Dirt Bikes, Drones, and Other Ways to Fly

by Conrad Wesselhoeft

  HURTADO TOYOTA

  PROUD SPONSOR OF MOTORCYCLE

  DAREDEVIL JETT SPENCE.

  “Tell me—Jett,” Dad says. “What’s the average lifespan of a motorcycle daredevil?”

  “Don’t ask me.”

  “Well then, answer me this: What happens when the daredevil breaks his neck—and his father has no medical insurance? Who pays the bills for that daredevil, now a quadriplegic?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Arlo, you’re putting the whole family at risk. Just so you can grandstand and prance about on your motorcycle.”

  “It’s just another jump,” I say. “I do it all the time.”

  “Not like this, you don’t,” Dad says. He points to the bluff. “What do you call that cancer growth up there, where you plan to do the deed?”

  “The Lips,” I say.

  Dad scoffs. “Arlo, I know this much about motorcycles: Mother Earth can come at you hard and fast. So tell me the gut truth: why are you doing this? I hope it’s not because of this Scooper nonsense.”

  “That’s part of it,” I say.

  Dad rolls his eyes. “The last thing I need is more ashes to scatter. So the rest better be good.”

  The marching band swings by again, this time rubbing more Brasso into “Mighty Trucks of Midnight.” It pivots and angles away.

  I shrug. “You know that monument you want to build to Mom up on Burro Mesa?”

  “Yes, what about it?”

  “Maybe this is my monument.”

  Dad grits his teeth, thrusts a finger in my face. “Just don’t make a mess of it, Arlo. Do not make a mess of it.”

  “Hey, don’t worry,” I say.

  DAD SETS UP THE GRILLS. I roll down my Yam 250. Tuck the box containing the Flying Squirrel in the back of the Snack Shack. Drape Dad’s duster over it.

  Dad measures the Folgers and Swiss Miss. I fill the grills with hot dogs—twenty-four per grill. Hit the buttons, and the rollers start to roll.

  “Best move the truck now,” Dad says, tossing me the keys.

  I drive the pickup over to the parking lot, park, and walk back through the pedestrian tunnel. Two weeks ago, I chased a dog through this tunnel, on my way to fame and glory. Now it’s just me and my boots. Guaranteed applause: clap . . . clap . . . clap . . . clap.

  Every step gets darker.

  I’m about to do what I never do—perform in front of a crowd. Just the thought makes my guts yo-yo.

  I think about what Dad said about grandstanding and prancing.

  All the ego stuff.

  Maybe he’s right. Maybe that’s the real reason I’m doing this.

  Don’t go there!

  What if I mess up and make a bigger fool of myself?

  Focus!

  What if it rains?

  Focus!

  What if I break my neck?

  FOCUS!

  Whenever I hit the bumps on Little Piñon, nobody’s watching but Cam and Lobo—and maybe Uncle Sal down below, sitting in a camp chair with his Cupido and Chianti.

  But tonight, half of Orphan County will be watching.

  All the Neanderthals and nobodies.

  But also people I’ve known all my life who treat me like a human.

  Do I care what they think?

  Damn right, I care.

  Don’t think about them.

  Lee Fields?

  Definitely do NOT think about her.

  FOCUS!

  Focus is everything.

  About halfway into the tunnel, I notice a moth latched to a glass light bulb cover. I stop and peer at the insect. A thousand people could walk by and never see this moth. It looks like every splotch on the wall.

  But I see it.

  I envy it.

  The thing about jumping a bike—or, for that matter, flying an MQ-1 Predator drone—is, it’s all about performing, nothing else.

  If you try to grandstand, you’re dead.

  The moment you start thinking me, stop everything. Crank a one-eighty and blast out of there. Go to that place inside you where you can’t tell the difference between jumping a Yam 250 and flying a Predator drone.

  Because they are the same machine.

  Don’t let me tempt you.

  Squash the ego.

  Go with your gut.

  Like Cam said—shut ’em out, slam the door, shred the sky.

  Pretty much, that’s all there is to it.

  I’ve known it all along.

  But I almost forgot.

  Up close, the moth is a work of art, its wings a canvas of dusky patterns and muted colors. I reach out and nudge it. The moth seems dead. Then it flutters away.

  Joy tingles in my fingers.

  I can’t wait to get on my bike.

  FOR THE NEXT HOUR, PEOPLE pack into the bleachers. The line outside the Snack Shack snakes all the way to the instant replay booth. I shift into ME—Maximum Efficiency. Do my hotdog dance:

  Tong it,

  bun it,

  drop it in a trough.

  Ring it.

  Ching it!

  “Mustard on your left.”

  Lots of people call me Scooper—grandparents, parents, and even little kids.

  That ain’t gonna last.

  AT KICKOFF, EVERYBODY’S PRIMED ON beer, sodium nitrates, glucose, cleavage, and patriotism. The average IQ drops fifty points.

  Tonight it’s Clay Allison (the Outlaws, 9-0-1) vs. Raton (the Tigers, 4-5-1). The rivalry between Clay and Raton ceased to exist about the time Bill Clinton was president. But it feels like the Super Bowl.

  The cheerleaders shake their star-spangled asses. The stadium swells with testosterone. The crowd roars at two-yard gains.

  A couple of minutes into the first quarter, the Outlaws trigger a long bomb and snap to a 7 to 0 lead. A few plays later, we intercept and lead 14 to 0. The stadium sighs, and business picks up again at the Snack Shack.

  Early in the second quarter, Lobo drops by. He leans over the counter and snatches the tongs out of my hand.

  “Damn, dude! What’re you still doin’ here?”

  He ducks under the counter and shoos me away. “Go suit up! Get on that bike! Stay vertical. Go ugly. Full nutsack balls to the wall. C’mon, go!”

  Dad won’t even look at me.

  I grab the box and Dad’s duster and go out behind the Snack Shack. Cam’s there, sitting on my Yam 250, hair unbraided and loose, looking like Chief Sitting Bull. He lets go of the grips and his arms float up, palms to the sky.

  “Feel that?” he says.

  I hold out my hand and catch some drizzle.

  “Your ol’ man was right,” Cam says.

  “Yeah maybe,” I say. “But hey, we gotta change something up.”

  “Change?” Cam says. “Isn’t it too late for that?”

  “Nah, here’s what—”

  Before I can tell him, Uncle Sal walks over, looking all hefty in his fur-collared overcoat and tiny Frank Sinatra hat.

  “Jett! Where’s your Elvis jumpsuit?”

  I pat the box.

  “Good,” he says. “Now, listen. See those two trucks out there?” He points to a shadowy area about a hundred yards from the end zone. “That little pickup is our film crew—we’ll be chronicling this for posterity and promotional purposes. The bigger truck, that’s Henry Gomez. He’s our power grid tonight. He’s positioned spotlights there . . . and there.” Uncle Sal points to the base of the bluff and to a notch near the top. “Our tracking spotlight is right there.”

  He points to a saucer-shaped light mounted on top of the cable truck. “Arlo, listen carefully. Those two stationary lights intersect at the Lower Lip. The tracking spot will find you on the field and follow you up the hill. When you lift off, the tracker will stick with you and cradle you as you go high. Got it?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “But we need to change something.”

  Uncle Sal gives me look. “Change is not a word I welcome right now,” he says. “What’s the problem?”

&
nbsp; “Henry Gomez,” I say. “Maybe he knows how to shine a light, but he doesn’t know me.”

  “Sure he does,” Uncle Sal says. “He’s known you all your life.”

  “But he doesn’t know me. So I think Cam should take over. He should run the tracking spot.”

  “Me!” Cam looks shocked. “I’m no light man.”

  “Maybe not,” I say. “But you know how I ride.”

  “You ride like a freak from hell,” Cam says.

  “Exactly,” I say.

  “Good point,” Uncle Sal says. “Cam, as of now, you’re our tracker. When I say the words you fire that light at Arlo. Hold on to him. Never lose him.”

  “What’re the words?” Cam asks.

  “Land of bright mañana,” Uncle Sal says. “When you hear me say that phrase, blast Arlo with everything you’ve got. Wherever he goes, track him. Down the field, across the turf, up the slope. When he sticks the jump, stick with him. Shower him with light. Do not lose him, even for one second. Repeat after me: I will not lose him.”

  “I . . . will . . . not . . . lose . . . him,” Cam says, zombielike.

  Uncle Sal turns to me. “Arlo, when you’re up there in the air, spread your arms like this, like Jesus—because . . . because . . . Why, hello, Lee.”

  Lee walks up. Just the sight of her makes me feel better.

  Uncle Sal says, “I was telling Jett here to spread his arms like Jesus.”

  “Like when he was crucified?” Lee asks.

  “No, like the Sermon on the Mount,” Uncle Sal says. “‘And seeing the multitudes, he went up on a mountain.’ People love an iconic pose. It’s how the mind remembers.”

  “It’s raining,” Lee says.

  We look up into the field lights. A silver vapor clouds over them.

  “Lee, you’re still new here, so let me educate you,” Uncle Sal says. “This is not rain. It’s Orphan County mist. You know how you can tell? The ground is so dry it scares the drops away.”

  “I’m pretty sure I know what rain is,” Lee says.

  Uncle Sal leans close to her. “Did you hear the one about the girl in the boys’ locker room?”

  Lee shakes her head.

  “Everybody wanted her to go,” Uncle Sal says. “Everybody wanted her to stay.”

  Lobo busts out laughing. He’s the only one.

  “Well, I want her to stay,” I say. “And she’s right, it is raining. In fact, it’s getting tarrier every second we stand here. So either let’s do this or go home.”

  “Let’s do it!” Uncle Sal says, with a handclap. “Lee, you help Jett get his Elvis on. Cam, you join Henry Gomez. Remember, when I say ‘Land of bright mañana,’ fire up that light—and hold on to Arlo for dear life. Me, I’m going to cut my speech in half.” He reaches into his coat, pulls out two pages of text, and tears one up. “C’mon, kids, let’s get this thing off the ground.”

  Uncle Sal grabs my shoulders. Looks like he’s going to kiss me. And then he does. Godfather-style, on both cheeks.

  “Arlo-Arlo-Arlo. You are a diamond—uncut—but a diamond. I’ve always seen it. I’ve always known it. It’s been an honor to watch you grow up. But something makes me ache.”

  “What would that be?” I say.

  His eyes brim. “The fact that you are oblivious.”

  “Oblivious?”

  Uncle Sal nods. “Beautifully oblivious. You simply don’t know how good you are. Destiny is a huntress, and she’s hunted you down.”

  He pats my cheek.

  “Defecare due volte, my friend. Wipe Scooper off the map. Be Jett Spence.”

  Chapter 33

  NOW IT’S JUST LEE AND me behind the Snack Shack. No-body can see us. Well, almost nobody. A slice of the bleachers—from about the Clay twenty to the end zone—can see us, if they look.

  Mostly, though, they’re watching the marching band. Sixty plume-topped military shirts rubbing Brasso into “Mighty Trucks of Midnight.”

  Mighty trucks of midnight

  Movin’ on.

  Nobody actually sings these words, but we can all hear them in our head. At least, I can. Because, hey, I’m movin’ on too.

  “I’m gonna need some privacy,” I say, tossing Lee the duster.

  She shakes it open and holds it like a curtain. I yank off my Gringos. Leave on my socks. Peel off my flannel. Leave on my T-shirts, because it’s so frickin’ breath-cloudy cold.

  And drizzly wet.

  “Okay, I’m gonna drop my pants. So hold on to that coat. I don’t want any of those perverts over in the bleachers watching.”

  “Nobody’s watching, Arlo.”

  “You can.”

  “No thanks.”

  I unbuckle and shuck my pants. Reach into the box for the Flying Squirrel. Stretch one foot, then the other, through the ankle grips into the padded boots.

  “Last chance to check out the scrawniest ass in the county,” I say. “Don’t believe me, have a look.”

  Lee says, “I don’t want to check out your scrawny ass, Arlo.”

  “Your loss,” I say, zipping into the Flying Squirrel.

  The loudspeakers crackle.

  “Ah, ladies and gentlemen. It’s my honor to hand over the microphone to one of the foremost citizens of our county, your uncle and mine. Let’s hear it for Salvatore Focazio—Uncle Sal.”

  Everybody knows Uncle Sal, so Rio Loco Stadium pretty much crumbles.

  “Hey, look,” I say as the applause goes on.

  Lee lowers the coat, and I snap open my wings.

  The sight of me startles her. Then she smiles.

  “You’re crazy, Arlo Santiago.”

  “Yeah, well—”

  “Good evening,” Uncle Sal reverbs through the loudspeakers. “My favorite word in English is homecoming. Let me define homecoming. It means . . . ‘coming home.’”

  I slide on my helmet, swing a leg over the bike.

  Lee steps up. Kisses me. On the lips. Turns and walks away.

  I watch her red-gold hair sway back and forth.

  Damn! That was exactly what I didn’t need.

  I slam down on the starter. My 250 kicks right in.

  “Some of us here tonight root for Raton. Some root for Clay Allison. But all of us root for New Mexico. Our shared home. Our Land of Enchantment.”

  I jerk my wrist and burst down the sideline, brake, and catch Lee by the arm. Pull her to me. Kiss her. Peach soft. Taste the shiny insides of her mouth. Plum sweet.

  “Are we not the ‘state of esperanza’?”

  A crazy joy floods through me.

  “Are we not the ‘land of bright mañana’?”

  The spotlights blink on. Cam’s tracker rushes down the field, flares across us. Lee brushes a hand on my cheek. Throws back her head and laughs. Steps away just as the tracking spot slams into me.

  Now I’m blindingly bright.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Orphan County’s homegrown daredevil—Jett Spence.”

  I click the throttle and roll onto the field. Into a sea of choppy sounds—clapping, cackling, hooting, “Scoopers,” and even unflattering references to El Guapo. It’s nothing like the huge roar that greeted Uncle Sal.

  I anchor at the fifty-yard line—the heart/soul/Ground Zero of Orphan County. Stare at the Lips. Zoom in on the Lower Lip.

  I think about the moth. That humble splotch on the wall.

  Just be like that.

  I grind the throttle.

  GRIND!

  So loud my mind goes silent.

  I jerk my wrist and loft into a wheelie.

  The ten-yard lines strobe beneath me. I flash across the end zone and bump onto hardpack. Open the throttle. Float toward the bluff.

  Go fast enough and anything can fly. But a Yam 250 can truly soar.

  I hit the base and swoop like a yo-yo up a string. Only tonight, the string is greasy and wet. On the steepest part of the hill, my tires spin. I reach out and brace with my feet. That one little move clips my wings. I lose speed—and
the power to fly.

  When I hit the Lower Lip, instead of shooting into the air, I pop maybe five feet.

  Land with barely a bounce.

  Brake to a stop in the timid dark.

  Cam’s spotlight leaps after me but falls short.

  I yank off my helmet. Hear the raw voice of Rio Loco—the cackling Neanderthals.

  When you fill a stadium with humans, that’s what you get. Reverse evolution.

  The rain on my neck feels like spit.

  How can I go back down to that?

  I won’t. I’ll stay up here forever.

  White-dark sky. Cold-soft rain.

  Closer to heaven. Closer to Mom.

  Or maybe sneak down the back side and go—just go!

  Get the hell out of Orphan County, New Mexico.

  Head out to L.A. . . . L.A. . . . L.A. . . . and get my junk in play.

  Anyplace but here.

  Riding away would be so easy.

  Cam’s spotlight skips across the chaparral, searching for me. It illuminates broken bottles, a sagging fence, a rusted barrel.

  Cam knows how I think. Probably more than anybody else in the world.

  He knows I’m hiding.

  He swings the light around. Levels it at the Lips. They glisten and pout.

  He’s waiting for me.

  Thinking the same thought.

  I slide on my helmet. Click the throttle. Spin and face the Lips.

  They are the edge of the world—and the edge looks like a darkened movie screen filled with falling diamonds.

  I clasp my fingers around the extension grips. Flatten my body against the bike.

  All the alarms are blaring inside me—all the evolved, life-saving “no’s” and “don’ts.”

  I jam them off.

  Go silent.

  Grind into the zone.

  One last breath.

  Yea, though I fly through the valley of the shadow . . .

  I jerk my wrist and blast into diamond darkness.

  Chapter 34

  LOBO GETS TO ME FIRST. Eyes bugged out and chest heaving, he drops to his knees and crosses himself.