Down to the Dirt

by Joel Thomas Hynes

  Bobby offered Francey another half-assed protest, but soon enough we were inchin’ our way back in to the Kitchen. Bobby was more interested in the prospect of a draw than anything else at this point.

  Francey would let us back up about ten or fifteen feet, then rev up his engine and charge at us full blast, stoppin’ only inches away from our front bumper. Bobby was impressed.

  —Some fuckin’ power in her what? Stops on a dime too.

  —Too bad she’s wasted on a fuckin’ moron like that.

  —What’s your problem, Keith b’y? Francey’s the best kind.

  Francey’s repulsive face starin’ up through the windshield at me. Pushin’ me back into the night. Forcin’ me into a corner. Holdin’ back for a while, then revvin’ his car to burst back at me, all the while lookin’ up at me with this triumphant smirk as if to say I got ya now, don’t I?

  I couldn’t take it anymore.

  I was about to explode.

  Then Keith sent the night in a whole new direction.

  He was rootin’ around down on the floor and came up with a dirty old can of Big 8 cola. Gave it a little shake and pretended to open it in my face. I never even blinked.

  —Hey, Bobby, I ever tell you about the time I fucked over this fella from the Goulds with a can of drink?

  —What? Hit him with it?

  —Christ, no. He was a big fella…I poured it in his gas tank.

  —What?

  —Oh yeah, it fucks everything right up. Ya often heard tell of sweetening up someone’s gas tank?

  I don’t know about Bobby, but I’d certainly heard tell of it. Someone did it to my father’s boat a couple of summers before. It was a hot topic around the house for a while. The government had given Dad a sentinel fishin’ license that summer. Him and my uncle Rick were the only ones in the Cove allowed out after cod. Dad and Rick were delighted to be back on the water, but a lot of people were pretty pissed off. But Dad wasn’t even allowed to take home a single fish so I don’t know what all the racket was about. They were to haul the trap every morning and whatever was caught had to be turned in to the fisheries for tests and stuff. They had to carry out some kind of tests themselves too, like recording the water temperature and wind conditions. Anyhow, about a week into it they were out at the mouth of the bay when the engine stalled. They tried all their tricks to get her goin’ but nothing worked. Then Rick opened the tank and found sugar spilt all around the rim. Right away they knew the engine was screwed, and they were pissed off, but it wouldn’t be the first time someone had to row in out of it. Only thing was, when they went looking for the oars, they were gone. Probably tossed overboard the night before. On top of that the box of flares were emptied, so they couldn’t even shoot one off for help. And, worst of all, the lifejackets were missing. If you asks me, that’s attempted murder. Dad and Rick drifted out to sea for about half an hour before the wind turned. Imagine. They finally flagged down a tour boat outside Burnt Cove. The cops were back and forth to our house for a few days but nothing ever came of it. Dad is pretty sure he knows who done it but he won’t say. He likes to pick his moments too.

  Keith was gettin’ more and more animated as his story went on. Some guy in the Goulds was after shortchanging him on a draw.

  —’Course a bottle is better than a can, but when you’re stuck you’re stuck. All ya needs is a bit of stick or a pencil to hold open the airway. Pour the drink right in. If you spills a bit you can just sop it up with your shirttail. But, see, real sugar is messy and someone can see right away that the car is after being fucked with. Plus you have to go shaggin’ around with a funnel. But a can of this shit—

  He clenches the can of Big 8 in his fist and looks straight into my eyes as if making sure I’m fully graspin’ the tact in his little story. I nods and smiles. He don’t miss a beat.

  —…no mess. He don’t know what the fuck is going on. Goes to start his car and she won’t go. Sugar in the gas lines. I don’t know how it works, but it works. You can spoil the engine for good if it’s not flushed out quick enough.

  Bobby glanced sideways at me and rolled his eyes. But Keith seemed so proud of himself, baskin’ in the memory of his own mischief, I couldn’t help but feel a little proud of him too.

  Francey was drivin’ normal again now. Probably thought we were talkin’ about him. I looked right at him and smiled just to make him paranoid.

  When we made it to the clearing Bobby pulled up next to the remains of the fire and Francey pulled in headfirst on the other side, near the edge of the woods. We all got out and followed Francey down to the wharf. He stuck a joint in his mouth and pulled it out slowly between his lips, staring at me the whole while. I could see the grease around his nose glistenin’ in the moonlight. I really wanted a draw but no way was I smokin’ something that touched his scuzzy mouth. Filthy pig. Keith and Francey and Bobby formed a semi-circle at the head of the wharf. I kept myself out of it. Francey lit the joint, the paper soaked through with his pasty saliva. Keith cracked open the rotten old can of Big 8 and took a swig. I wondered if Francey could swim. Bobby held the joint out to me. He was in his glory.

  —You gonna have a draw, sweetheart?

  —No. I’d only fall asleep…I’m bustin’ to piss anyhow.

  —Well, go on then. We’re in the woods. Ha ha! More for us.

  Bobby let out a thick blast of smoke and it smelled so sweet. I didn’t really need to go piss. I just had to get away before I gave in. I wanted some so bad. They all seemed good and stoned already. But I couldn’t. I would not.

  As I was turnin’ to go up to the woods Keith handed me the can of drink.

  —You want the rest of that?

  I thought he was jokin’ first. Then it all clicked in. The possibility. All of a sudden I really did need to go pee. I took the can and had a little taste. It was warm. Bobby tried to bat it out of my hand.

  —Are you cracked, girl? That’s in the truck since Christmas. Father had that for mix.

  —So? Not like it goes bad. I’m dyin’ of thirst, b’y. Leave me alone.

  —Alright then. But you’ll be doin’ more than pissin’ after you drinks that slop. Ha ha!

  Bobby was wrecked. Keith winked at me as I left. Francey was in another world altogether. I walked straight towards his car. It was hidden from view behind the truck, so they wouldn’t see me at it. My heart raced. I scoured the ground for something to use to hold open the airway like Keith had said. I found a Popsicle stick. My heart. A roar of laughter rolled up from the wharf and I caught a faint whiff of the weed. I had another look down towards them. They were lightin’ up another joint. Keith glanced up but I don’t think he could see me. I crouched down beside Francey’s gas tank and I went right at it.

  What if he caught me? But then again, so what if he caught me? What in the fuck could he do to me? Not like he could beat me up or anything. Not like he could say one god-blessed word about it for that matter. No doubt he must be aware, somewhere in that thick skull of his, that if I wanted to, I could make things pretty complicated for him. I could ruin him. If I wanted to.

  I got the gas cap off and then had to go fumbling through my pockets for the Popsicle stick.

  Found it.

  Stuck it in the hole.

  Say Ahhhhh.

  My hands were shakin’ so hard I could barely keep the can steady as I tipped it into the tank.

  Another rumble of stoned laughter from the wharf.

  And then a calm washed over me and time stood absolutely still.

  All I could hear was Big 8 fizzling down into Francey O’Dea’s gas tank. I couldn’t recall a moment quite so…satisfying. A heady sensation of power, a fresh current of strength seemed to course through my veins. The can of Big 8 growin’ lighter, and my heart along with it.

  And then the can was empty.

  And I was not.

  —Natasha?

  —Hold on. Hold on. I’m coming.

  I screwed the cap back on and closed the shutter. No me
ss. When I stood up I felt ten feet tall. I pretended to be doin’ up my pants as I walked down to meet them. Then I realized I’d forgot to go pee and I really, really needed to go. But I’d wait it out.

  Now, I thought, what if Francey’s car don’t start and he wants a ride with us? Well, I decided, I’d throw a fit and walk out. And I’d make Keith walk with me. Tell Bobby where to go. Jump Keith in the bushes somewhere on the way out.

  Keith Kavanagh.

  Keith and Natasha.

  I liked the sound of it.

  They were finished their toke, stumbling back towards the cars. Off in their own little worlds. Bobby’s head bobbin’ up and down and Keith with this zoned out, foolish grin on his face. Francey had his eyes to the ground and for the first time ever I wanted him to look at me ’cause I felt I might cut him in half.

  —Ya missed it, Natasha. Fine old buzz.

  I felt like sayin’ I had a fine old buzz on myself. But I was startin’ to get worried about how this was all going to play out. No way Francey was ridin’ with us. He’d be gettin’ in the back. Or we could tie him on to the back bumper and drag him out to the highway. That’d suit me just fine.

  We piled into the truck. Francey jumped into his car. Bobby pulled out to the opening of the track. Francey had come in head-on, so he had to get the car turned around first. I strained to see him fumbling the keys into the ignition. And then the engine roared to life and my heart sank. He revved her up. She sounded healthy as ever. I glanced at Keith. I think he winked but his eyes were sunk so far back in their sockets it was hard to tell. He did a little drum roll on the dash.

  —Let’s get the fuck outta this place, Bobby man. All systems go.

  —We gonna wait for Francey?

  —Naw, fuck ’im. He knows the way.

  Bobby put the truck in gear and we were movin’. I looked back and saw the arse end of Francey’s car buckin’ like it’d just struck a brick wall. Was it workin’? He started her up again, gave a big shot of gas, put her in reverse…she stalled again. I looked at Keith, who was lookin’ at me, and smiled. I turned on the radio and turned it up a bit so Bobby wouldn’t pay no mind to Francey. He was too stoned to notice anything anyhow. We rounded the turn and the Kitchen was out of sight. I thought I heard Francey’s horn so I turned the radio up another notch.

  —Natasha, you never drank all that?

  I still had the empty can in my hand and I felt a twinge of panic. Evidence. I’d never done anything like this in my life. I could get arrested or have to pay for damages or…Francey O’Dea had a long walk ahead of him tonight. I let out the first of a thousand giggles.

  —No, I never drank it, Bobby. I poured it out.

  Myself and Keith doubled over in the stitches. Bobby just shook his head.

  —What’s so funny? What’s so fuckin’ funny, Natasha? What are you laughin’ about?

  I couldn’t stop and I didn’t want to. I glanced out the side window as we tore past the halfway flag.

  No goin’ back now.

  4. Tooth and Nail

  Poor little shagger. He just sat there for days on end. Barely touched his food. Rarely made it to his litter on time. No response to the endless stream of sweet-talk and rub-downs, a bag of catnip dangled in front of his nose, canned food. We assumed he’d been poisoned. Maybe a bowl of milk laced with anti-freeze. Anti-freeze said to be sweet and carrying no scent when diluted, then slowly goin’ to work on the stomach lining, thinnin’ out the blood and eatin’ at the insides of the veins. Attacking the liver, the heart and the brain. A dirty, cold-hearted trick. His eyes seemed to fog over in those last few days, tired and waitin’, no means of communicating his pain. Poor little shagger.

  Muggins, Natasha’s lanky and clumsy Irish Setter, had come scratchin’ at the door one day with the cat, then only a measly kitten, clamped tenderly in his jowls. Lucky for the cat that it was ‘Tash’s little sister Becky who answered to Muggins’ scratches that evening.

  —Whatcha got, Mugs? Oh my God!! Can I keep it, Daddy? Can I?

  Had it been the old man answering the door, he would have slung the kitten out over the fence into the neighbour’s yard. He might even have aimed it at the fence. But Becky kicked up a stink because the kitten did cute kitten things for her. Jumped and pounced, purred and nuzzled.

  —I’m keepin’ it!

  She fed him little drops of milk and dollops of Cheez Whiz, off her pinky finger.

  A fast learner, he wasn’t long slippin’ into the ebb and flow of the household. At least he had the good sense to keep himself clear of the old man’s temperamental steel toe. More than I can say for myself.

  He was a bit of a runt. Half cat, half kitten. But the kitten charm in him just vanished one day. No more play. Slide him out of the way with your foot to keep him from bein’ trampled. One day he’s doin’ backflips after horseflies in the pantry, and the next he’s dead weight slunkered on the bathroom floor.

  That’s where Natasha found him in late September, surrounded by a pool of his own excrements, howlin’ a throaty protest against his pain.

  We’d skipped off school at lunchtime to pick mushrooms in the Pasture Lands. I was never too big on the mushrooms and had in fact sworn, each time I did ’em, never to touch ’em again. Natasha couldn’t get enough of ’em.

  —I just finds they makes me come in my pants for no reason.

  Now who was I to say no to that? We picked a couple of handfuls each and counted them out when we got back down to the road. There was about a hundred. Opening up the sandwiches saved over from our lunches, we stuffed the mushrooms in between ham and cheese and forced ’em down. As soon as they were in me I panicked and tried to throw ’em back up, but she wouldn’t let me.

  —No!! Keith, no. We’re in this together. Come on, sweetie, you said you would. I don’t want to take a trip by myself. It gets too lonely.

  Sweetie.

  We strode on up to Sheen’s Bridge and leaned against the railing, idly wavin’ our thumbs at passin’ cars, not really givin’ a shit if we got a run or not. I felt the shrooms gurgle and rumble in my stomach. Sick. We never said much, just waited for something to happen. We’d been havin’ a racket about the past Saturday night. She’d gone off to a party in Fermeuse and got plastered, couldn’t remember how she got home.

  —Well how can you say for sure you never fucked some-one?

  —Because I’m not a slut, Keith. Contrary to what you might believe.

  —I’m not sayin’ that. I’m not. All I’m sayin’ is that you coulda been taken advantage of. That’s all.

  —What? Think I can’t handle myself? Sure I’m tangled up with the likes of you.

  —The likes of me. Well, if you can handle yourself so fuckin’ well, how come you can’t remember how you got home?

  You can’t fuckin’ win. Pullin’ teeth. We lapses into a bitter, frustrated silence. It’s the only way around it.

  —What?

  —What?

  —Thought you said something, that’s all.

  —Never opened me mouth, girl.

  A big, plush Town-car stops to pick us up and as we slumps in the back Natasha is gripped by such a powerful yawn that it seems her bottom jaw will pop off. Her eyes squints up and starts watering, her cheekbones pullin’ tight, scrunchin’ up her nose. A hungry young starling waitin’ for a worm, threatening to eat its own head. The yawn lasts about ten seconds. Before she’s done one overcomes me as well. The mushrooms are kickin’ in fast.

  The old couple in the car don’t say much and I’m glad ’cause I feels so heavy and groggy, like this big cushy seat is gonna swallow me up. We rides in silence, myself and Natasha afraid to look at each other for fear we’ll take a laughin’ fit, or worse, that we won’t.

  By the time we’re dropped off in the Cove it feels like I’ve lived no other life, but was born in the backseat of this Lincoln. I pulls on the handle of the door, feels something inside of it go clernk. It vibrates up my arm and into my head and I understands the
door. I says thank you to the old couple and I really means it, I’m genuinely thankful.

  ‘Tash’s pupils are the full of her eyes and her face seems smaller, sunken and mousy. I tells her this and she tells me I looks like a girl, that mushrooms must bring out the feminine side of me, asks me if I’d like to borrow a dress. Now, she knows this’ll only upset me, and I knows that that’s what she’s trying to do. Push me ’til I makes a prick out of myself so when it comes time to lay the blame, get to the root of the racket, it all seems to have started because she made a little joke or because I said she was mousy looking. I’ll be left lookin’ like an asshole again.

  I takes a few deep breaths to catch myself, knowin’ full well the only thing to be accomplished in retaliation is another racket. Maybe she is only jokin’. I don’t know. Besides, it sounds fun. I pictures myself in one of her dresses, maybe that skimpy little black one she wore at her aunt’s wedding. The way it clung to her breasts, the sunlight shinin’ through to her bare thighs. I gives her a little curtsy.

  —Why don’t I try one on then? We can take my picture. Send it in to the Buy-n-Sell.

  We’ve got the house to ourselves. Down in her bedroom in the basement. Fuckin’ around. Makin’ the best of one another’s company. Really connecting. She pulls the elastic from her ponytail and shakes her hair out. She’s so beautiful. Sometimes I loves her so much I feels like screamin’. But them moments are few and far between these days. Maybe it’s just a matter of communication? I knows she wasn’t with nobody the other night. I knows it. She just hates havin’ to answer to anyone. She likes to live in the moment, and I tends to resent that trait in anyone other than myself. I don’t know why I have to beat things to death all the time these days. I likes to party pretty hard myself.

  —See that?

  —What?