by E J Elwin
“Is the money in your bag?” asked Connor. I nodded again, and he reached into the back seat for my bag, opened the front pouch, and pulled a one-hundred-dollar bill from it. “I’ll be right back, okay?” He climbed out of the convertible and hurried toward the mini-mart.
I leaned over to the driver’s side of the car, found the switch to open the car’s gas opening, and pulled it. There was a clicking sound from the driver’s side as the lid popped open. I climbed out of the car, took the pump from its station, put it into the opening in the car, then looked toward the mini-mart, waiting to see Connor pay the tattooed clerk for the gas.
There was a line of people at the counter even though there were no cars at any of the other gas pumps. A young couple, a man and a woman, were at the front of the line, unloading armfuls of snacks and cases of beer that I guessed to be party supplies since they were both dressed for one, maybe for the one that was happening a block away.
My eyes flicked nervously to the flashing red and blue lights and the swarm of revelers beyond. Music thumped from an unseen sound system in the crowd, a wild dance song which was barely distinguishable through heavy bass. Most of the people were young, about college age. Police officers stood at the edges of the crowd, arms folded, watching the young partiers with sober expressions.
I looked back at the mini-mart. The same couple were still at the front counter, having a lively chat with the clerk. “Come on, come on,” I said impatiently, through gritted teeth.
I glanced back at the party. One of the police officers broke from a group of colleagues and walked to his car. My stomach contracted in fear but then I told myself I was being paranoid.
Or was I? Had the drunk man reported his stolen car yet? Sheriff Murphy would’ve gotten the call. He would know it was me because who else would be stealing a car in our small town, a short distance from the bus station right after I’d been seen there? He would alert the Portland authorities because he’d know I would have to drive through the city to get to Seaside, and he would know that’s where I was going because that’s where I had bought bus tickets for…
My grip on the gas pump was slippery with sweat and I wiped my hands on my shirt, then turned back to the mini-mart windows. The young couple had their items bagged, the clerk handed them their change, but they continued to stand there and chat without a care in the world.
“Are you kidding me?” I hissed furiously.
I turned back to the party. The officer who’d walked to his car opened the door and got inside. The headlights flashed and the car began to move, backing out of its place among the other police cars.
“Calm down, calm down…” I told myself, breathing hard.
I turned to the mini-mart. The young couple had finally finished their chat with the clerk and were replaced by a group of young men. Connor was behind them.
The couple pushed open the doors of the mini-mart, laden with their libations. The young woman carried several plastic bags in each hand, and the young man held two large cases of beer in his arms. They tottered away across the parking lot, the young woman in danger of falling in her stiletto high heels, and headed in the direction of the giant party.
The police officer who’d gotten into his car was driving away from the party and headed in our direction. I turned quickly away, my heart pounding, hoping that I really was being paranoid and that the officer was just moving to a different side of the party. I saw him drive up to the young couple out of my peripheral vision. He briefly slowed down but then continued on. I sighed in relief. Then the police car appeared on my other side as it pulled into the gas station.
It’s over. They found us. They’re going to arrest me for stealing this car and then eventually find out about Father Gabriel. I’m going to prison.
The police car crawled slowly to where I stood, holding the gas pump in a vice grip, still holding out a tiny shred of hope that maybe the officer was just there to get some snacks from the mini-mart. He pulled up next to the mint green convertible and stared at it. He looked down at something in his lap and then back at the car, and then at me.
He wasn’t there to buy snacks. He drove to the pump station in front of me and parked his car, blocking the convertible’s way forward. I had a strong impulse to run, but couldn’t leave Connor. I glanced at the mini-mart and saw him standing there behind the group of young men at the counter, looking out at me and the police car in horror. I shouted at him with just my eyes.
Don’t come out here! Run! Save yourself!
The policeman turned off his engine and stepped out of his car. He was a big, brutish-looking man with large muscular arms and a shiny bald head. He looked permanently angry and reminded me of a bulldog. The gun on his waist gleamed beneath the fluorescent lights above us, and I remembered the Brotherhood. Harriet said they had people working in law enforcement, intercepting police radios, following investigations like Sheriff Murphy’s. What if this man was one of them? What if it wasn’t jail I was about to get but a bullet in the head? Even if he wasn’t one of the Brotherhood, they were definitely about to find out where we were.
“Good evening,” said the man sternly, looking me up and down.
I saw my life ending before my eyes. Regardless of what happened to me, how could I help Connor? How was he supposed to get to Seaside now?
My eyes flicked back to the mini-mart windows. Connor wasn’t there.
“Is this your car?” the policeman asked, his eyes roving over the red leather interior.
“Uh-huh,” I said, feeling my heartbeat in my throat. I spoke in the same stupefied, cornered voice I’d had when Sheriff Murphy questioned me in my parents’ living room.
“This car’s been reported stolen,” the man said, his dark eyes boring into mine.
“It— it has?” I stammered.
Then an idea sparked in my head.
“I— I mean, it’s not mine,” I said. “It’s my dad’s car.”
“Your dad’s car?” the officer repeated.
“Yeah, he gets really mad when I take it without asking,” I invented. “He’s done this before, reported it stolen. He says it’ll ‘learn me a lesson’.” I made air quotes with my fingers as I said the last few words, trying to sound as lighthearted as possible. The officer gave me his dark blank stare for several seconds, then sighed.
“License and registration, please,” he said, sounding annoyed.
I couldn’t believe it. Could a little quick thinking get us out of this? Then I realized, as I reached into the back seat for my backpack to get my fake I.D., that my story would fall apart as soon as the officer picked up his phone and called Sheriff Murphy, who would immediately tell him who I actually was. At the same time, the Brotherhood would overhear and be on their way to Portland to kill us. Could we possibly get gas and leave before the officer made his call?
I was jolted out of my thoughts by the sound of a high-pitched scream. I jumped and looked wildly around at the parking lot, expecting to see a pack of masked figures pointing guns at me, but instead saw something bizarre and completely unexpected.
A man was running through the parking lot, completely naked except for his shoes, and shouting at the top of his lungs. He was older, maybe in his fifties, and had the disheveled, unwashed look of someone who was homeless. His shouts sounded like some sort of battle cry, and I thought of western movies I had seen when I was little. The policeman turned away from me, as shocked by the sight of the yelling naked man as I was.
“What the hell?” He put his hand on his gun holster and rushed over to where the man was now jumping around erratically in a kind of war dance, beating his fists in the air and kicking his legs out, his manhood bouncing every which way. He danced out of the officer’s reach, swinging his hips suggestively and looking like he was having the time of his life.
I stood there stunned, for a moment completely forgetting about the danger I was in, and then Connor came hurrying out of the mini-mart. He ran to the convertible, reached into the back sea
t, seized both of our bags, thrust mine into my hands and said: “Run!”
We turned and ran from the gas station, leaving behind the mint green convertible and the police officer wrestling with the naked man. I heard the officer shout something as we left but didn’t look back. We tore across the street, narrowly avoiding being hit a passing truck, and ran down the street perpendicular to the one where the giant party and police cars were.
Many of the local businesses were closed, their windows dark and shuttered, but there were still plenty of people out, many of them young and in sparkling party attire. I caught snatches of laughter and excited conversation as we darted past them. I felt like I was in a colorful dream, dashing through late-night Portland with Connor, literally running from the law, hearing the cars whiz past and the thumping of the bass from the party in the distance.
After putting a few blocks between us and the gas station, Connor slowed down and put an arm out in front of me to suggest I do the same.
“I think,” he panted, “we might attract less attention now if we walk.”
“Agreed,” I said, feeling my heart smacking against my chest.
We were silent as we caught our breaths, and then Connor spoke. “Well, that guy back there really went above and beyond,” he said, wiping his brow.
“What are you talking about?” I asked.
“The naked guy,” he said. “Really went beyond the call of duty.”
“Wait,” I said, looking at him in surprise. “Did you ask him to do that?”
“I paid him,” he said casually. “I offered him the hundred bucks if he would distract the cop from you. I only asked him to moon him. The rest was all him. What a champ, huh?”
I stopped walking and stood there and stared at him. He stopped too and looked at me curiously. A sound came out of me that was a mix between a laugh and a sob, then I reached out, pulled him toward me, and kissed him. He was surprised but responded with equal enthusiasm. Everything I couldn’t put into words, I put into this kiss. I wanted him to know what a miracle he was to me, how I admired him for being so brave and resourceful, and how, despite everything that was happening, I would live through it all a thousand times over again just to know him.
“I love you,” I whispered, our lips inches apart.
“And I love you,” he said, following it with a kiss, “to the moon—” another kiss, “and back.”
I laughed, and there was a moment of glorious peace as we held each other there on the sidewalk. Then a high-pitched siren tore through the night air.
The police car was a ball of flashing red and blue light in the distance. We bolted once more as the siren gave an ear-splitting wail so loud that it felt like it was right next to us. Fear exploded inside me. Where could we possibly go? How could we manage to escape both the police and the Brotherhood with no car and no witch?
We raced down the street, buildings blurring past on the right, cars blurring past on the left. It felt more like flying than running, except we weren’t soaring into the sky. We turned a corner and something struck my side. It was a table, a metal one that was bolted to the cement. It was part of a set of patio furniture in front of a café which was currently closed. It made a loud metallic thud as I slammed into it, and I stumbled but didn’t slow down and didn’t let go of Connor’s hand. It might have been very painful, but I felt only the desperate need to escape.
“Where do we go?!” I half-panted, half-shouted at Connor.
We reached a busy area of the sidewalk where there were people milling around in front of a cluster of bars and nightclubs, waiting to get inside or drinking on the patios. Many of them turned and stared as Connor and I barreled past, our faces sheened with sweat, our backpacks bouncing wildly around on our shoulders.
“Where’s the fire, fags?” shouted a man from one of the patios. His comment was followed by the drunken laughter of his companions, which was then drowned out by the approaching police siren.
“That way!” Connor shouted to me, not appearing to have heard the men. He brought us to a halt at a busy intersection and pointed to the right. I could see a section of the giant party a few blocks away, the red, orange, and yellow lanterns glowing over the swarms of people in the blocked-off street beyond. I could both hear and feel the relentless thumping of the bass.
“You want to go there?!” I panted, my voice cracking on the last word.
“We can lose them in the crowd!” he said. “They’ll catch us out here!”
I looked at the people and the lanterns visible between buildings. There were a few metal barricades at the edge of the crowd but no police officers in sight. Before I could say anything else or come up with a better idea, the police car came around the corner, its blaring siren causing the many bar and club goers to recoil in discomfort.
We hurtled down the street. I counted four blocks between us and the party. There was no time to wait for crossing signals. We stopped just long enough at the first one to make sure we could make it across the street without being killed, then sprinted to the next block.
The police siren screeched behind us, clashing with the throbbing bass that emanated from the party. Cars honked at us and at each other as they were forced to move aside for the police car. We ran past another traffic light showing a flashing red hand, forcing an SUV to slam on its breaks to avoid hitting us, and made it to the third block.
Suddenly, the siren stopped. There was a loud crackle of static, as if the police car were a giant radio on wheels, and then a man’s voice boomed out in the siren’s place:
“Surrender now. You’re only going to make things worse for yourselves.”
Another crackle of static, and the siren started up again in a loud shriek. I recognized the deep voice of the police officer from the gas station. People stopped and looked at him in his police car and then at me and Connor as we shot past them.
“Almost there!” Connor yelled.
There was one more block to go. I watched the partygoers and the glowing lanterns come closer, but my mind lingered on what the police officer had just said over his megaphone. It sounded a lot like what the Brotherhood had said in their pretty little death threat in the sealed envelope: Surrender quietly and your deaths will be quick and painless…
The cop pursuing us wasn’t one of the Brotherhood, or he’d have shot at us by now, but he’d definitely already called Sheriff Murphy, which meant that the actual Brotherhood— at least the ten who had been outside of Harriet’s house— were on their way to Portland, if they hadn’t already arrived. Wineville was just a half-hour away, after all.
There was the screeching sound of a car coming to a hard stop, and then the policeman’s deep voice thundered from behind us, nearly as loud as it had been through the megaphone.
“STOP!” he yelled angrily. I imagined him putting his hand on his gun holster and rushing after us— because I couldn’t see him. I dove, hand-in-hand with Connor, into the sea of people, into a colorful, chaotic world of bodies and pulsing music.
I held onto his hand like it was a lifeline in a turbulent ocean, terrified that we would be lost to each other in the tide if I let go. People pressed in on us from all sides, swaying as one to the music. I heard the policeman shouting indistinctly from the edge of the crowd. The horde of partygoers wasn’t opening up as easily for him as it had for us.
Connor led the way through the crowd and nobody seemed to mind as we shoved past them. I thought I understood why as I caught whiffs of alcohol and marijuana in the air. There was also the sharp smell of sweat and something else that I couldn’t put my finger on. I got a better look at the faces around me and realized what it was: paint. Many of the revelers were covered in boldly colored paint. It was smeared on their faces and hair, and splattered all over their bodies like they were human canvases.
I looked around, trying to figure out what the theme to this party was, and spotted a stage in the crowd about half a block away where the thumping bass was coming from a set of giant speakers.
Above the stage was a giant sign that read FLAME FEST ‘07 in bold red letters followed by a series of red and orange squiggles in the shape of a ball of fire. It looked like a concert that had given way to a party after the acts had finished performing, and the huge speakers had been left to provide the music.
Several blocks in the opposite direction were the flashing red and blue lights of the police cars near the gas station. We’d nearly circled back to where we started from. The mass of people extended a few blocks beyond the stage, where there were more red and blue lights at the edge of the crowd. The police were supervising the party at either end of the closed-off street.
“Now what?” I shouted to Connor.
He looked around and then guided us in the direction of the stage. My hair vibrated from the pounding music as we got closer to it. We emerged into a small area in front of the stage that wasn’t as packed as everywhere else. I guessed it was because even people who were very drunk and high couldn’t handle standing so close to these speakers for very long. There were, however, two young women standing at the foot of the stage who didn’t seem to mind.
They were in their late teens or early twenties and were easily the most colorful people in the crowd, drenched head to toe in paint and glitter, looking like they’d been in an accident in an arts and crafts store. They stood on either side of a long table which bore dozens of aerosol cans with brightly colored labels, and three large buckets of paint, each filled with a different color: one red, one blue, and one yellow. A paint-spattered sign taped to the front of the table read: FAN THE FLAMES OF ART! PAINT YOURSELF IN FLAMES!
“Perfect!” Connor yelled.
The young women smiled as we approached. I peered into the buckets of paint which shimmered like pools of oil under the light of the lanterns overhead. Connor picked up one of the many aerosol cans and glanced at the label.
“May I?” he mouthed to one of the young women.
She smiled and nodded enthusiastically, gesturing around at the table, indicating he was free to use whatever he wanted. I picked up one of the aerosol cans and saw that it was washable hair color. Connor shielded his eyes and sprayed some into his blond hair, which instantly turned bright pink. I was reminded of when Harriet changed our hair colors with her fiery cauldron.
