George turned off the bypass and plunged into darkness, leaving the lights of the strip malls and gas stations behind them. It was a rainy night and the wipers cut back and forth across the windshield. The boy was excited to see that they weren’t heading in the direction of his home. He wondered where they were off to. It surprised him when he looked over his shoulder and saw that Becker’s Rabbit no longer followed them. George pushed a tape into the car stereo and some loud music spilled from the speakers. The boy tried to listen to the lyrics but the singer was indecipherable. Peckerhead pounded his fists on the dashboard of the car to the beat of the music.
George pulled into one of the new housing developments and the boys glared out the windows of the car.
“Here, here, here,” Peckerhead said. “Stop!” he shouted. He pushed open the door of the car, jumped to the pavement, and ran toward the mouth of a driveway. Through the rain-speckled rear window of the car, the boy watched him squat and get hold of a good-size ceramic flowerpot. He raised it over his head and dashed it to the pavement. The two adjacent flowerpots suffered a similar fate. The boys in the backseat of the car cheered him on. George had killed the headlights and he scanned their surroundings for any potential witnesses. Finished with the flowerpots, Peckerhead got both hands on a small cedar and ripped it from the ground. He shook it victoriously over his head and tossed it to the far side of the street. Then he attempted to tear down the mailbox. When it wouldn’t budge, he ran back to the car.
“Go! Come on, go!” he yelled as he jumped into the front seat. He was wet from being out in the rain and his breathing was heavy. The boy looked back again to see the broken pottery, the black soil spilled out over the flowers. The tree lay limp and alone where it had been thrown. It could probably be replanted, the boy thought.
“It’s like this,” George said after he’d turned the headlights back on and accelerated to a suitable speed. “Vandalism is a form of protest.”
“Hell, yeah,” Peckerhead said. “The German tribe shit, tell him the German tribe shit…”
“Peckerhead,” George said, holding up an index finger. “I’m getting there.” George turned onto another road of the development. “The Vandals tore up the Roman temples to protest the encroachment into their territory.” George looked to see if he was satisfied and Peckerhead nodded. “These people are encroaching on us.”
“They don’t belong here,” Peckerhead said.
George navigated the car through the maze of the development and the boy could tell that they were on the lookout for another display to assault.
“How do you know?” the boy said.
“What?” George said.
“How do you know?” the boy said again.
“How do we know what?” George said.
“That they’re Federalists.”
“Look,” George said. “Do these houses look like our houses?”
The boy looked at George’s reflection in the rearview mirror.
“Damn,” Peckerhead suddenly burst out. “This is my favorite shirt.” George hit the interior light and Peckerhead held the fabric up to show everyone that the rain had caused his black suspenders to bleed onto his white T-shirt. Earlier in the night the boy had noticed that the shirt had a simple depiction of Reagan’s face on the front. The two other boys in the backseat now lifted their own suspenders to see if their shirts had suffered a similar fate. They’d been spared but the boy could tell that Peckerhead’s experience had seriously stifled anyone’s interest in further action. There were no more requests for George to stop, even though the boy saw several appealing targets: a mailbox in the shape of a swordfish, a water fountain that glowed the color of a healthy pumpkin, a false well house with bucket, rope, and hand crank.
A large illuminated sign stood at one of the exits of the development. It was wooden, the letters ornately carved and painted: WESTCHESTER ESTATES. The car stood at the intersection as the boys bent their necks down to see it atop a small knoll. Cars passed more frequently on the road the development spilled out onto.
“Westchester, my ass,” Peckerhead hissed. He kicked open the door and jumped out of the car.
“Peckerhead,” George yelled. He rolled down his window. “Peckerhead,” he said again. “The goddamn road.”
Undaunted, Peckerhead marched up the hill to the sign. George panicked a little and finally backed the car up, away from the main road, with the door still open. The boy reached forward and closed it, turning out the interior light. It was quiet in the car as they watched Peckerhead do everything he could to try to bring the sign down. He karate-kicked it twice, then got a running start and threw his shoulder into it. The sign held its ground and Peckerhead stumbled backward, rubbing his arm. He ran at it again and clambered awkwardly atop the sign. He shifted his weight back and forth in an attempt to loosen it from its footing. The sign didn’t budge and Peckerhead eventually lost his balance and fell to the ground. The boys in the car flinched at his landing. Peckerhead scrambled back to his feet, picked up a rock, and smashed the lights that illuminated the wooden facade. When he got back to the road, he turned and hurled the rock at the sign, missing it by a foot or so.
George drove the car out onto the bypass and eased it up to the fifty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit. In response to the general feeling of defeat that lingered in the car, George began a lecture on the new local economy: “They want their Egg McMuffins and coffee on their commute—”
“What the hell is that?” Peckerhead cut in. He looked at George and then the boys in the backseat. He held out his hand and it shook in the air. George looked around the dashboard for some sort of sign. The shimmy quickly progressed, and soon the entire car shuddered.
“Pull over,” the boy said, but George kept driving. The thumping began, getting louder, quickly louder, and the car shook more violently.
“I messed up my car,” George said with a sad confusion in his voice.
“Pull over,” the boy said again, and George finally let it coast into the breakdown lane.
Outside they stood in a semicircle, staring at the smoking rear tire. There was an awe among them, an awkward silence that confused the boy. They were frozen.
“We’re sitting ducks,” Peckerhead said.
“The cops can’t prove anything,” George told him.
“I’m more worried about the guy whose place I just tore up,” Peckerhead said. “Getting vigilante on us.” He rubbed the top of his head and looked back and forth in either direction on the dark road.
It suddenly became clear to the boy what the problem was: These guys didn’t know how to change a tire. “Pop the trunk,” he said.
Even though he didn’t destroy a single Federalist lawn ornament, the boy still ended up the hero of the night. There were pats on his back and high-fives, and when they met up with the others back at Denny’s, they all began calling him Teddy the Mechanic. By the end of the night it had been shortened to Teddy the Wrench, and the boy liked this very much.
He liked it all very much. He liked the handshakes, the smiles, the older guys telling him he’d do just fine with them. He started to see that everything that was good in the world was a result of honest American values. Anything bad was a result of a departure from those core principles.
Those kids in seventh grade, the ones that made fun of him because his sneakers only looked like Nikes: fucking Federalist assholes.
George didn’t want to drive far on the spare tire, so Jason agreed to take the boy home. Some angry music spilled from the tape deck and the two spoke little. The boy was surprised when the car slowed and Becker turned into the Sandy Creek development. For a moment he thought Becker had taken a wrong turn. He was about to say something when Becker looked over and said, “This is for you, Teddy.” He throttled the car. “Hold on,” he said.
The car quickly accelerated and the boy reached up and grabbed the handle above the door. With his left hand he reached down and got a good grip on the bottom of the seat. The Volkswage
n barreled onto the fresh-cut lawn, mowed with the precision of a fresh flattop. Becker spun the wheel sharp and wrenched up on the emergency brake. The car went into a wild power slide and the tail end came almost all the way around. When the car came to a rest, Becker threw it into reverse, floored it, and cut the wheel. As they spun, the boy saw the lights of the house come and go, come and go from his field of vision. The car was filled with the noise of the racing engine and the clatter of soil and stone pummeling the wheel wells. They came to a stop and the boy heard the music again. Becker shifted and drove quickly back to the road. He looked over to the boy.
“We haven’t forgotten,” he said.
“What?”
“That they tried to blame you for what happened.”
“How do you know where they live?”
“Mrs. Dennison?” Becker chuckled. “Man, she’s high on our list. We’ve been sending her anonymous hate mail since she made her debut on the town council.”
“Why?” the boy said.
“Don’t give me that naïve crap,” Becker said. “This isn’t some little game. This is our town. This is everything.”
The boy sat on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. He didn’t feel good about the Dennisons’ lawn. He didn’t feel good about the hate mail. He still didn’t feel good about Bobby, not even okay. He saw Kevin around school and he could see that he didn’t feel so good about it either. Kevin wore high combat boots and his hair was shorn unevenly. He wore a lot of black. He had the look of a boy with troubles.
The boy ran the fingers of his right hand under the sleeve of his T-shirt, along the inside of his left arm. A fingernail caught on the edge of scab and he picked at it. The most recent burn was swollen and tender to the touch—his fingers jumped away from the blistered flesh. Each time, he swore it was the last. For a spell of days and nights he could keep away from it, but when his mind got to racing, he always justified another.
He couldn’t say why he did it, or why it felt so good. He just knew that when he did it, he became the burning, he became the pain, and when he was the pain, he didn’t have to be anything else.
8
After school the next day, a small entourage of Youth members took the boy on a trip to the mall. After leaving one of the larger department stores, Becker motioned for the others to follow him. Once in the bathroom, Becker pulled a pair of black suspenders out of his pants. He saw the look of surprise on the boy and said, “Corporate chains rob us blind.” The boy put on the suspenders. Before they left the bathroom, Becker said, “Cuff up your pants.” In doing so the boy further exposed the old pair of loafers Becker had traded him for a Wrist-Rocket slingshot. Birch leaned back and kicked open the bathroom door. It resounded with a boom and the boom’s echo, but the boy never flinched. The four of them hit their stride on the concourse. The boy’s skin rose in goose bumps and static tingled in his scalp.
After the mall, Jason and the boy went to the gun shop to wait for George to get off. They sat around reading the magazines that collected in the shop. George’s girlfriend walked through the door, setting off the electronic chime. The boy looked up from the most recent copy of Soldier of Fortune. He thought she was cute—Colleen Crenshaw—with her sad eyes and the nose ring that George hated. Colleen and George smiled and kissed over the counter.
“Mom’s going to let me off early,” George said.
“What do you want to do?” She bent over and rested her head in her hands. Her elbows sat atop the glass gun case. She wore a short skirt and the boy tried desperately not to stare. They were both in ninth grade, but Colleen was a year and a half older than he was. She had a driver’s license and a blue Ford Escort.
George shrugged. “You?” he said.
“Let’s go shopping.”
“Yeah?”
She nodded.
When George’s mother arrived, the four climbed into Becker’s car. George insisted on riding in the front seat, leaving Colleen and the boy cramped together in the back. Colleen leaned in to speak to him, so close as to send soft washes of breath against his ear. This perpetuated flurries of what felt like electricity to the ends of his limbs. When the car turned, she reached down and took hold of the boy’s thigh to steady herself. When they stopped to stroll through music shops and pawn shops and used-clothing stores, the boy couldn’t wait to return to the cramped backseat of the Volkswagen.
They stopped at a barn that had been converted into a large indoor flea market. On summer weekends, stands and tables covered much of the old pasture, but during the week they vanished and the market retreated inside the musty barn. Jason said it was a great place to find switchblades and billy clubs. The barn was mostly filled with old odds and ends of furniture, but there were the occasional glass cases that held strange collections of coins, knives, thimbles, and sports cards. George and Colleen had taken off on their own as soon as they arrived, leaving Becker and the boy to stroll by themselves.
“I always wanted one of those,” Becker said.
The boy stood at his side. “The racetrack?”
“Box looks brand new,” Jason said.
The boy nodded.
“Ten bucks,” Jason said as he fingered the stringed price tag. “Way too much.” He walked around a corner. “Hey,” he called out. “Come here a minute.”
An old man scuffled over in a pair of slippers. He looked at Jason.
“What’s the best you can do on this?” Jason said.
“What’s it say?”
“Ten bucks.”
“Well,” the old man said. “You can read.”
“Ten?” said Jason. “Come on. I got five.” He held out a wad of bills.
“Get another five off your buddy and you got a deal.” The old man smiled.
“Probably doesn’t even work,” Jason said.
“I took a couple laps on her myself. Just to be sure.”
“I need a birthday present for my little brother,” Jason said.
“Seven,” the old man told him.
“Six,” Jason said.
“Six?”
“Six,” said Jason.
The old man finally nodded and the two carried out the transaction. The old man smiled, said thanks, and shuffled back to his post. Jason took up the package. “I’ll take this out to the car,” he told the boy. “You go and get them two.”
The boy nodded and proceeded to wander about the barn. When he didn’t find them on the first floor, he headed up into the loft. He was about halfway up the stairs when his head cleared the second floor. In a gap between two pieces of furniture, he caught sight of George and Colleen. He had moved past the opening and he had to lean back to see them again. Colleen sat high on a bureau and George stood between her legs. Her arms were wrapped around his neck and their heads moved back and forth as they kissed. The boy’s breathing quickened. He knew he should call out or head to the car and wait, but he didn’t move. Colleen took an arm from around George’s neck and reached down to take hold of his wrist. She pulled his hand up to her breast and moved it in slow circles. George suddenly pulled his hand away and let it fall back to its place on the bureau. She tried to take hold of his wrist again but George held firm and then withdrew from their embrace.
“How many times have I told you?” he said.
She smiled at him.
“It’s not funny,” he said in a harsh whisper.
“I don’t think feeling me up is going to get you sent to hell.”
“One thing leads to another. Then what?”
“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “Then what?”
“Stop it,” he told her.
She pulled him close and began whispering in his ear. George pushed her arms off of him and quickly stepped back. “Goddammit,” he said. “Why do you have to be such a slut?” He turned and walked away from her. When he rounded the corner to the stairwell, he came face-to-face with the boy. Neither spoke, they stared, wide-eyed, at each other.
“I was just coming for yo
u,” the boy said finally. “Jason sent me. He’s out at the car.”
George rumbled past him on the stairs. “Let’s get out of here,” he said. Colleen came around the corner of the stairs and caught the boy’s eye. He looked up and she wowed her eyes at him. She mouthed the word Oops and put a hand on his shoulder as she passed him.
In the backseat of the car the boy slouched under the box of the electric racetrack. It protruded from the hatchback, just over his head, and cramped him further in the already small space.
“You’re going to get a crick in your neck,” Colleen said. She smiled. She reached up and massaged his shoulder, working her small fingers up to his neck and then to the back of his head. He held his breath. He looked up to the front of the car. Jason and George were having a loud conversation over the loud music from the stereo. “Don’t worry,” she told him, her hand still working on him. “They’re busy.”
He quickly looked away from her, out the window.
That evening, Jason Becker’s mother went out on a date and a significant portion of the Youth congregated at his apartment. The boys crowded around the television in the living room, where they watched a videotape of a band whose political platform cohered with their own. The bald, bare-chested singer screamed out precisely what was wrong with the world. Heads rocked to the steely and static-ridden music that squawked from the television speaker. There were shots of the sweaty and seething crowd—fists shot into the air and the mob surged here and there as a whole, like a collection of small fish or birds.
American Youth Page 7
