A Set Of Wheels

by Robert Thurston

  Another signal from Chuck and some of the gang gather around an old Pontiac at the right end of the line directly across from the bleachers. One of them opens the driver side door, reaches in, and releases the handbrake. With a choruslike grunt, the group starts pushing the car toward the pool. They work slowly and the car eases forward. The front wheels clear the edge of the pool and, for the pushers, the job becomes momentarily difficult. The Pontiac seems to hang on the rim of the pool, stuck. An extra effort from the group forces it forward with a half-squeaking, half-scraping noise. It teeters for a moment, then slowly slides into the pool, striking the cracked bottom with a diffident gentleness and tipping over onto its roof. It rocks for a moment, then comes still. I can’t tell if it has caused any new cracks on the bottom surface of the pool. The cracks that are there seem to correspond to the state of the wreck.

  Down the line the group goes, pushing then tipping each car in the first row of plundered vehicles into the deep Olympic-length pool. The crowd cheers and applauds as each car hits bottom. After the first row has been pushed in, cars lie around the bottom and sides of the pool. Some are on their sides, some on their roofs, some flat on their wheels, some nose first like crashed warplanes. Wheels spin, bits of glass break off. The noise of the cracking metal sounds something like traveling electricity.

  Another line of cars is arranged by poolside and the gang starts to work on them. These vehicles crash onto the tops of the cars that dived in first, landing with a series of crashing, crunching, shattering sounds that delight the audience who cheer, yelp wildly, applaud, and call out funny and obscene slogans. Some of the crowd spirit gets to me. I am awestruck. A small fire starts in a blue Chevy but is quickly put out by a standby fire brigade. Nobody wants the fire to start accidentally. Chuck was insistent on that at the briefing.

  As the pile in the pool grows, Chuck stands tall on the high board. Once in a while, the excitement affects him and the board vibrates, but only slightly. Scotty is gradually heavier in my lap. Once in a while his head droops, but he pulls himself awake with a start. He is fiercely trying not to fall asleep before the ceremony is over.

  A figure gets off the ladder onto the low diving board. At first his face is in shadow, then he steps into the light. It’s Handles. Of course. He’s working his way out the low board, the little bastard. First he takes tentative steps, testing. Then, more sure of himself, he starts lunging forward, his legs looking like they’re resisting the upward tension of the board. Some of the crowd have seen him, and they begin to call out warnings. Chuck looks down, peering over the edge of the high board. He shouts something at Handles. Handles pretends he doesn’t hear. Listening does not fit in with his current strategy. Grinning like the town fool or the underqualified court jester, he takes a short run as if he wants to dive off the board but stops way before the edge. However, the board vibrates up and down, and he loses his footing. He falls forward, just in time for the board to give him a good whack in the face. Stunned, he starts to roll sideways. A few people in the crowd gasp. Handles teeters at the edge of the board, just as the dumped cars had on the rim of the pool. Beneath him is the jagged open top of a VW. Swinging a leg backward, he pulls back from the edge. A gang member, who has climbed the ladder, works his way onto the board, grabs Handles’ arm, and yanks him to his feet and toward the ladder. The rescue draws applause, which Handles thinks is for him. He manages a small bow, even while the rescuer is forcing him onto the ladder. As he descends out of sight, I realize I’ve been holding my breath, and I exhale with what sounds to me like an asthmatic attack. ,

  The last cars are driven up to poolside. I see the Toyota Corolla. Link wearily gets out of it. When they push the Toyota over the side, he just stands there, still. Staring at the Toyota settling onto the pile, at the pushers, at the wreckage which has pretty much filled the entire pool. He seems puzzled.

  Now Chuck raises both his arms, and a murmur goes through the audience. It’s time for the burning. In a very orderly way, row by row, we file out of the bleachers. We have to get a safe distance away from the pool. Scotty is a dead weight in my arms. His head is draped over my left arm, his eyes shut, his mouth wide open. With each breath he makes a faint gurgling noise at the back of his throat. I wonder if that’s normal sleep static for him, or is he coming down with something? God, that’d be just what I need now, a sick kid to attend to. I don’t know what to do with sick kids. Well, no point worrying. All the smartass people around here, I can at least get help.

  The crowd assembles behind an already roped-off point. I sense bloodlust in some of the people around me. Maybe not bloodlust, maybe flamelust. Or maybe it is bloodlust. Chuck has left the diving board and he takes up a position atop a high judge seat that a group of the guys have grabbed off one of the tennis courts. Gesturing imperiously, he orders the flame bearers to light their torches. Gathering around a campfire, each one ignites his torch, then they all line up in a straight row on either side of Chuck. With another kingly handmove, he orders them forward. They run at a steady even clip toward the pool, torchbearers for a destructive Olympics. Each one stops at the rim of the pool. At Chuck’s next sign, they lift their torches high and, in unison, throw them into the pool. As soon as the torches are in the air, they start retreating from the pool. At first flames lick at some of the protruding metal. Suddenly, near the diving boards, there is an explosion as some of the fire finds its way to some gasoline. Then gas tanks all over the pool are exploding and fire is enveloping, consuming the piled-up vehicles. In seconds the separate fires seem to blend into one high-reaching thick flame. Explosions continue. Brightness grows. The low board, its flame retarded surface long since gone to pot, catches fire and a few flying licks of flame land in the bleachers. There is a long silence in the crowd while all this happens, then an explosion of yelling that matches in pitch and melody the sound of the exploding cars.

  I’m tired of looking at it. I work my way to the back of the crowd. Clearing the last row of spectators is like stepping outside a stuffy building into fresh air. Scotty stirs but doesn’t wake up. My spine is about to bend into itself. I’ve got to put the kid down somewhere. I choose the nearest vehicle, a dirt-streaked but shiny Buick. It’s of more recent vintage than most of the cars in the outfit. Certain members of Chuck’s gang pride themselves on the relative youth of their cars. They usually keep them pretty well slicked up. A lot of potential safedrys in this outlaw outfit. Even this Buick, despite the blotches of dirt, reflects the halfmoon in the sky and sections of the fire to what looks like an almost limitless depth. I can see myself dimly though a clump of thick dirt lies crosswise across my elongated distorted face. Even as an impressionistic version of myself I look tired. Wiped out. Aging fast. I clear the dirt away to try to get a better look. The fire rages up a bit and my image becomes clearer, though still not particularly vivid. I don’t look good, I surely don’t. I’ve noticed that other times in brief secret glances at mirrors. No doubt about it, I’ve lost the lovable look, I look older, and not necessarily wiser. Well, that’s the game, isn’t it? Older and who gives a fuck about the wiser? You just get a lot of marks on the face and begin looking like Link and, if you live so long, like Emil. I don’t need to look lovable. With Cora gone, I don’t need it at all.

  Carefully I lie Scotty down across the hood of the Buick. It’s not a firm perch so I have to keep hold of him, but at least my back feels better. He lies sideways, his side crossing a stylistic depression in the hood. His body looks twisted in some unnatural way. I don’t know, I guess kids can sleep in any position. Good old Mom used to say I looked like a pretzel when I was asleep in my bed.

  I hear footsteps behind me, running up to me. I turn, ready for anything. It’s just Handles. His eyes are brighter than the flames, his smile broader than the Olympic-sized pool.

  This is wild, man, he shouts, really wild. What’re you guys doing over here? I looked for you in the crowd. Don’t you love the explosions? Did you see me on the board?

 
; You almost killed yourself.

  Not a goddamn chance. I knew I was all right. I got perfect balance.

  That’s hard to believe.

  Perfect balance. I got perfect pitch, too. Listen.

  He starts to sing. It’s the most godawful singing I’ve heard since the last time I warbled into a tape recorder and played it back. He hasn’t got perfect pitch any more than he’s got perfect balance. Compared to him, ragged nails on a sandpapered washboard have perfect pitch.

  The fire has gone down. No flames appear above the heads of the crowd.

  Are you gonna watch the big finale? Handles asks.

  I think I'll skip it, I say.

  Aw, come on.

  What about Scotty?

  Leave him. He sleeps anywhere.

  What if he wakes up?

  So he wakes up. He won’t worry. He knows we’ll come back.

  I arrange Scotty better on the Buick’s hood. Whatever you do to him, even if you jab your finger into his body, he stays relaxed, goes on sleeping.

  Handles makes his way like an overbearing snake through the crowd, and I'm able to follow without any trouble. When we get to the first rank, I see that the fire’s almost out. Handles rushes forward, beyond the safety line. No matter. It’s safe now anyway. Up ahead, Chuck looks back, waves his hand in still another regal signal. I hear a great rushing sound. It’s a moment before I realize it’s water coming into the pool. Somebody somewhere has turned the pool’s water back on. As it hits the smoldering vehicles, the water sizzles and flies upward in curling waves. The crowd surges forward to see better. Essentially we are all joining Handles who has reached poolside ahead of us. I hang back, resisting the push of the crowd. But, when I get to the pool, I take my turn at looking.

  Looking makes chills run up and down my back. The pool is now filled with water. Some of it sloshes over the side onto the cement walkway around the pool. A few more torches have been lit and their light is reflected in the surface of the water. Beneath that is a frightening interweaving of broken and destroyed cars, metal joined and hooked into and melted with and, moved by the churning water, rubbing against other metal. Some pieces are floating on the water, their surfaces dully reflecting the light. A singed car seat floats by me. I look for a long time, seeing strange and gruesome shapes in the dark metal beneath the water’s surface. I think I see living shapes, tiny monsters swimming in and out of the jagged cracks and openings in the wreckage. A just-born civilization of watery beings come to life and defining their existence by the twisted, burned, sliding terrain of their world. They should be able to thrive on such an existence. We can.

  * * * * *

  Afterwards, the pool filled and the fun over, Chuck orders us back to our cars. We have to clear this area in case anybody with law enforcement pretensions has been attracted here by the blaze. I retrieve the still-sleeping Scotty from the Buick hood without destroying anything inside my body. Is it possible for a kid to gain weight during his sleep? I see Handles doing his version of the scarecrow dance from The Wizard of Oz (another cutesy movie that brought tears to old Dad’s eyes). It’s not as if it’s choreographed or anything, it’s just that he achieves a kind of effortless clumsiness with it. He’s heading right for me. My luck. Nobody’s adopted him yet. I don’t know why.

  He falls in silently beside me. For once he’s not talking. His motor’s also running down. He’s just able to put one foot in front of the other. I guess it’s always a surprise when kids like Handles get tired, how it comes with such suddenness.

  Link runs up, looking something like an awkward clumsy child himself.

  I got wheels of my own, he says excitedly. Chuck’s saved an old Merc for me. From the raid.

  God, Link, I say. That’s… good. That’s all right.

  Link squints at me.

  What’s the matter, Lee? You don’t sound happy for me.

  I’m happy for you. Really. Really I am.

  No, you’re not. But what the hell. I’m happy for me. I’ve needed to get my hands on a real set of—sorry, Lee. Didn’t mean anything by it. Your Mustang’s just fine. Musty’s just fine. For you. It just isn’t for me. I’m a driver, not a shotgun.

  That’s okay, Link.

  He doesn’t realize it’s not the damn car I’m thinking of. All his great wisdom and he can’t see that what pisses me is the split. I liked riding the roads with Link. I think he liked it with me. Now that he’s got his own vehicle, that’s just so much bent and rusted metal and chrome between us. It won’t be the same. It’s not the same now, even with him smiling at me so cheerfully, his worn-out face more at odds than usual with a happy look. Shifting Scotty around in my arms, I’m able to hold out a hand to Link. He takes it and shakes it eagerly.

  We’ll really be a team now, he says. The Merc and the Mustang.

  Yeah, sure, Link.

  Right, well, I’ll see you at the train.

  He runs off. I’d like to believe that we’ll still be a team, that this will be a new phase. But it feels more like a break than a new phase, it really does. Ah, well, at least I’m not left alone. I got Scotty and Handles for tonight at least. I look down at Handles. He’s asleep on his feet, his eyes closed, his legs working by rote.

  When I settle down behind the wheel of the Mustang, I realize how tired I am. It’s been a long day. My drive back to the train is accomplished as much by rote as Handles’ weary steps had been.

  — 9 —

  I almost feel sorry for Handles now. Subdued as he is, sitting alone in the back seat, sullen and fidgety, I almost long for the more active restless boy, the runner and leaper, the arguer and all-around pain in the ass. Maybe we’re wrong in taking him back, maybe we should have kept him with us. Sure, kept him with us, trained him to be an outlaw, sharpened the cynical edge that’s already so irksome. In a short time, four or five years, he could grow up to be someone. Someone like me. Now there’s a goal for any soon-to-be adolescent. No, Chuck was right. He couldn’t allow children into the operation, too dangerous, he said when we spoke this morning. He even managed to convince Handles to go back. Once he’d coaxed the kid out of his tantrum. Handles screamed, rolled on the ground, rubbed dirt into his face, punched Link’s legs so hard it raised a couple of ugly welts. Even Link’s patience was strained. It was lucky Chuck stepped in when he did. He took Handles back to his office in the caboose of the train and talked to him in private for an hour or so. When Handles came out, I hardly recognized him, he was so silent and his body was so calm. He didn’t even start to fidget until he got into the car.

  Well, he may hate going back, but that’s better than what some of the gang had in mind. A few of our zealots wanted to ship him back to the Wheeler camp, make a proper disciple out of him. Chuck scotched that idea, said we’re outlaws not recruiters and he wouldn’t recruit Jesus when the Second Coming came. I was happy with Chuck’s stand. I didn’t much like Handles, but I’d hate to see the life squeezed out of him at the hands of Lena and her crew. Even more than that, I think I’d have fought to the death to keep Scotty out of their hands.

  I’ve become very fond of Scotty in the short time we’ve been buddies. Sometimes I think he’s got the goods on the whole world. Give him a couple magic markers, some sheets of paper, a calculator, and he’s happy. I find I like making him happy.

  Right now he’s sitting on the seat beside me, papers all around him—on the seat, on the floor, in his lap. And he’s working the magic marker energetically, writing figures all over the paper, checking them against the totals on the calculator that Chuck gave him (part of our odds and ends booty taken from stolen cars).

  He’s beginning to get ink all over his face again. Not much yet, a dot here, a small island there. I scrubbed him up good this morning but by the time I get him returned to his people no one’ll ever be able to tell. He was even good about the cleaning up. He didn’t squirm, pull away, yell, even flinch. I suspect he’s used to being cleaned up a bit more than the average child is. He’s probably s
een a lot of ink-rivuleted water go down a lot of rusty drains in his time.

  The sky’s clouding up. That’s the last thing I need, a storm. I have to rendezvous with the gang at a small town to the south, and I’m not sure they’ll wait for me if I’m late. I suppose I could skip out. But I promised Chuck. And I can’t leave Link hanging. I try to coax a bit more speed from the Mustang, but it resists. Seems like its top speed is getting less day by day. It needs a good session with the Mech to bring it back to good working order. But the Mech’s back east and I’m here and none of the guys in the gang have the magic touch when it comes to breathing life back into a tired vehicle. Why should they? Anything goes wrong with one of their vehicles, they get their choice of the plunder from the next raid. Who needs to keep a car in good working order?

  I’ll clear out the first chance I get, Handles says suddenly. I won’t stay. First chance, my feet will be a-running.

  Okay, I say.

  Okay?

  Sure, why not? You do what you want to, once I got you off my hands. I’ll be gone, I’ll never know.

  I’m not your goddamned responsibility, turdhead, so don’t go making like I am.

  I don’t care whose responsibility you are, all I—

  Nobody’s, I’m nobody’s responsibility.

  Okay.

  He lapses again into his sullen silence, but only for a minute.

  You guys really disappointed me, you know that?

  How so?

  The way you all came streaming into our camp yesterday, I thought you gotta be hot shit. I mean, revving all those motors and sweeping in like the goddamned cavalry, I thought that was really something. Boy, what a crock.

  Well, I suppose nothing’s ever exactly what we want it to be, so—

  What? What a jerkoff idea. Jerry Jerkoff, that’s you all right. You think I wanted much? Hell, I didn’t want much. Just something better.