From the Field Notes of Green Taylor Simms ( Historian): The night in question, our last together, was a Mattress Night. Foremost in my memory of the evening is Rant Casey unbuttoning his blue uniform coveralls in a brightly lit parking lot while we drank coffee. I remember his chest was riddled with hundreds of extra nipples, countless raised, round welts. “Hobo spiders,” he told me. “Found some at work.” He said he’d tried to smuggle them home by dropping them inside his open collar.
Shot Dunyun: Certain game windows, if you don’t tag anything all night and nobody tags you, just so you don’t go home disappointed you might slam into some trashed old Shark. Any game window, you’ll see beater cars rattling around, each in its own cloud of blue smoke, their rear ends balled up into shivering, creaking sheetmetal. Rolling scrap. You get your hit, and that beater Shark feels like part of the game.
If you smash into some clunker out of pity or desperation, that’s what we call Mercy Crashing.
Echo Lawrence ( Party Crasher): Come on. Dunyun was all, “Don’t!” Don’t mix with Rant. Don’t fall in love. Dunyun kept tugging me aside, all, “Can you still boost anything?” Going, “Rabies!”
I’d let Rant ride in my backseat for months.
Shot Dunyun: Our last game as a team, we’re playing a Mattress Night. Certain people will spray-paint their mattress black to make it harder to see. You want my advice, crack your side windows and loop the rope through the inside of your car. Tie down your mattress, leaving the slipknot on the inside. That way, if the police come sniffing around, you can yank the slipknot undone and ditch the mattress. It slides off, taking the ropes with it, leaving you just another innocent car on the city street.
Our last Mattress Night, every sputtering, rattling old rust bucket with a stained mattress roped to the top, Rant says, “Give them a bump.” He goes, “Smack ’em, and make their night.”
Echo Lawrence: Check this out. Rant was such a romantic. It’s one thing to buy a girl roses she can watch wilt and rot. It’s a much nicer thought to give a girl a fully equipped Skylark she can total. One Honeymoon Night, my sweetheart handed me the keys to a white Lincoln Continental with power everything. A very solid set of wheels. A ride so smooth, with a stereo so loud, at some point a Jetta rammed us from behind, hooked its front end under our rear bumper, and we didn’t even notice. We drove around half the game, dragging this little car full of angry people.
Shot Dunyun: Now, how bullshit is this? In Mercy Crashing, the second you pull your bumper out of some pock-marked, saggy, rusted rear end, you regret not just going home without making any tag. You can feel so dirty and sad, you don’t bother to get out and yell. You just nail and bail. Nail and bail. The rules of Party Crashing call that a foul, but chances are a junk heap will be too grateful to call you on it.
What’s worse is you can picture yourself after a few more years of Party Crashing, dragging your crumpled rear end around, hoping somebody’s bored or desperate enough to nail you. A big reason you nail and bail is, it’s sad seeing the beater car, but it’s unbearable to see the driver. Somebody wearing a cervical collar, walking with a cane, stiff and limping. Most likely that’s you in a few more years.
Echo Lawrence: Let me think. Rant bought me a LeSabre I couldn’t total fast enough. He bought me a Cavalier that I rammed into the back of someone’s Audi. Then he bought me a Regal that I swerved to trash the side of a Taurus. No, wait, there was a Grand Am in there somewhere. A Grand Am and a Cougar and a Grand Marquis. Oh, and the Lebaron that we caught on fire, trying to eat fondue during one game. Maybe that car shouldn’t count.
Shot Dunyun: We’re stopped at a red light when a scrap heap rolls, coughing and shivering, from a block behind us, heading to tag our rear end. You can hear the engine tappets knocking from a block away, the springs squeak, and the headlights flicker. The fan belt’s squealing, and a stained mattress quivers on its roof. This monster creeps closer, but we’re trapped in traffic, waiting for a green light.
The light goes green, and this monster behind us still drags itself along, crawling toward our bumper. Echo starts to gun the engine, but Rant tells her, “Wait.”
From the Field Notes of Green Taylor Simms: Young Rant was committing the most kind and gracious act of generosity.
Shot Dunyun: We sit through that green light, another red light, and half a second green before this sputtering, trembling old clunker—it just nudges our bumper and dies. Dies dead. The fan belt whimpers and goes quiet. Steam boils up through the grille, and the loose sheetmetal and chrome trim stop banging. The old car seems to sag down onto its axle stops, and the driver gets out. A kid, maybe sixteen years old. No shit. A kid by the name of Ned…Neddy…Nick, I forget.
Our car was a Caddy Seville. We had the room, so Rant offers the kid mascot position in the middle of our backseat. We were the first tag this kid ever made; I remember he was smiling so wide.
From the Field Notes of Green Taylor Simms: Another pleasant aspect of Party Crashing was the piñata aspect. We project the worst aspects of ourselves into the vehicles around us on the road. The drivers dashing past us, we imagine them filled with arrogance. The slow drivers we’re trapped behind, we imagine them as controlling or infirmed.
The joy occurs when, with one nudge or scrape, that enemy vehicle bursts open to reveal stamp collectors, football fans, mothers, grandfathers, chimney sweeps, restaurant cooks, law clerks, ministers, teachers, ushers, ditch diggers, Unitarians, Teamsters, bowlers, human beings. Hidden inside that hard, polished paint and glass is another person just as soft and scared as you.
Shot Dunyun: With every Mercy Crash, Rant would try and not hit too hard. A bump here. A ding there. Flirting kind of hits. I remember he said his money had run out, and he couldn’t buy us another car. He said the car we were driving, that Caddy, it would have to last for one more big Tree Night.
Echo Lawrence: Earlier, when I say I let Rant “ride in my backseat,” that’s not a euphemism.
Neddy Nelson: You know how great Rant was? You know what he did when they dropped me off at my building, just before curfew? Anybody tell you Rant flips me a gold coin, saying, “For your next wheels…”? Can you imagine my surprise when the coin shop offers me ten grand for that 1884 Liberty Head dollar? Was there ever a guy so generous? Without Rant Casey, you think I’d be driving another car so soon?
From the Field Notes of Green Taylor Simms: That, I believe, was the squandered remainder of Rant Casey’s Tooth Fairy fortune.
Echo Lawrence: When Shot said “rabies,” I thought he’d said “babies.” The results came back negative, thank God, but I think I asked for the wrong test.
27–Tree Night
From the Field Notes of Green Taylor Simms ( Historian): Following enormous deliberation, we chose to use a real tree. We decided on a noble fir. Festooned in blue lights, and crowned with a glowing blue star. Fastened lengthwise along the roof of the Cadillac Seville, the tree resembled a blue comet: the big star bobbing above the windshield, trailing hundreds of dazzling blue sparks behind it.
Neddy Nelson ( Party Crasher): Do you think I’m an idiot if I say the best part of Party Crashing, what makes it best, is it’s like this breaker? A circuit breaker? How about if your mom is yelling, calling you a lazy fuck, and you lost another job, and your friends from school, they have everything going, and you don’t even have a date? What if it’s a total toilet in your head, but out of nowhere—slam-bo!—somebody crashes into you, and you’re better? Isn’t it like a gift, somebody slamming you? Don’t you get out of the car, all shaky and shocked? Like you’re a baby getting born? Or a whole relaxing massage that happens in one-half a second?
Isn’t Party Crashing like an electroshock treatment for your depression?
From the Field Notes of Green Taylor Simms: The night Rant died, he wore a blue denim shirt embroidered quite enthusiastically, if not expertly, with a variety of rainbows and flowers. The shirt was quite a departure from his usual blue coveralls which reeked of insecticide.
I seem to recall columbines, or a similar native flower species, stitched in purple, circling the collar. On the chest pocket, over his heart, an emerald-green hummingbird hovered, feeding from a yellow daffodil.
Lew Terry ( Property Manager): The only other occasion I entered Casey’s apartment was, one day I go down to the basement to clean out the recycling bins, and dumped there in the clear-glass bin is those jars I seen in his closet, only empty. No spiders. On the top of each jar, Casey’s put the name “Dorry” or “June.” On every jar, a girl’s name.
The company where Casey worked, the exterminators said he’d quit. He wasn’t so much killing bugs as he was just relocating them. Seeing how this was a vermin issue, I’m allowed to use my pass key and take a look. Was nothing left on the premises but his empty suitcase and those little dark lumps on the wall above the bed, no bugs or rats, nothing. The only thing out of the ordinary was a plain white egg, set in the middle of his bed pillow. And if anybody’s saying I took that egg, it was the police detectives who took it. Since then, the county threatens to fine us, we have so many poison spiders. The crazy bastard must’ve set loose his whole friggin’ collection.
Echo Lawrence ( Party Crasher): Picture it. We’d mixed hours of Christmas music to blast. For two hours before the ten o’clock window, teams cruised around, showing off their trees. Parading cars, streaming with silver icicles. Cars shaggy with gold tinsel and shaking off glass balls that popped in the street. People stood on every corner, wearing red hats with white fur trim, waving for places on a team, shouting and flashing skin to get a spot in any car really done up in lights and decorations. Hundreds of Tag Team wannabes dressed as Santa Claus.
Shot Dunyun ( Party Crasher): How weird is this? You’d cruise past a Santa Claus standing on some corner, and jolly old Santa would flash you his rack. Her rack. Tits on St. Nick. That’s the kind of carnival that Tree Night turns into.
Echo Lawrence: There’s no team loyalty for the two hours before the window. As everybody parades their decorations, people are climbing in and out of cars. Pit-stopping. Teams come together and dissolve. Just this mingling, mixing party that takes place in a milling sea of lit-up cars.
Shot Dunyun: About a minute before the window opens, every car kills its Christmas lights and scatters. Beyond instantly, we’re back to being enemies.
Echo Lawrence: All I remember is Shot was all: “No mistletoe! No kissing! No rabies!”
From the Field Notes of Green Taylor Simms: Pit-stop culture developed as an offshoot of Party Crashing. Teams stopped in order to refuel, members used the public bathrooms and bought food and coffee. Initially, teams completed their business as quickly as possible and rejoined the game, but occasionally teams would linger at a gas station or a convenience-store parking lot. Pit-stop culture is perceived as a safe resting place or refuge during any Party Crashing event.
The Tree Night in question, we’d stopped at a gas station. Rant told us he’d refuel the car while Echo, Shot, and I went inside for provisions.
Echo Lawrence: Standing there, pumping the gas, Rant asked for pork rinds. Rinds and root beer.
Shot Dunyun: Corn dogs with mustard for me. Corn chips. Microwaved nachos.
From the Field Notes of Green Taylor Simms: My weakness, I confess, is for Red Vines licorice.
Shot Dunyun: And beef jerky.
From the Field Notes of Green Taylor Simms: It’s fortuitous we seldom drove the same vehicle for more than three weeks. One has so many possible ways to wreck a car, from either the outside or the inside. Nacho cheese can destroy resale value faster than any rollover accident.
Shot Dunyun: I walk out of the store, and Rant is gone. Nothing but a big puddle of gasoline where the Caddy had been parked.
Echo Lawrence: The car was gone, and way down the street you could see this blue comet flying along. Spread out behind the Seville, a rolling forest of dark, dead trees are chasing after him. A total wolf pack. Rant’s left the Christmas lights on, and every car in the game is out to tag him.
From DRVR Radio Graphic Traffic: This just in: A police pursuit is in progress along the Landover Parkway. According to reports, the suspect vehicle is a white Cadillac Seville which failed to stop for a traffic light at the intersection of Winters and 122nd. At this point, the Seville is westbound on the parkway, and the latest sightings put a lighted Christmas tree on the vehicle’s roof. No kidding. A tree covered in blue Christmas lights is roped to the roof of the fleeing car. Three police vehicles are in pursuit, with a helicopter expected to join the chase. Also, an unusually large number of looky-lous seem to be following the Seville, coasting in the path cleared by the cops’ lights and sirens. Reporting for DRVR Graphic Traffic, this is Tina Something…
Echo Lawrence: Fuck me. I flagged a team and jumped in their car. I just told them, “Go!” Some bunch of stoner kids. I pointed down the street, where you could barely see Rant’s blue lights through the forest of dead trees, and I said, “There!”
From DRVR Radio Graphic Traffic: To give you an update on that police pursuit, at the Highland interchange we had a vigilante car, driven by a private citizen, cut in from a side street and ram the blue Christmas tree. The blue tree is now speeding, eastbound, on Waterfront Avenue. And how’s this for a coincidence? The driver who attempted to stop the fleeing car was also driving with a Christmas tree on the top of her car. ’Tis the season, I guess. For DRVR Graphic Traffic, this is Tina Something…
Shot Dunyun: I’m standing there with my hands full of shit food, Red Vines licorice and shit, and Echo just bails. Green goes to the curb and hails a cab. They’re both beyond vanished. Rant’s gone, and I’m left on the sidewalk holding microwaved nachos and a bullshit root beer.
Symon Praeger ( Painter): My car, we’d parked at Pump Three. That man, Casey, at Pump Seven, he yanked the gas nozzle from his car. It was no accident. He hosed the Christmas tree on top of his car. Soaked every branch. Had gas just dripping off his rocker panels.
From DRVR Radio Graphic Traffic: Police and emergency-dispatch officials have requested that private citizens refrain from interfering with the suspect vehicle. At this point, at least six private cars have rammed the escaping car, all of them also carrying Christmas trees. Police blame this flurry of accidents for the suspect’s continual escape.
Police helicopters now report the primary suspect is northbound on the Greenbriar Thruway. Next update as it happens. For DRVR Graphic Traffic, this is Tina Something…
From the Field Notes of Green Taylor Simms: Forgive me for falling victim to the excitement of the moment. My intention wasn’t to abandon Mr. Dunyun. I acted instantly, engaging a conveyance and giving chase. The moment felt very much like a hunt—the plethora of lights and sirens—as if we were a pack of hounds baying after the same fox.
Any memory I might have of Mr. Dunyun at that stressful moment includes his mouth hanging slack, his uncomprehending tongue slathered in orange cheesefood. I stepped into the back of a cab and simply told the driver, “Follow the blue Christmas tree…”
From DRVR Radio Graphic Traffic: The police pursuit of a white Cadillac Seville has reached the West Side of town. At last estimate, some two hundred vehicles have formed a wave of traffic sweeping along behind the Christmas-tree car—which some witnesses report has sustained at least twelve intentional collisions from bystander vehicles. To date, the Seville seems to have lost its rear bumper, its exhaust system, and, judging from sparks, at least one rear wheel is running on the rim. We’ll let you know if the gas tank explodes. For DRVR Graphic Traffic, this is Tina Something reporting…
Shot Dunyun: How lame is this? We really believe a strip of paint down the middle of the road is going to keep us safe. That a white or yellow line is some kind of protection. I can tell you this, Rant Casey will never be one of those old Sharks, dragging his ass, hoping for someone kind enoughto ram him. No shit, there’s worse ways to be dead than dying.
From DRVR Radio Graphic Traffic: What started as an attempted traffic stop fo
r failure to obey a red light has snowballed into one of this city’s most dramatic police standoffs. Despite police protest, bystanders continue to ram, sideswipe, rear-end, scratch, and dent the escaping vehicle. More on this continuing story as is happens. This is Tina Something for DRVR Radio Graphic Traffic…
From the Field Notes of Green Taylor Simms: If you’ll ponder the thought, no one ever closes a thoroughfare due to the death of an individual. You can still drive over the spot on which James Dean died, or Jayne Mansfield, or Jackson Pollock. You can drive over the spot where a bus drove over Margaret Mitchell. Grace Kelly. Ernie Kovacs. Death is a tragic event, but stopping the flow of traffic is always seen as the greater crime.
From DRVR Radio Graphic Traffic: The police chase of our renegade Christmas-tree Cadillac has reached the Barlow Avenue Viaduct.
From the Field Notes of Green Taylor Simms: All of my automobile accidents have felt similar, like swimming through amber or honey. A moment unspools for years, time almost stops, in the same manner that one can dream for hours or days in the seven minutes between hitting the snooze button and the next alarm. In a car accident, you slow down to dream time. Time jells or freezes until you can recall every moment of every moment of every moment, the way Rant could taste your entire life in any single kiss.
Rant: An Oral Biography of Buster Casey Page 17
