by Greg Trine
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“What is it?” I asked. I was in Vern’s garage, and I wasn’t sure what I was looking at.
But Vern certainly was excited. “What do you mean, what is it? See the steering wheel? See the tires?”
I saw two wheels. And the glass was too dirty for me to see inside.
“Come on, Vern. I need a hint.”
He gave me a look. “Don’t you know a babe mobile when you see one? Or are you in love with the idea of riding your bike for the rest of your life?”
He had a point. I took a second look at the vehicle in front of me. Only two wheels—okay, that was fixable. Missing a couple of fenders—again, fixable. I circled the car, looking it over. It was a Volkswagen Bug from the early sixties. A very faint blue. Vern had turned sixteen on October 7 and got his license the same day. Now he had a car. A major clunker, but still.
“Does it have an engine?” I went around to the front and grabbed the hood.
“Engine’s in the back,” Vern said.
I knew that. I was just testing him. I kept circling, running my hand over the numerous dents. It was a car. It was definitely a car, and I was beginning to see the possibilities. The girl possibilities. The makeout possibilities.
I stopped and looked up at Vern. “Does it run?”
“Not yet. Needs a new battery, fuel pump, spark plugs, and of course gas.” According to Vern, it hadn’t run for at least ten years; it just sat there under a tarp.
We went around the back and took a look at the engine. “Rats!” Vern yelled. The engine compartment was filled with scraps of paper, twigs, and rat poop.
But there was an engine inside. Even though it had been lived in by rodents, I saw the potential. I was actually kind of envious. Vern had his own car. A nonrunning, rat-infested one—still, it was more than I had.
“Tell you what,” I told him. “You clean out the rat leftovers. I’ll help you with everything else.”
I was really getting tired of riding my bike everywhere. If we could get this thing running, I was all for it.
“Deal,” he said. He put on gardening gloves and got busy with the dirty work.
Meanwhile, I grabbed a rubber mallet and began pounding out some of the more obvious dents. Was I making more dents than I was fixing? Probably. But I loved swinging that mallet. It felt creative and destructive at the same time.
Three weeks later, we were driving down Thompson, the main drag of Highmont. The car was still missing two fenders, had a cracked windshield, and was way too loud, but it sure beat traveling by bike.
Vern had to pump the brakes to bring the car to a stop. We also found that there were no seat belts.
“I dub thee the Death Trap,” I said.
Vern agreed that this was the perfect name. We called it the Trap for short.
“What is it?” This time it was Tuck circling the car and scratching his head.
Vern rolled his eyes. I don’t think he appreciated that Tuck and I had a similar sense of humor.
It was the day before Thanksgiving, and since I had my one and only wrestling match coming up, I wouldn’t be partaking in most of the eating. I’d have a stalk of celery and call it a day. I still had to shed a few pounds to make weight.
Tuck kept circling the Volkswagen. “Wait, wait. It’s coming to me. It’s a car, right?” He laughed, pulled out the Skoal tin from his back pocket, and offered Vern a mint. I took one too. “I’m only kidding, Vern. It’s great. How does it feel to have a car?”
“Pretty fantastic,” he said, and Tuck and I shot him envious looks.
Just like me, Tuck saw the possibilities. He began opening the doors, checking the trunk and engine department. “We need to break this car in properly.”
“Cruise night?” I suggested.
Tuck shook his head. “Something bigger than cruise night. We need a road trip.”
Tuck was right. We needed more than cruising down Thompson on a Friday night. We had to go somewhere far away. Spend a night or two. It was Vern’s first car, and we needed to celebrate it. “What do you say, Vern?” Tuck asked.
“Sounds like a plan. Where do you have in mind?”
“Templin Highway. We can be there in two hours. You guys got sleeping bags?”
Vern and I nodded.
“And I’ll bring the Coleman stove,” I said.
“I’ll bring the tent,” Tuck said. “Vern, you want to bring the food?”
“I’m the guy with the vehicle.”
“Good point. Okay, Elroy and I will get the food. Fire up.” Tuck held out his fist, and Vern and I smacked it.
The plan was to leave the morning after our various Thanksgiving celebrations. As I said, mine would be fairly minimal—a stalk of celery; maybe I’d allow myself a salad with oil-and-vinegar dressing. Of course, part of the fun of camping is all the great food you get to eat while trying to survive in the outdoors. I never should have joined the wrestling team.
My grandparents from my mom’s side lived above the junior college. Yes, in you-know-who’s neighborhood. I willed myself not to think that Marisa was only a few blocks away, but it didn’t work. When we passed her street, I couldn’t help looking, trying to get a glimpse, and my stomachache came back just to let me know it had been there all along, waiting for this opportunity.
My grandfather wasn’t wealthy or anything, just a guy who bought a house on the hill ages ago, when it was still affordable for the average person. That wasn’t the case anymore.
We arrived at the house around two o’clock and stayed until six. I stuck with the noneating plan. Maybe, if I ate nothing for Thanksgiving dinner, I could allow myself something during the Celebrate Vern’s New (Old) Car Camping Extravaganza. That was my plan, anyway.
My grandpa thought I was on drugs. “A young man like you, not eating?” He made me stand on one foot and count to thirty. Then he had me close my eyes, hold my arms out to the sides, and touch my nose.
“Want me to walk a straight line?” I asked after passing both tests. “You watch too many cop shows, Grandpa.”
“I miss Magnum, P.I. Private eyes these days are wimps. A man needs facial hair.”
Mom came to my rescue. “Dad, Elroy isn’t eating because he’s on the wrestling team and has to make weight on Tuesday.”
“Grow some facial hair, Elroy,” Grandpa grumbled. “It will intimidate your opponents.”
“I’ll give it some thought.” Actually, facial hair is against the rules in high-school wrestling, but I didn’t tell him that.
I could hear the Death Trap from a mile away as it struggled up Casitas Pass. Mom came running from her bedroom.
“What’s that noise?” She peered out the window at the dark clouds moving in. Looked like a storm. But this was not the rumble she was hearing.
“The Death Trap,” I told her. “Vern’s car.”
“His car is called the Death Trap?” She had on her worried look, which was almost as bad as her scan-the-back-of-my-skull look. “Am I supposed to feel good about this?”
“It’s just a name, Mom,” I said, opening the door as Vern and Tuck pulled up. I grabbed my gear and went outside to meet them.
Mom followed me. She walked up to the car and gave it a long look, then glanced at Vern. “I’m trying to be open-minded, Vern. I really am.”
Vern looked at me and rolled his eyes. I think he was getting tired of people making cracks about his car, or hinting that it wasn’t road-worthy.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Vern told her.
“Yeah, but it looks really bad,” Mom said. “I mean, really.”
The back seat of the car was piled with camping gear. A few fishing rods dangled out the passenger-side window. I barely found room to squeeze in.
Mom still looked worried. “Death Trap is just a name,” I yelled over the sound of the engine. “We’ll be back on Sunday.” Then I whispered to Vern, “Let’s go before she changes her mind.”
Vern nodded and put the car in gear
, and we took off down Casitas Pass.
“Where are we going again?” I asked.
“Templin Highway. Fire up.”
I was fired up. I wanted to get away, shake out a few cobwebs.
Tuck said, “How about some music?”
“I’m working on getting a good stereo. For now, all we have is an AM radio, which only picks up the more powerful stations from L.A.”
“You mean—”
“Yes, not much to listen to unless you’re a big Rush Limbaugh fan.”
“What’s a road trip with no music?” I started in on “99 Bottles of Beer,” and Tuck and Vern joined in, but we only made it to ninety-two before stopping. Too much math involved; it seemed like homework. We headed away from the coast on the 126, passing through Santa Paula and Fillmore. Then we turned north on the I-5, and it began to rain.
“Shit!”
“What’s wrong?”
Vern rolled down his window and stuck his head out as the storm kicked into high gear. “Windshield wipers aren’t working. Tuck, roll down your window. Tell me if I’m going to hit anything on that side.”
For some reason, none of us thought of turning back. We pressed on toward Templin Highway, Vern and Tuck with their heads out the window, then turned off the interstate after about an hour and followed a tiny road that wound its way through the Los Padres National Forest. This was no forest at all. Mostly yucca and mustard plants, with a few oaks and willows along the creek.
“This is it,” Tuck said. “Turn here.”
It was a tiny dirt (now mud) road that led down to the creek. Vern turned onto it and followed it to the water’s edge.
“We better get the tent up.”
We got out of the car, and the rain came at us sideways, which made it almost impossible to get the tent up. What made it completely impossible was that we had no tent poles. We had a tent, but we had no way to set it up. And while we stood there thinking about it, the storm grew worse. Tuck held on to his cowboy hat so it wouldn’t blow away. “Sorry, guys,” he yelled over the sound of the wind and rain.
“Now what?” I yelled back.
Tuck looked at Vern, who looked at his car parked in the mud. “Let’s get out of the rain.”
And that’s how a 1961 Volkswagen Beetle became our motor home for the weekend. It rained all night. We couldn’t cook with propane in such confined quarters. Instead, we ended up eating cold chili out of the can, which later came back to haunt us, if you know what I mean.
“Roll down a window, Vern,” I said. “I can’t breathe.”
“It’s raining.”
“I’d rather get wet than suffocate.”
I think that was the consensus—we needed air. We could deal with the water, but not the lack of oxygen. Vern and Tuck rolled down the windows.
“Anyone who farts more than their share sleeps outside,” Tuck said. “I mean it.”
Was he serious? A gas quota? I’d never heard of such a thing. I squeezed my cheeks together until I realized that I was the only one holding back. Tuck kept asking me and Vern to pull his finger. I wouldn’t do it—I absolutely refused.
What a way to celebrate Vern’s new set of wheels. We sat up all night in our sleeping bags, sleepless, wet, and farting.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Okay, so I starved myself on Thanksgiving and ate a fair amount of chili at Templin Highway and the Night of Gas. I wasn’t sure if you could lose weight by farting, but somehow I felt lighter. On Monday, I headed to the wrestling room before school to weigh myself. I was three pounds over weight. No problem. I could lose that during practice.
After school, I went to the locker room to change. Football season was over, but I noticed several members of the Second Base Club lingering. They were like kids without a clubhouse. They needed a place to meet, and the locker room seemed the logical location, since the one thing they had in common (besides their point system) was that they were all jocks.
One guy had his locker open, and the others were gathered around him. I laced up my wrestling shoes—slowly, on purpose. I had my reasons. First, I wanted to delay the ass-whupping I’d receive in the wrestling room, but mostly I wanted the latest news from the Second Base Club. These guys were obviously doing something right. Maybe I could pick up a few pointers.
The guy with the open locker said, “Sampson’s in double digits, gentlemen.”
A few club members hooted and slapped high-fives. Some others cursed.
“Who’s in second?”
“Jerry’s in second with nine.”
That would be Jerry the tight end on the football team. He was there, looking over the shoulder of the guy reading the list.
“Evan and Sam are tied for third. It’s early. It’s still anyone’s game.” He closed his locker and looked down the aisle toward me. Our eyes locked.
“You want something, homo?” he said.
I knew a rhetorical question when I heard one. I grabbed my other shoe out of my locker and headed for the wrestling room. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Sampson Teague. Double digits? Did that mean he’d hit a couple of home runs? Or had he just gotten to first base ten times? And how many of those points were scored with my former almost-girlfriend?
When I got to the wrestling room, Coach Grogan was there writing on the blackboard. In one column he’d listed the thirteen weight classes, from ninety-eight pounds to heavyweight. Beside this were the names of the wrestlers and what division they’d be competing in—JV or varsity.
Coach looked at me. “Elroy,” he said in a voice that seemed way too cheerful for my no-neck wrestling coach, “do I have news for you.”
A few things raced through my mind. I’m kicked off the team? We need a water boy, and would I mind not wrestling—ever?
“Guess who’s wrestling varsity tomorrow?”
I glanced at the 123-pound spot on the board, where only one name was listed. Mine.
“What?!”
“Mike is dropping down to 115 for the season. The others are out with injuries or illnesses. Which leaves you in the varsity spot at 123.”
“What?” I said again.
I’d seen what a varsity wrestler could do to a guy like me. I’d endured three lifetimes’ worth of involuntary cartwheels.
“Coach, you’ve seen me wrestle. I can’t even beat the JV guys.”
He continued writing on the board. “If we forfeit, we give the other team six points. If you get pinned, they get six points. The way I see it, all you have to do is avoid getting pinned and you’ll be helping the team. Stay off your back, Elroy. That’s all I’m asking.”
Thanks for the vote of confidence. My plan to end the season with a perfect 1–0 record seemed impossible. Butterflies churned inside me. The match was still a day away, but my knees were already knocking.
“All right, warm up,” Coach yelled. “Elroy, work with Mike.” Then, under his breath, “You’re going to need it.”
I prayed for an injury. I didn’t resist as Mike tossed me on my head half a dozen times. But by the end of practice, I was still intact. Three pounds lighter, but still intact.
On Tuesday, during lunch, we hauled the mat to the gym and set up some chairs for the teams to sit on. Vern was there with a pad of yellow paper. He pulled a pencil from behind his ear. “So, Elroy, how does it feel to be wrestling varsity? Are you nervous? Scared?”
Me, nervous? Just because some Neanderthal was going to pull my arms from their sockets? Just because there was going to be an audience witnessing the event? I wasn’t nervous at all. I was terrified!
But I tried not to show it. “Why do you want to know?” I asked
“I told you, I joined the Highmont Herald.”
“Have you written anything yet?”
“No, but I think I’ve found my calling.”
“Any cute girls on the newspaper staff?”
“Tons.” He tapped his pencil on the yellow pad. “Now, back to my question. Your thoughts on your match tonight.”
> I wasn’t about to tell him what I really thought. That taking an ass-whupping by your own teammate was one thing, but a real match was different. Mostly because it would be a public event. People would come to watch this thing. Perfect strangers would see some guy twist me into a pretzel.
“Just come to the match and write about what happens,” I told him. But I think my face said it all—I was nervous; I was scared. The butterflies in my stomach morphed into something bat-sized.
“I’ll be there,” Vern said. “Just poking around for more material to flesh out the story.”
First of all, I wasn’t the story. The whole team was the story. And second, if I was going to take a public ass-kicking, I wasn’t sure I wanted someone chronicling the event.
For the rest of the school day, I imagined my opponent. I even doodled what he might look like and gave him a title—Igor the One-Eye. I pictured some kid with big muscles who drooled a lot and whose hands hung below his knees. I was pretty sure that was who they’d match me up with, a drooling Igor the One-Eye.
I couldn’t focus in class. My short life kept flashing before my eyes. I was going to die, all in the name of school athletics, and Vern was going to make a record of it. Well, at least my parents would have something to remember me by.
After school, the other team showed up in a beat-up bus that had to be fifty years old.
They were from Saint Aquinas, the local Catholic school, which was not known for much—except wrestling. They got off the bus, and I looked for my one-eyed opponent. Everyone had two eyes. I scanned for drool. Not a spot of dribble anywhere. But one of them had extra-long arms. Later, in the locker room, when they called out the 123-pound weight class for weigh-ins, this was the guy who stepped up.
So I wasn’t going up against a Cyclops or a drooler. But those arms looked scary. I imagined them doing painful things to me, bending me in ways no human should be bent.
I went to my locker and got into my green singlet and tights. I didn’t care that I looked like a leprechaun. This was my one and only match. Tomorrow, my season would be over. I could move on.
Coach pulled me aside before the match. “Remember what I said, Elroy. Stay off your back and you’ll be helping the team.”
