Motorcycle Roadkill

by S. P. Shane

  Something's changed. The roar of the crowd builds, as singing and shouting enter the mix. The band music continues, but the students have slowed their footwork, lost their rhythm. “What's goin' on?”

  Josh makes a face, as if to say “does it matter?”

  The infamous Cougar mascot enters the fray, bopping across the cafeteria. It occurs to me that the students are cheering for him, but all I can do is laugh. For all of their love of football, for all of their talk of getting a little Cougar blood in me, their beloved mascot looks like a bad Halloween costume. Their cougar looks more like a hound dog with mange. It's the most comically stupid thing I've seen in quite a while.

  “Come on, man.” Josh nudges me again.

  “Just a second.” It's more of a gesture with my finger than anything he could possibly hear, but I want to see what all the fuss is about.

  Something's definitely off, but it's not the mascot. The other students are off-kilter; they're not even looking at the mascot. Their eyes are glued upon the Cougar Cage that sits in front of the gymnasium—the one Rooster insists is not used for discipline. Those nearest to the cage are rolling in laughter, doubled over, gasping for breath, holding their sides.

  It's hard to see anything from here, just a bunch of idiots circled around a cage, laughing their heads off. “Where ya goin'?” Josh tugs at my sleeve, but I ignore him. I weave and bob through the crowd, like it's Sunday morning and I'm dodging old fogies to get out of church.

  Lindsey stands in front of the cage, but she's different. She's not so sweet at the moment. In fact, her face is deathly serious, pissed off even. Her arms are stretched out to either side of her and her legs spread wide, like she's trying to block the cage with her body. Her head bobs about as she shouts—her voice deafened by the roar of the crowd. It's clear by looking at her that she's not leading them in a cheer. She's dog-ready-to-bite angry.

  She moves a half-step and whatever grin I may have had on my face goes away at once. Behind her, a boy curls up in the cage, naked except for a pair of white tighty whiteys. He trembles like a wet dog, lost in a thunderstorm, rocking from side to side. It's clear that he's not part of the show. He hides his face between two shaking knees. Only the top of his head is visible, where strands of his greasy brown hair stick up in the air. Sickness churns in my stomach, a desperate sinking feeling, as my eyes fall upon the broken glasses that lie by his feet. The frames are split in half, the coke bottle lenses badly scratched.

  "Jimmy..." It's the stuttering kid that Grant tried to scrape off the bottom of his shoe.

  Everyone's just laughing, except for Lindsey. She's the only one trying to stand up for him. A practical joke's one thing, but this... You can't do this to someone. You can't get away with it. Humiliating someone like this. It's beyond wrong. It's sickening.

  The door to the gymnasium swings open and the roar of the crowd dies down. Grant pokes his head through the door, grinning like a rat gnawing corn. He comes out into the cafeteria, with his arms held wide, like a magician presenting his grand illusion. The crowd laughs again and Troy Schaffer falls through the doors. He's laughing so hard he can hardly stand up. “Ladies and gentlemen... May I present to you, the case of the disappearing shit stain?”

  Troy lets out a hoot as he grabs hold of the cage and shakes it with his hands. Grant steps toward the cage, but Lindsey steps in front of him. She's definitely not the sweet y'all girl anymore. “Damn you, Grant! Stop this shit now!”

  He stares at her coldly, with a lopsided grin. “What's it to you?”

  “This isn't funny!”

  “No, it's pretty freaking hilarious!” He cackles as he steps around her and shakes the cage.

  Jimmy raises his head, as if to cry out, but only a low groan escapes his lips. He stops moving.

  “Jimmy?” Lindsey calls through the bars. “Are you okay?” It's a dumb question, but she means well. Of course, he's not okay. How could anybody be okay after all of this?

  She turns to Grant with her eyes bugged out. The sound of her hand slapping across his face echoes across the cafeteria. Stunned, Grant lets go of the cage and glares at her. There's a look of pure hatred in his eyes, as if he might hit her with his fist.

  “Hey, Grant.” Troy lets go of the cage. “Keep cool, Grant. We gotta a game to think about.”

  Coach Hensley waddles around the corner doing his shimmying fat-guy-shuffle. Sweat drips from his forehead and his cheeks are a constant shade of pink. He scans the cafeteria for loitering students, as he presses his whistle against his lips. His whistle tweets above the roar of the crowd. “Alright! Alright! Let's move it into the gym!”

  The noise dies down, but the crowd moves like a caterpillar, slow and defiant. Rooster comes out of his office, stops in his tracks. His head pokes up like a Doberman, looking around the cafeteria. The look on his face says “Something's out of order. These kids should be in the gym by now”. He doesn't seem to notice Jimmy.

  Troy puts his hand on Grant's shoulder, as if to say “alright, Captain. It's a good show, but it's over.” Grant nods, relenting to the slow trickle of students into the gymnasium.

  The whistle falls from Hensley's lips. His brow lowers and his face scrunches. “What the...? What's... What's goin' on here?” He jogs toward the cage, while reaching in his pocket for a set of keys.

  “Everyone to the gym!” Rooster comes strutting through the crowd, ready to round up outlaws. His gaze falls upon the cage and he stops in his tracks. He turns toward the gawking students. “y'all clear out here now!”

  The crowd moves, but not in any particular hurry. Their eyes are trained on Jimmy, as they circle like vultures, hungry to feast on his humiliation. “Go on! Get!” Rooster crows again, using a voice he saves for stray dogs.

  “Dude, what's goin' on?” Josh hasn't made his grand escape after all.

  “I... uh... It's... uh” There's a half dozen things that I want to shout at Grant, at Troy, at Rooster, at all of them, but nothing comes out right. It's all this big bottled mess, trapped inside of me.

  “Hang tight.” Hensley taps on the bars, as he finds the key to the cage.

  The noise level drops as Rooster comes to the rescue. His eyes lock on Jimmy, as if he's the outlaw at the center of the melee. “What is this? Some sort of little stunt?”

  Jimmy doesn't answer. He continues to rock himself from side to side.

  “He won't answer. Someone did this to him,” Lindsey says.

  “Well, he's in deep water, if he doesn't answer me.”

  “I think he's sick or something.”

  “Jimmy.” Hensley calls as he opens the cage. No answer.

  Rooster puts his hand on Lindsey's shoulder. “Run along and fetch the nurse, dear.”

  “Jimmy, we're gonna get ya outta here.” Hensley crouches beside Jimmy and puts a hand on his shoulder.

  “Here... Here...” Rooster sheds his blue blazer and tosses it at Hensley. “Put this around him.”

  Rooster rolls up his sleeves, opens the hatch, and climbs into the cage. He maintains a sense of self-importance, like he's a doctor about to deliver a baby.

  “Jimmy? Son?” Rooster calls to him. No answer. “Son, where are your clothes?”

  Jimmy raises his head slightly, as Hensley drapes the blazer over his shoulders.

  “The...the...the...they ta...ta..took 'em.”

  “Who?” Manson looks around, as if the culprits are nearby. “Who took 'em?”

  “The ga...ga...goons.”

  “Goons?” Manson makes a face like he's trying figure out a Sherlock Homes mystery in his head. “Who? Who are these goons?”

  “Ca...cou...gars.” Jimmy starts to raise his head, but all at once his entire body goes limp. He falls back in Hensley's arms.

  “Is he alright?” My voice is weak, barely a whisper. A mixture of anger and shame burns inside me. Of course, Jimmy's not alright. I'm sure he'll live, but that may be the worst part.

  “Let's get some fresh air,” Josh whispers to me.<
br />
  “I can't.”

  “We're going.” Josh wraps his arm around my shoulders and pulls me toward the door.

  Chapter 13

  Main Street's closed, as shop owners and storekeepers, shed their smocks and join the slow blue flood of people toward the football field. Parking lots fill with the noise of screeching tires, revving engines, and loud music. At the post office, Old Glory is replaced with a billowing blue flag and the bright white print of a cougar's paw.

  The percussion of the drums carries through town, rattling windows as far away as Broad Strokes. Josh leans against the window, his breath fogging the glass, apparently immune to the fever that infects the town. A cloud seems to hover above him, casting a dark shadow over his face. His eyes meet mine and he puts the CLOSED sign against the window. Flipping the lock, he slips out the front door onto the sidewalk.

  He doesn't smile. If he gives into the chorus for even a moment, he admits defeat. He just stands still, silent, wearing orange and not blue.

  “Josh?”

  "You ready?" There's no excitement in his voice.

  "Not really." After what these idiots did to Jimmy, watching them play football is the last thing I want to do. "I'm not really sure why I'm doing this."

  “Yeah. We can skip it if ya want.”

  "Except Lindsey says she'll be there."

  He draws in a deep breath, lets it out in a sigh, and shakes his head. "Caleb... I like you, dude."

  "You're cool and everything, but I think we'd both we better off with girls. No offense."

  He laughs and takes out a cigarette. "No, I mean... Don't get hurt. That's all."

  "It's a football game. What's the big deal?"

  "This town's strung together with piano wire. Only it's all out of tune. So, everyone just keeps tightening the strings. Sooner or later, one of those strings is gonna break. And it's not gonna be pretty." His voice is flat, dead-pan. He ambles forward, just going through the motions. It's not like him at all.

  "Josh, you alright?"

  He hisses. "Yeah...sure. Just a little tired." He's lost in his own thoughts for a minute, but then a smile creeps across his face.

  "What? What is it?"

  "For what it's worth, I think she likes you too."

  "Really?"

  "All the guys around here are shades of vanilla to her. You... you're new. You're exotic."

  Surprised. "I am?"

  "To her. And she thinks you're funny."

  "She does?"

  "That's what she says. But she hasn't had the chance to find out how much of a jackass you are."

  "Thanks."

  I'm half a mind to turn around and go home, but the whole town's alive with a strange energy that draws me toward the football field.

  “Yewer alluvus. Yewer alluvus. Yewer alluvus.” The chorus continues.

  “Yewer alluvus?”

  “You... are... all... of... us. It's Crenshaw's Creek's freaky occult brain-washing.”

  “Quite possibly the stupidest thing I've heard. Seriously.”

  Josh shakes his head. Shrugs. “Let's cut down this way.” He points with his shoulder at an alley just after Stacy's Sewing House. “It'll get us away from all this... stupidity.”

  If crowd avoidance is an art form, Josh is a master. It's a dizzying maze of turns, doubling back, and cutting through the lots of abandoned warehouses, but he gets us within sight line of the football field without crossing the path of another Cougar.

  The last leg of our trek crosses the clearing by the old Dairy Hut on Ott's Pike and takes us into the woods behind the high school. Band music and bullhorn blasts spill over the crest of the hill, and we arrive in the school parking lot. Droves of Crisotans, amble toward the fence.

  A plump man with a blue ball cap and a grubby red beard stands in front of the gate. As I approach, he cocks his head to one side and spits a long brown stream of 'baccar on the ground. He scratches his balls and gawks at me. “Two dollars.”

  “It's for both of us.” I dig a five out of my pocket and shove it in his hand.

  He holds out a dollar for change. “Here ya go.”

  “Keep it.”

  He shrugs and waves us through the gate.

  It's loud in here, with the band music shaking the stands and rattling my teeth. A constant chorus of voices rises and falls as blue and white balloons escape in the evening sky.

  “Dude, ya didn't have to pay for me.” Josh nearly shouts to be heard above the crowd.

  I shake my head. “I don't want his ball-sweat money.”

  “Man, all money's ball-sweat money. You just don't realize it.”

  “This time I realize it.”

  The smell of hot dogs and popcorn drifts from a cinder-block building with a tin roof. White light spills from its open windows, as women in blue smocks hand out concessions. Like ants finding their way to sugar, an army of Crisotans crawl back and forth from the stands to the building.

  “Want something to drink?”

  “Naw. I'm good." I cast my gaze toward the crowd, slowly scanning for Lindsey.

  “Suit yourself, but I'm parched like the damned desert.” Josh makes a beeline toward the concession stand, bypassing everyone waiting their turn.

  Leaning against the corner post of the bleachers, I listen to the fans sing “Friends In Low Places.” A smile creeps across my face, as it occurs to me that I've survived my first week in this Hell-Hole.

  “What's with you, Hombre?” Josh is back from the concessions already and he shoves a cup of Coke into my hands. “My treat.”

  “Thank you.” The ice rattles in my cup, as he hands it to me.

  “Follow me.” He gestures with his shoulder and makes his way past the bleachers to a dimly-lit field of briers and thorns. He checks over his shoulder to make sure we're alone.

  With the cool of a gunslinger twirling a pistol, he digs in his pocket and takes out a silver flask. My face appears in its reflection, looking an ABC Afterschool Special.

  “What is…that?”

  “Don't be a jackass, Caleb! It's whiskey.”

  This is the moment where I'm supposed to make my big stand, shout out 'no' and run to the protective arms of an authority figure.“I...uh... don't really... drink.”

  “You do now.” He pops the lid off my drink, pours in a little whiskey. “Don't worry. It makes everything taste better.”

  "Everything?"

  "Yes, pretty much so. EVERYTHING!"

  Josh takes a big swig of his drink. “Go ahead.” He waits while I sniff the cup like a hound dog who's discovered fresh pee. “Try it.”

  I look over my shoulder. "Have you seen Lindsey?"

  He lets out a soft groan and rolls his eyes. "Jesus! Will ya just shut up already? It's never gonna happen dude!"

  "I thought you said she likes..."

  "Just shut up and drink. Alright?"

  I'm sure somewhere up in heaven a select group of Sunday School teachers are joining hands and singing hymns, while my soul has its audience with evil. The truth is: Josh isn't really pressuring me. It's not like he's gonna kick me out of his little clique, when we're the only two in it. What it really comes down to is that I don't see much downside to having a sip. Worse case scenario: Dad finds out and gets pissed off. The way I see it pissing of my dad is my number one priority at the moment, so there's no problem there. There's an outside chance that Rooster will find out and I can get kicked out of school. Again, not the world's worst thing.

  “Bottoms up.” I think I heard that in an old movie or something, but I hold the cup to my lips like I'm expecting Kool-Aid. Well, it's not Kool-Aid. It's this strange mixture of sweet and bitter that goes down my throat like the world's worst cold syrup. It's a line of lava's burning in my throat, slowing dripping down into my guts. “Jesus Christ!”

  “What? Is that some sort of prayer?”

  “Why yes it is! Thank you.” I bend forward, bracing my hands against my knees. My eyes fix upon the ground, as it seems to move on i
ts own.

  “You alright, man?”

  “Feels like I swallowed a dragon.” A trickle of sweat runs down my cheek.

  “Everyone needs a little dragon inside 'em.”

  I start to laugh, but end in an abrupt snort, as the field starts to spin around me. When I look up, there are three Lucases in front of me. His lips move, but his voice is lost beneath a high-pitch ringing in my ears.

  “What?”

  “I said let's go find Lindsey and sit down for a little while,” he says.

  “Lindsey? She's not gonna wanna be seen with us.”

  “You say that like we're lepers or something.”

  “Not anymore. Let's unleash the dragon.”

  He tilts his head back and laughs. “You're too much, young dragon.” He starts toward the bleachers, but there's still three of him. There's only one thing I can do: split the difference and follow the one in the middle. My legs are like rubber and the ground is extra springy. The ringing in my ears quiets and I'm vaguely aware of people singing along to “Honkey Tonk Bar Association”.

  He disappears around the corner into the white lights of the football field. A moment later it's like I'm hit in the stomach and doused with cold water all at once. There stands Grant, leaning against the side of the school, flanked to either side by his goons.

  His helmet sits at his feet, as he basks in a chorus of “Yewer Alluvus”.

  “Oh great! The goons are here.” Shouldn't they be in the locker room, patting each other's butts? Instead they're here, taking turns shoving each other into the side of the building.

  I'm seeing in triple-vision, and the ball field's starting to look like a really bad art film--blurry, with warped perspective.

  Josh is a little ways ahead of me, out of earshot. He's not even looking at Grant, but Grant has his eyes on him. He wears the face of a wary cattle rancher—one who sees horse thieves on the horizon. His lips move, but I can't hear him. If I have to testify in court, I can honestly say that I have no idea what Grant's saying.