Lobo catches my eye and does.
“Sponsors!” Uncle Sal says. “How many times I got to say it, Arlo, you were born for sponsors. Way I figure, tonight you got free publicity, but not the kind of publicity you want. Now listen—listen! Everything you do in the spotlight forms your reputation. Tonight—and I’m just speaking plain, uncle to nephew—you soiled your reputation. I’m sorry to say, you will be remembered for this. More than for all the good deeds you have ever done. People here tonight will remember your moment in the spotlight. You are left with two choices: you can fight back or move to Antarctica.”
“Antarctica,” I say.
“Ho-whoa! Whoa-whoa-WHOA!” Uncle Sal says, noticing Lee. “Who is this?”
“She’s the new girl, Uncle,” Lobo says.
“Hands off, Salvatore!” Lupita shouts from her bleacher seat. “That’s my niece.”
Uncle Sal lifts his visor.
“Why, hello up there, Lupita! Hello, Siouxsie! Lupita, may I say that sublime loveliness blooms upon every twig of your family tree?”
“You may,” Lupita says. “But just this once.”
Uncle Sal digs a business card out of his wallet and plants it in Lee’s hand. “I am your Uncle Sal.”
Lee looks at the card. “I don’t have an uncle,” she says.
“Ah, don’t worry,” Lobo says. “He’s everybody’s uncle—I mean, he’s my real uncle, but he’s everybody else’s too.”
“My nephew is correct,” Uncle Sal says. “I am zio al mondo—uncle to the world.”
He raises his voice into the bleachers. “Lupita, how long’s it been since we went upstairs for a little crop-dustin’?”
Lupita’s talking with Siouxsie. Without looking at him, she pops a finger, slits her throat.
“Twenty years, I bet,” Uncle Sal booms. “Got a new plane now—a Cessna 182, the Hi-O Silver. More legroom to maneuver. Hey, how ’bout we fly over the Santa Fe Trail some Saturday and check out the wagon ruts, for old time’s sake?”
“Salvatore,” Lupita says, “you are a filthy man!”
She folds herself toward Siouxsie and blocks him out.
Uncle Sal tips his cap and grins.
“Dude,” Lobo says, “what’re ya doin’ on your 125?”
“Just showing it to her, man,” I say. “Might sell it.”
“Sell it!” Lobo gapes. “Nah, you can’t sell it. She’s your baby.”
His words ring true. I decide right then that my old Yam YZ 125 is not for sale. Not to Lee or anybody else. And never will be. When the time comes, I’ll give it away.
“Young lady,” Uncle Sal says to Lee, “let me tell you about Arlo here. He rides dirt like nobody else. Many times I’ve sat in a folding chair at the base of Little Piñon Mesa, with a glass of Chianti and a good Cupido cigar, and watched these boys ride. I’ve watched them grow up this way. You ask me, who are my favorite composers? Well, Mozart and Rossini come to mind. But my truly favorite composers are Yamaha and Kawasaki. I’ve never seen Arlo choke. Never seen him bite the dust or scatter his tools. Everybody else ends up in a ditch or in the emergency room sooner or later, with a sprained ankle or broken neck, but not Arlo. He just goes faster and higher. One day he will simply fly away.”
“Or break his neck,” Lee says.
Uncle Sal shrugs. “Destiny is destiny, and Arlo has more destiny than anybody I’ve ever known.”
“Hey, show her some lip,” Lobo says.
Rio Loco Stadium is shaped like a horseshoe. At the opening, just beyond the end zone, is a steep bluff that shoots up to the height of a five- or six-story building. The double mound of dirt at the top looks like a woman’s puckered mouth. These are “The Lips.” At night, the field lights glaze them.
Over the years, the Lips have been our Angelina Jolie, Jennifer Lopez, and even a few local girls. It’s actually two different jumps—the Lower Lip, bigger and sexier but a killer, which I’ve been meaning to try—and the Upper Lip, girl-next-door friendly, which I’ve flown off maybe thirty times, always against school orders and cop warnings. But it’s been more than a year since the last time, and that was in full daylight.
“Oh, yes!” Uncle Sal says. “We would all like to see some lip.”
A natural, hard-clay ramp runs up the bluff. The ground where I would land is inky black. It’s junky on top, as I recall, with broken bottles, tin cans, and brambles strewn all around.
Lobo reads my mind. “No worries, dude, I’ll clear it for you. Wait for my signal.”
Before I can say no, he rushes off and scrambles up the bank into the darkness. Pretty soon, we see him waving his arms. “Aighhht!” he shouts. “Good to go! Over and out.”
My mind doubts—but my spirit leaps. Before I can decide, I have decided. I shake a finger at Lee. “Don’t you ever try this.”
“I just might,” she says.
Uncle Sal winks at me. “Over the moon, Arlo.”
I loop onto the field. I’m not supposed to drive on the gridiron, but what the hell. Hardly anybody’s around to stop me—all the cops and refs have gone home. Plus, I need the long approach, if only to center myself.
I cruise to the fifty-yard line. Circle and plant myself dead center of Rio Loco Field. It’s the epicenter of the whole county. Many have gotten drunk on this spot. Lost their virginity. Found God.
I rev the throttle and stare at the Lips. I’m strongly tempted to try the killer Lower Lip—but it’s too dark on top. That would be crazy, even for me.
I feel the energy of my old Yam run up my arms, ding like a pinball in my brain, then race down my spine. Some bikes are born to go and some are born to sit in sheds. My old Yam is born to go.
Yea, though I fly through the valley of the shadow . . .
I ease off on the clutch. Shift. Grind. Shift. Grind. Fly past the goalpost and bounce onto hard pack. The ground shudders. I open the throttle. Blast across hard clay and swoop up the bank. Shoot like a yo-yo up a string. The ground is brittle, but I’m riding loose. My tires bite the clay.
When I hit the Upper Lip, I spring into the air. Take wing and sail across the last drops of milky light from Rio Loco Field.
I rise on my pedals and wing my arms, spread them all the way, wide and free. Smell sage and a hint of mesquite. Feel the breeze on my face. Feel the absurdity and stupidity of not knowing where I am in logical, left-brained relationship to the ground. Because I am flying blind.
Only I’m not blind.
I’m conscious of the danger, of the possibility of broken femurs and neck, but I’m not afraid. Just the opposite. I shed all my fears and worries. What happened on the field tonight is ancient history. Mom’s death is ancient history. Dad’s and Siouxsie’s problems—all gone. Every ache in every cell of my body stops hurting.
I am in the Zone.
Full Drone.
Happy.
Free.
I grab the handles. Slam to the ground, skid, catching my balance with my left foot, bump blindly over rocks and ruts and weeds. The shocks soak it all in. Every penny I’ve ever pumped into these shocks is paying me back a thousand bucks.
God bless good shocks.
I brake to a stop.
Pull off my helmet. Just sit there, in the darkness, my old Yam purring under me.
It’s so peaceful up here. The stars and constellations so much closer. Orion the Hunter. His faithful dog, Sirius. If only El Guapo were as faithful.
I want to stay here. Above the madness. Closer to heaven. Closer to Mom. Right now, I could as easily cry as laugh. Both are inside me, equidistant from my center of balance.
Here, it feels like everything in the universe is hitched together.
“Duuuuuuuude!” Lobo says, rushing up, a black shadow in the darkness.
We go down into the lights.
Chapter 14
LEE SWATS MY SHOULDER. “Well done, Arlo Knievel!”
“Didn’t I tell ya!” Uncle Sal says, brimming with tears. “That was beautiful, bucko! The way you sprea
d your arms—you looked like Christ on the cross. Listen! All of you, listen! Listen boldly! These are the times that rock our souls. Seeing you up there, Arlo, catching the big air, it came to me. We’re gonna bust it up, partner. You won’t have to go to Antarctica after all. What am I always telling you—what’s my motto?”
“Defecare due volte,” I say.
Uncle Sal grabs my shoulders. “Defecare due volte!” he says.
Lobo turns to Lee. “That’s Italian for ‘shit twice.’ It means don’t hold back. Get it all out of you. Go for broke.”
“Nice to know,” Lee says.
Uncle Sal’s eyes look ready to pop. “Already I can think of two sponsors,” he says. “Hurtado Toyota and Wingo Lumber. And that’s just local. Now everybody listen! Lobo, you and Lee pay special close attention, because I see you as indispensably connected with this initiative. We are going to do this again, next Friday, at halftime. With one major difference.” Uncle Sal points to the pouty Lower Lip. “Arlo, this time, you’re going to jump that one.”
“The killer?” I say.
He pats my shoulder. “You’ve jumped plenty of killers. It’s about time you got some recognition. Lobo, who we playin’ next Friday?”
“Clayton, away.”
“Away—dammit! How about the week after?”
Lobo scratches his neck, thinking. “Raton, at home.”
“The Tigers! Hold on, isn’t that the homecoming game?”
“Sure is,” Lobo says.
Uncle Sal smashes a fist into his palm. “Another packed house. Only this time, everybody—everybody!—will see you, Arlo. They will see the names of our sponsors—Hurtado! Wingo!” Uncle Sal sweeps his hand. “And they will see you flying in defiance of all things gravitational. Because, yes, everything will be floodlit. We’ll put one light at the bottom of the bluff, right there. We’ll put one at the top, and a third—yes, a third!—over there on the shoulder. This will make it possible to triangulate.”
“Wait!” I say. “This is ridiculous. Why would I even do it?”
“Why!” Uncle Sal squints at me. “Arlo, how long have I known you?”
I shrug. “All my life.”
“That’s right. I smoked a Montecristo Number Two in your honor the day you were born. Fifty bucks a stick. Burned like a dream. Now, listen, all of you! We are remembered for our highest and lowest deeds. Neil Armstrong for walking on the moon, Brutus for killing Caesar. Unfortunately, Arlo, shit rolls downhill. If you don’t do something to stop it you’ll be remembered forever as ‘Scooper’ Santiago, this town’s most famous spring-activated shit pan. Is that what you want? Is that your destiny?”
I shrug. “Hey, I don’t know my destiny.”
“Well, I do,” Uncle Sal says. “And it ain’t ‘Scooper.’”
“What are Lee and me supposed to do, Uncle?” Lobo asks.
“You two will be my principal distributors at the grassroots level,” Uncle Sal says. “I’ll work with the business community. Arlo, please tell me you still have your Yamaha 250—that you haven’t sold it or done something stupid with it.”
“Yeah, I still have it.”
“Good. Because this has to be bolder. What do you call that bigger jump?”
“The Lower Lip,” I say.
“Ah, yes, the Lower Lip. Smooch it, baby!” Uncle Sal looks around. “Where the hell is Cam? We’ll need him to amp and trick your 250. It’s gotta fly. Now, listen-listen! Destiny has just let us peek at her hand. We have to do this, Arlo, before the memory of your scooping hardens like a petrified turd in the public mind.”
“Will he get paid?” Lee asks.
Uncle Sal frowns. “No need to push Arlo’s civil rights, Lee. We already march to that drum.”
“I just want to be clear about this,” Lee says. “Because it sounds like Arlo’s going to risk his neck out there. If somebody’s going to profit, it should be him.”
“Lee, this isn’t about money,” Uncle Sal says.
“So what’s it about?” Lee asks.
Uncle Sal lowers his voice to a rasp. “It’s about reputation. And reputation, as the preacher sayeth, is a precious ointment.” He throttles up. “Now, listen, all of you. Meet me at Two Hole on Monday after school. We’ll discuss this on a granular level. One more thing, Arlo: you will need to change your name.”
“What!” I shake my head. “No way.”
“It’s all about marquee impact,” Uncle Sal says. “If we are going to succeed—breakout succeed, which is the only kind of success that interests me—then we will need all the help we can get.”
Uncle Sal turns to Lee. “Arlo’s mom and dad were a little behind the times. They named their kids after a folk singer and a gothic rocker girl. ‘Arlo Santiago’ is okay if you want to sell tractors. But it’s not marquee worthy.”
“I like the name Arlo Santiago,” Lee says. “It’s honest.”
“So is an old potato,” Uncle Sal says. “We need a name you can write sideways on a scorecard. A good marquee name is just that much more velvet.”
Uncle Sal pivots and rushes off. Mumbling ecstatically.
“Fully batshit crazy,” Lobo says. “But some of his ideas . . . Dude, tell her about Jeopardy.”
We watch Lobo shamble after Uncle Sal.
Lee arches an eyebrow. “Please tell me about Jeopardy, Arlo Santiago.”
“I can tell you this,” I say. “Jeopardy—the town—is named after Jeopardy!—the TV game show. You know, Alex Trebek and all. It used to be Sulphur Springs, New Mexico. Then a few years ago Uncle Sal hammered out this deal and got the game show people to pay the town to change its name to Jeopardy.”
Lee looks puzzled. “Why would a town want to name itself after a game show?”
“Three million bucks, that’s why. The town’s used that money to fix a lot of potholes and build a public swimming pool.”
“What does the show get out of it?”
“Publicity,” I say. “Now the name Jeopardy is splattered over every freeway sign for a hundred miles. Everybody says Jeopardy all day long. They’re cruising down the interstate—‘Hey, let’s make a pit stop in Jeopardy.’”
Lee says, “It’s gonna take me a while to get used to the Land of Enchantment.”
“Yeah,” I say. “The laws of common sense don’t apply here. Depending on who you talk to, Uncle Sal got somewhere between two and twenty percent. There’s also a Truth or Consequences, New Mexico. And he’s working on a Wheel of Fortune down in Doña Ana County.”
Lee turns and studies my YZ 125. I can tell she’s hungry to ride it.
“You sure you’ve done this before?” I ask.
“I’m sure.”
“So you know rule number one?”
Lee pulls off her ski hat and shakes loose her hair, all that bouncy-slow-motion hair you see from a mile away. It’s the real reason men throughout history have searched for gold.
But what I see, in a fractional shadow, is the burden of that gold. A wishing she didn’t glitter so much. Maybe I’m just imagining things. I hope not.
“Rule number one, wear a helmet,” she says, sliding my helmet onto her head. “Any more rules?”
“Yeah, don’t do what I do,” I say.
She snaps the chin strap. “I just might.”
She throws a leg over the bike. Kicks it. Grinds some pepper. Frowns.
“I’m used to more horsepower,” she says.
“Horsepower’s overrated,” I say. “Ever see a horse fly?”
Lee shoves off. Traces a figure eight. Cuts away and rides easy. Born for the saddle, or so it looks. I attribute this more to my YZ 125 than to her, because it’s such a great machine. Perfectly broken in. Just not strong enough for the highest flying. That’s where my 250 comes in.
Lee rolls off the field onto the weed-studded hard pack at the base of the Lips. I go over and lean on the goalpost. It’s rare for me to stand on two feet and watch somebody else ride. I feel a twinge because Lee looks so good on the bike. Yet by na
tural ascension and legacy, my YZ 125 belongs to Siouxsie. I always meant to give it to her. I never told her so, and she never asked, but she knows. At least, she knew. I wonder what she thinks now.
Lee cruises back and forth along a stretch of about sixty yards of scrabble. She leans over, checking the texture of the ground for anything that might throw her. When she reaches the end of the stretch a second time, she finds her mark, grinds all the way, and blasts off, lofting into a long, sweet wheelie.
I figure she’s cleaning out all the small-town crap she’s had to put up with since moving to Clay Allison.
Of course, you can do this lots of ways: meditate, sit in a sauna, go to church, hug a tree, take a laxative. But a dirt rider is the best way. Speed, open ground, and a sweet run-up with nothing but horizon on the far side, that’s God for me.
I watch Lee blast wheelie after wheelie.
Just when I’m thinking she’s worthy of some respect, though not much, she hits a rut and bounces off the bike. My old Yam, which has never ditched, pranged, or wiped out, now runs riderless. It goes and goes. Then for the first time, my sweet YZ trembles, wobbles, and slams to the ground, skidding to a stop on its side.
I rush over, but Lee’s already up, dusting off her ass. “I didn’t see that ditch. I’m soooo sorry. I hope I didn’t mess up your bike.”
“You did,” I say.
I go over and toe-stop the spinning wheel. Hoist my YZ from its dusty bed. Squat and eyeball the alignment. Doesn’t look damaged. But the engine’s caked. God knows, the carburetor’s probably totally gunked. I clean what I can with spit, sleeve, and cuss. Then I mount up and kick it. She coughs a little, but when I rev, she hums like always. God, I love this bike.
Lee’s limping over to pick up the pink Puma she lost in the fall. I blast ahead, cowboy down, and snatch it before she gets there. Then I ride back, bending to drag the shoe along the ground—blotting out that Seattle pink.
I brake and fling the Puma at Lee.
“Welcome to Orphan County.”
Chapter 15
“GET UP, ARLO! LONG ROAD today.”
Dad’s shaking my foot. I open my eyes in darkness. Hear him go down the hall to Siouxsie’s room and rap twice. “White Sands, little girl.”
Dirt Bikes, Drones, and Other Ways to Fly Page 8
