what you’re about to do. If you’re happy and so’s she, what’s it matter? Look at the body. Look at it now.
There is a certain ferocity you need, to be a teenager in America.
I moved toward her. I put my arms on either side of her. She put her arms around my neck. She pulled me toward her. My neck kinked. I was briefly worried about whiplash. That would look really bad, in a submerged vehicle. I pressed up against her beer-smelly mouth. We ate at each other’s lips. We were locked around each other. Her leg went up. She bit my tongue. I swore. She slurred, “Sorry,” and we were back clenching. Triumph. Got you, Turner. Got you. I ran my hand under the green sateen jacket. Like a fish slipped under her shirt. Moving my mouth against her face. Her eyes closed. The reek of beer and BQ dump. The sleekness of her skin. The trickle of water from our limbs. The slosh of passenger-side pond.
And suddenly, a crash by the shore.
I shot straight up. I stood. The car lurched. I steadied myself on the door.
Looked around. Couldn’t see a thing. The moon. The water. Shadows.
Someone moving.
Someone was in the water. They were watching us. There was a splashing.
“Oh God,” said Stacey. She was hunching. “Oh God, I’m dead. I’m like so dead.”
I swore, and tumbled out of the car. I fell into the water ungracefully. My arms were out. They hit the weedy bottom. I rose and spit out pond.
“Who is it? Who’s that?” Stacey hissed to me.
I squinted. There was another splashing near an oak.
He came out into the light. He was rubbing his arms so hard it looked like the skin would come off. His mouth was in a grimace.
“It’s Rick Piccone’s brother,” I told her. “Do you know Rick Piccone?”
“No,” she said. “What the hell’s he doing?”
“Hey!” I said to Rick’s brother. “Hey, there! It’s Anthony! Rick’s friend?”
He moaned. He scrubbed.
I walked toward him.
“Hey, man,” I said. “Like, you okay?”
He was shivering with the cold. His teeth were chattering. Still he kept scrubbing. He wouldn’t look at me. He kept saying, “Vuhvuhvuhvuhvuhvuhvuhvuh,” in rhythm with his shivers.
“You okay?” I repeated. I was by his side. I grabbed his arms and tried to lift him up. He was freezing. He was naked. He stayed squatting.
“No. Not okay.” He shook his head like a piece of wood.
“What’s the matter?”
“I thought I could clean myself,” he wept. “But I’m not just dirty. I’m actually dirt. We’re all just dirt.”
“Come on,” I said gently. “I’ll take you home.”
“Never,” he said, and slapped at me. “Never. Their idea of clean is chemicals. That’s what happens to linoleum.” His voice was getting higher and higher. “We’re all crumbly. My arms and belly are washing away.”
I dragged him toward the shore. He was shaking his head. Again and again he repeated, “Nothing is right. Look around you. Look around. Nothing is right. Nothing is right anymore.”
“What’s wrong with him?” said Stacey.
“Nothing is right. Look around you. Nothing is right anymore.”
“Whose brother is he? What circus did he escape from?”
“I’ve got to take him home,” I said.
“Not home. Not home. ‘Put a sock in it.’ ‘Put a sock in it.’ Medications three times daily. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
“I guess this means we aren’t going to do it,” said Stacey.
I looked at the submerged car. I looked at her in the green sateen jacket. I looked at Rick’s brother, shivering on the shore. I looked at my legs, streaked with mud and scum. I felt a sickness running all throughout me.
“Why bother?” I said to her. “Why bother, really? Now I’m as bad as Turner. Except that I’m a loser. This is stupid. Revenge. Idiotic. There’s no point anymore.”
“I don’t know exactly what that means,” said Stacey, “and I think I’m probably glad.”
And again and again, what was going through my head was this: This is not my victory. There is no victory for losers.
We got dressed, and looked for Rick’s brother’s clothes in the bushes. He was standing near the car. We took his clothes back to him.
He was standing with his arms spread, looking up at the vast night sky. “The stars look small and clean,” he said, and they were reflected in his tears. “But really they’re just big galactic farts.”
She and I got him dressed. “I’m sorry,” I said to her. “I’m really sorry.”
She nodded impatiently. “Whatever happens, everybody’s really sorry,” she said.
We walked him to my parents’ car. I wrote a note for Rick. It was on lined notebook paper. I stuck it under his windshield wiper.
Up on the hill, a didgeridoo and guitar were playing “Feelings.”
Usually I walked to O’Dermott’s. The next day I drove. I didn’t have to go in. We were all off for the day. But I wanted to see the commercial get shot. I wanted to hear what had happened the night before.
As I drove along, I wondered nervously if whatever happened would be my fault. The insults, the paid-off umpire, the stolen drive-thru speaker — I hadn’t done any of them. But they were all the result of me having stolen the troll. Maybe they would have happened anyway. I hadn’t created the rivalry in the first place. Turner would have stolen the troll himself if he’d thought of it. He hated BQ. If he had stolen the troll, everything would have turned out just like it did. It wasn’t really me who had destroyed his car.
What an idiot I was. I could have banged my head against
the steering wheel, except most of it was the horn.
The O’Dermott’s parking lot was full. I parked along the road. There were big trucks with cables. People had come from all around to see the cast and crew. There were mothers and daughters. There were old men and women. There were Cub Scouts. Turner was striding around like lord of the manor. He was followed by three friends who worked grill.
Rick and Jenn were there. They waved and I walked over. Rick said, “Thanks for taking my brother home last night.”
“He okay?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” said Rick miserably.
“What happened after I left?”
“No one found the BQ crew,” said Jenn. “Turner and a couple of other guys went and threw rocks through BQ’s windows.”
“There’s a big thing about it in the paper,” said Rick. “Look at these security guards.”
Security guards were walking on the sidewalk, talking into walkie-talkies. They were drinking coffee. They were lighting each other’s cigarettes.
They walked through the crowd, keeping an eye open. Occasionally, they’d say something like, “You’ll have to remove the baby during the taping, ma’am.” The crowd was held back by cones. Management had ordered their Staff to dress in white overalls and spear wrappers in the bushes. The Staff moved along slowly, raking the woodchips after they passed. They were making everything tidy.
Suddenly, I spotted Diana. She was leaning against the wooden fence with some friends. She tossed back her hair with her hand. They weren’t her BQ friends. I didn’t recognize them. Maybe they were visiting from out of town. I saw her flinch, and suddenly turn her face like she’d been hit. No. She was trying to hide.
She had seen Turner. She whispered something to one of her friends. They put their arms around her, one on each side, and they quickly walked away. I watched Turner. He hadn’t seen them. He was talking to one of the film crew. I decided I better keep out of Turner’s way, too. I went around the corner of the building. Spectators were setting up lawn chairs and settling in for the day. There were little kids crying to know when they’d meet Kermit O’Dermott. There were senior citizens trying to score coffee. There were men and women dressed in dentist’s clothes.
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