by James Zerndt
We’ve got at least a two-hour charge ahead of us. While we wait, I try to talk to Jerusha but she’s got her pencil out, is staring holes through the window at one of the cops.
“I can file a complaint,” I say, but she turns her shoulders away. “Or I could talk to his superior. That might do something. Get him demoted.”
“Probably get the asshole promoted,” she hisses under her breath.
I keep quiet since all I seem to be accomplishing is making things worse. Dustin, too, seems to sense this, hasn’t said a word since we started Juicing.
To fill the silence, I turn the radio on.
They’re playing an old Louis Armstrong song, something about a wonderful world. I watch the cops outside laugh and strut around like kings, and suddenly it seems like this old, sentimental song is laughing at me.
At all of us.
Maybe Jerusha was hearing the same thing because, before I can stop her, she’s out the door, marching right toward the circle of cops.
“Shouldn’t we stop her?” Dustin says, rolling his window down so he can see better.
I want to get out, but it’s too late now.
Jerusha taps the shoulder of one of the cops and when he turns around, she leans full into his face and spits.
Not good.
The cop doesn’t even have time to wipe the hawker from his face before Jerusha’s tackled to the ground.
“Do NOT get out of this car,” I yell to Dustin, and, before I have time to think about what I’m doing, I’m running toward the men standing over the love of my life. One of them has a foot on her face, pushing it into the dirt. Another is straddling her from behind, cuffing her.
No.
That’s the only thing going through my mind when one of them spots me, pulls something from his holster and aims it at me.
No.
No.
No.
The next thing I know I’m on the ground, the wind raging around me, debris and dirt spawning little tornadoes everywhere.
And then nothingness.
Complete, unrememberable nothingness.
*
I’m lying in the dirt of our basement.
There are empty water bottles scattered around me.
Something’s dripping on my face.
Rain.
The roof is missing and Sergeant Lundy is standing over me. “Would you like to see your girlfriend, Officer Thomas?”
The ground beneath me is moving.
Squirming and groaning like an empty stomach.
Rain keeps dripping into my mouth.
When they bring Jerusha in, she’s wearing my Water-cop jacket and nothing else. She puts her hand on Sergeant Lundy’s shoulder, kisses him on the cheek.
“You didn’t really think somebody like me could love somebody like you, did you?”
The cops from the check point are there.
Everybody is laughing.
Jerusha is laughing.
More and more rain through the not-there roof.
I’m going to drown.
I’m going to drown and I don’t care one little bit.
*
“Thomas, can you hear me? Thomas?” I open my eyes to find Dustin hovering over me, a wet rag in his hand. He’s been dripping water onto my forehead. “You okay? You were tazed.”
“Where’s Jerusha?”
“Who do you think is driving?”
I hadn’t realized we were moving.
I try to sit up, but can’t. I listen as Dustin fills me in on how they shot me with something that looked like silly string, how I flopped around on the ground like a fish before passing out. He tells how Jerusha threatened to press charges if they didn’t let us all go. How they made a phone call and then let us go like nothing ever happened.
Something about it doesn’t make sense.
I know these people.
They don’t do anything out of kindness.
Everything is for the Operation.
When I start asking more questions, Dustin tells me to go to sleep, that Jerusha says it’s my only job right now. I don’t argue. My stomach feels like it just did ten thousand sit-ups.
And my head.
I have two of them.
Both of them inside vices.
I want to say something about how I didn’t mean to get us into any trouble, about the two of them being the only thing that matters to me anymore, about love, but it’s no use.
I can’t keep my eyes open.
*
Mom always wanted to live by the water. And Dad always wanted to live by Mom. So, after Mom’s “accident,” they compromised and moved to Oregon.
I have to admit I never much respected the way my dad followed after my mom like a lap dog.
It used to drive me crazy.
But now I get it.
He was in love.
Plain and simple.
My mom, not my dad, first taught me how to surf. This was before Dustin was born. I can still see Mom in her wetsuit, lying on her board, the green of her eyes flashing in anticipation as we waited for the next set.
“Get ready, Thomas. This one’s all yours,” she’d say and I’d start paddling, knowing she was always right. Dad used to say the breaks were like sonnets to Mom, that she could read them all day and never get bored.
I remember one day the waves being particularly big, telling Mom there was no way I could handle them. She just looked at me and laughed like I’d said something hilarious.
“Oh, Thomas. The only limits are the ones you choose to see.”
Funny, the things we remember.
*
Jerusha drives long into the night, taking us deeper and deeper south. Dustin’s sound asleep, but I’m awake, staring quietly out the window. I can’t see much of anything along the roadside, but even if I could, there’d just be withered trees and stumps, clouds of dirt, maybe a jaundiced sky.
My old trips to the coast with Mom help fill in what’s missing. I imagine herds of deer ghosting about in the woods, cows lazing in the sun, old swaying barns tossing their shadows across the land, farmers on tractors waving as we pass by, small towns with those giant white letters made from stone placed on their biggest hills like distress signals.
I can even imagine the ocean coming into view, the sun sparkling on the water, Mom smiling, her cheeks pushed up by some invisible hand and for a short while I swear I can feel her heart beating inside of mine.
By the time Jerusha finally pulls over, the sun is beginning to rise and the dust storm has ebbed some.
She honks the horn and Dustin jolts awake.
“Where are we?” he asks, all eye-boogers, then lifts his arm, smells his armpit. “Something stinks. Bad.”
“Body-wipe time,” Jerusha says and turns off the engine. She leans over the back seat, pushes her nose into my neck and gives a sniff.
“You’ll keep,” she says, then nudges Dustin. “But you won’t. Let’s go, mister.”
Dustin uses the open trunk for privacy, while Jerusha takes the front of the car, giving me some real scenery to look at for once. She has her back to me, working the body-wipe into her skin, slowly running it along her neck, her arms, tormenting me.
Why would anybody want to hurt something so amazing?
I try to stay awake, to soak in every particle of her, but it’s no use.
Minutes later, I’m out again.
Apology
My father used to take the boat out
into the middle of the lake
and play his guitar.
Out would come these arthritic blues
cast over the water like an apology
to all the fish he’d killed
over the years.
When he’d finish,
we’d listen to the wake
clapping hard against the dock.
6 Go Green 4 Life
I wake up to Lando Calrissian standing on my chest, one of his arms raised in something like a Nazi salute.
&nbs
p; “Wake up. That’s a direct order.”
Dustin’s already created a voice for Lando. It sounds suspiciously like Mr. T even though I know he’s never heard of Mr. T.
“What time is it?”
“Time to wake up.”
“D.”
“Around four.”
“Where’s Jerusha?”
“She went for a walk. Said she’d be back in a few.”
I sit up, roll the window down. No sight of Jerusha, but there’s a cactus a few feet from the car that looks like somebody’s under the earth’s floor with a straw sucking the life out of the thing.
“Wasn’t there another charging station? How’d we--?”
Dustin puts Lando in the glove compartment to suffocate and says, “We flashed our badges.”
“They didn’t say anything?”
“Like ask where we’re going?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“No,” he says. “They seemed bored.”
It’s hot out.
Dustin has his shirt wrapped around his head turban-style and I can see a grey smudge wavering in the distance that might be Jerusha. I ask Dustin to hand me the map and I follow the highway with my finger, note the check points marked in pencil.
“Did you listen to the radio much?”
“No. Jerusha said if she wanted to be brainwashed, she’d just listen to you. Whatever that means.”
“It means you didn’t listen to the radio.”
Dustin nods his head, looks out the window. I can tell he’s looking for Jerusha out there, wondering where the hell she went.
“We should have done something.”
“About what?” I say, hoping he’s not going to bring it up.
“About them messing with Jerusha like that. It wasn’t right.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“But they’re Water-cops,” Dustin says. “Like us.”
“No, D. Not like us. Remember how in Star Wars Darth Vader used to be a Jedi knight? Well, it’s kind of like that. These guys have gone over to the dark side.”
“And Jerusha is like Princess Leah?”
“Only way hotter.”
Dustin turns around, absolutely at ease, like all of this is par for the course, and says, “Okay. Protect her we will.”
I try to go back to surveying the desert but I can’t get the images out of my head: Jerusha with her pants down, Jerusha with a foot on her face, Jerusha watching me flail around on the ground like an epileptic fish...
I stagger out of the car, stand there in the desert like I’m going to do something dramatic, something that matters, but I can’t breathe and I start gulping air, swallowing it down like water.
The cactus.
I want to murder the cactus.
But even that’s dead already.
Be Green or Be Gone.
I don’t notice Dustin get out of the car, but he’s standing there next to me, trying to hand me a bottle of water.
“Drink,” he says, and I can hear our dad in his voice. “Drink,” he says again, softer, and I do.
*
By the time Jerusha gets back from her walk, her white tank-top is brown with dust, her face knotted with worry.
“We need to move,” she says as she gets into the car. “Another storm’s coming.”
We manage to outrun it, but as a result the car overheats.
“You sure the charge isn’t low?” I ask, my throat still raw from my melt-down earlier.
“I’m sure,” Jerusha says and pops the hood. The inside’s steaming away like a cauldron. She stands back, locks her eyes on Dustin, who’s still waiting in the car. “We need to get to a mechanic. Like soon.”
“There’s a place my dad marked on the map. Twinkie’s or something. It’s not too far from here. Think we can make it?”
Jerusha rubs her temples. “We’ll have to pee in it.”
“In the diaper?”
“In the radiator, smart guy.” She sits down on the bumper, a few degrees beyond irritated. “I’d do it myself, but your aim is probably better.”
“Right,” I say and start fanning the engine with my hand like maybe that’ll cool it down some.
“Sit down, Thomas.”
I sit.
On the ground.
At her feet.
“I didn’t mean in the dirt,” she says and pulls out her pencil, starts the routine.
“What’s wrong?”
I try to catch her eye, but she’s already lost in the string.
“Gee, I wonder what it could be.”
Suddenly I wish the storm did hit so I’d be covered in dust and darkness, so I wouldn’t have to deal with what’s coming next.
“I’m sorry,” I say, sounding younger than Dustin. “That shouldn’t have happened back there.”
“No,” she says, the string going haywire. “It shouldn’t happen anywhere.”
If I took the pencil out of her hand, it would almost look like her fingers were motioning for me to come closer.
The exact opposite of what she’s thinking.
“There wasn’t a whole lot I could do. I tried,” I say.
“For fuck’s sake, Thomas. That’s not what I’m saying. This isn’t Star Wars, and I’m certainly not any princess.”
Dustin must have told her while we were driving.
“I don’t know what you want me to do.”
The pencil stops, and she looks at me. “You could teach Dustin to not become one of those idiots. You could be an example for him.”
I stand up. “And how, exactly, am I supposed to do that?”
“You quit, Thomas. Simple as that.”
“I need to provide for him. How am I supposed to do that without a job?”
“I’ll teach you.” She’s quiet for a few seconds, then wraps the string around the pencil. “It’s the only way now, Thomas.”
I don’t know what to say to this, so I stand over the engine, try to figure the logistics. When I un-zip, Jerusha shakes her head at me, goes back inside the car to wait. I grip the hood for balance but when I let loose into the radiator, I still end up going all over the place. When I finish, I twist the cap shut, hope it’s enough for us to make it.
And even though I don’t want to admit it, I know Jerusha’s right.
My days as a Water-cop are over.
I know this the same way I knew I loved Jerusha the first time I saw her. The same way I knew what my parents did before I found them.
*
JESUS DON’T SELL NO LEMONS.
That’s what the sign outside the repair shop says.
Jerusha parks the car in the gravel lot, and we stare at the map in silence.
“I don’t know,” I say and open the door. “Dad marked it, so maybe whoever owns this was a friend of his.”
Is a friend of his.
“I don’t have too many debits left on my Citizen card, so let me do the talking,” Jerusha says. “Friend or no friend, a little sugar won’t hurt.”
The three of us go inside and find a man sitting behind a card table fanning himself with a wadded-up government newspaper.
He’s a big man.
A big man in overalls who exudes bigness.
Like Perry Mason. Only the Southern version. All that’s missing is a corncob pipe. Maybe a Confederate flag on the wall.
No way Dad was friends with this guy.
“Afternoon,” he says, but there’s not a trace of Texas in his voice. “I don’t suppose you’re interested in buying a Gasser?”
That’s what people call the old cars now. Gassers.
“Actually,” Jerusha says, her hands in her back pockets as she does this twisty-toed thing with her shoe. “I think my radiator might be having some heat issues.”
Big man smiles.
Jerusha smiles.
“Well, it just so happens I’m an expert in heat issues, young lady.”
“My lucky day.”
“Your lucky day,” he says. “These
two your handsome brothers?”
He talks sort of like Dad, slow and thoughtful. Like there’s this sub-text running beneath the conversation that only he can read.
“One handsome boyfriend and his younger, handsomer brother.”
The man squats down in front of Dustin, eye-level, like he read it in a book on how to communicate effectively with children. “My name’s Twink. Twink Frame. And what’s yours?”
Dustin turns, gives me his do-I-have-to? look and I just shrug-- which probably isn’t too smart because Dustin looks the guy straight in the face, and says, “What’s with the swimming pool?”
“The swimming pool?” Twink straightens up, takes a step back like Dustin might contaminate him. “Oh, that. That’s from PD.”
“PD?” Jerusha says, though she knows damn well what it means.
“Pre-drought.” Twink gestures toward some photos on the wall. “This used to be a used-car lot. Well, before things changed anyway.”
There’s a photo of a car being held aloft by a crane, dripping with water, like it’s just been dunked in the pool.
“Seems like a funny way to wash cars,” I say.
“That was no car wash,” Twink says, his face turning nostalgic. “That was a baptism.”
“A car baptism?”
Jerusha says it like it’s the most wonderful thing she’s ever heard of.
“Yep, the only authentic car-baptizing dealership in the world. Had the water holyized by a priest and everything.”
“I bet people came from all over just to buy one of your cars,” Jerusha says, the charm going full-blast.
“They did,” he says, his face beaming. “They did indeed.”
“Check this out,” Dustin says, pointing to an old hand-painted sign behind Twink’s desk.
Twink’s Ten Commandments
1. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s car
2. Thou shalt not worship any other used-car dealership
3. Thou shalt not take the name of Twink in vain
God nudges the sign with his foot, says, “That was a big hit. Couldn’t think of any more commandments, so I just told people the other seven got stolen. Customers used to eat that stuff up.”
“Genius marketing,” Jerusha says, beaming right back at him. “Really.”
He rocks back and forth on his heels, swelling with so much obvious pride I’m worried he might explode.
