by Mark Tufo
“Why is the house so clean?” she asked with an edge. I knew she was sniffing, but what did she smell? I had prepared myself for a lot of possible defenses; this was not on the list. Luckily, I still had some wits about me.
“Geez, Mom,” I said in my best exasperated tone. “I try to help out a little around here and you question my motives?” That should unsettle her a little bit.
“It’s not that I’m questioning your motives, it’s that you never clean up around here and now all of a sudden… I just don’t know what to think.”
Light bulbs lit up in my head; I was a genius! I turned back around to face her. She braced herself as in preparation for battle. I knew that was what she wanted. I headed straight for her. She had not been ready for that; she began to shy away. I grabbed her and gave her a bear hug. I made sure to keep my head next to hers but my face opposite, so she wouldn’t smell through me. I told her I just wanted to surprise her and clean up because I loved her. That made her quieter than my original quip; I disengaged myself from her and went into my room. I didn’t look back for fear of giving up the ruse, but I’m pretty sure she stood there for a full five minutes at least, with a slack jaw and all. She had been so ready for a verbal scrape she had not prepared for my super secret stealth attack. I completely disarmed her, but now I wasn’t sure if this meant I had to now keep helping out around the house. If that was the case, who truly did win this battle?
CHAPTER 9 – Journal Entry 9
Fast forward some. Closing in on sixteen and heading into junior year, all seemed right with the world, at least up until the point Paul and Dennis died. Okay-okay, I’ll ease up on the drama. Almost died. Paul was the first of our bunch to get his license and a car. Sure, I had a permit. My parents barely wanted me in their car when we went somewhere, they sure weren’t going to let me drive it. Dennis seemed less than interested in getting his license, he was pretty much in the same boat as me, no money and parents who were not going to hand him keys to the Mercedes, or in this case, the Oldsmobile. So there we were, pretty much leaving our lives on the line to a guy who would eat whole pepper packets, paper and all, on a fifty-cent bet.
We had gone to probably the last show for the season at the local drive-in. I think the only one remaining on the entire east coast. It was a Cheech and Chong movie festival which in its own right would have been funny enough, but we upped the ante a little. Every time Cheech & Chong lit up, we took a sip from our beers and unless you’ve actually done this you wouldn’t believe how many times they do it. I’m pretty sure we mowed through at least a case and-a-half of Budweiser, and I know we single-handedly sent the drive-in restaurant owner’s son through college. My gut ached from all the cokes and fries and Raisinets and hot dogs and cheap imitation hamburgers on stale buns we ate. There was cardboard pizza, which, by the way, when you are drinking is phenomenal. None of us were awake for the end of the third movie, it was an usher knocking on the window that finally got us up. Paul was lit up like a Christmas tree, although so were Dennis and myself, with one huge difference—we weren’t driving. Well, inexperience and beer rarely lead to good things and unfortunately this was no exception.
“You okay to drive?” I mumbled as I tried to sit up straight. My gut ached and my eyes burned, but I didn’t want to leave Paul hanging. I figured as long as I talked he would be good to go.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he said, rubbing his eyes too. “Holy crap, Talbot. I’m cooked.”
“You and me both. Dennis still hasn’t woken up.”
“Do you think we should shave his eyebrows?” Paul said with a near sinister sneer.
“If I could muster enough strength, probably, but right now I just want to curl up in my bed and dream about Cathy McCabe.”
“I hear you.” And with that Paul started the engine of his 1985 Camaro. It roared to life like only a 350 four barrel can. Paul peeled out, narrowly missing the speaker pole in front of us. He didn’t even notice. I sure did, though, and my feeling of unease began to grow. I had contemplated putting my seatbelt on but that would have labeled me as a baby. So we just kept talking, and joking, until Stairway to Heaven came on, and then the music became decibels louder making it nearly impossible to talk, but that was just fine. Music can be one of the best stimulants on the planet if you immerse yourself in it and let it take you for a ride. Unfortunately, Paul decided to ride that wave a little further than he should have, engulfing himself in the song. My memory became a little fragmentary, time seemed to come sliced into mini segments each of which I was able to analyze in full depth as it occurred but could barely remember upon retrieval. In the distance, I heard what I thought were tires screeching but it made no sense until the car was violently thrust to the left, pinning me against the passenger door. I turned in surprise to look at Paul whose expression was one of complete terror. I wasn’t sure why until I looked up and through the windshield to notice the rapidly approaching tree. We were in trouble now, he knew it and I knew it. And for better or worse, Dennis still had no clue. The car slammed into the tree with all the fury a two-ton machine can muster; I vaguely remember Paul becoming pinned between the driver’s seat and the steering wheel as I flew by. Yes, flew, my momentum was hurdling me out through the already smashed windshield on a collision course with said tree. I thought for a moment that I must have been back in my in-school suspension—time had seemingly stopped. That moment played out frame by frame, my mind racing at an extraordinary pace, and I was instantaneously able to relive most of my high points and subsequent low points while hastily exiting the vehicle. Halfway through the window and I was five years old playing with our family dog, futilely wrestling an Easter egg out of his mouth. Feet clearing the windshield, I was seven, my sister was dressing me up for our cousin’s wedding, and I was crying like a—well, a seven year old, I guess. Halfway across the hood, a starry night with Alice and my first foray into manhood. Three-quarters past the hood, THE break-up. And countless other images raced, the closer my ultimate fate became, the quicker my mind went into overdrive. And then contact, not the brain crushing, mind-ending, life-stopping contact I had been expecting, but more of a glancing blow. I was amazed at the detail in the bark of the tree as I cruised by; I even saw an ant hefting up what looked to be a cricket leg. My mind struggled to understand what was happening and then terror again rose up as I tried to remember what else was on this stretch of road. Was I going to be spared the tree only to go crashing into an even less yielding stone wall? At this point, I even wanted my mother, I must have been about to die. And then my upward arc ended, gravity took over and my descent began. Would I land on skin ripping pavement? Head first? My mind might have been racing but the speed at which I was traveling completely prevented me from doing anything about my predicament and I wasn’t sure if anything I did then would have made a difference anyway. So I traveled through the air and through the years of my life. I landed with an audible thud and resounding crack, then I bounced at least another five feet in the air. It was the second landing that proved the most painful, with my now fractured arm pinned under me I cried in pain, but on this lonely stretch of road there was no one to hear me, not even my friends. Paul and Dennis, what happened to them? Panic nearly engulfed me. Vomit filled my mouth. I was somehow able to force down the shock threatening to completely shut down my nervous system. I had to help my friends. And then I saw it, a tiny spark under the car; the fuel line caught and I knew what would happen. Did they get ejected too? No, I knew Paul was still in the car, the steering wheel made sure of that. What about Dennis—did he ever wake up from his slumber? Maybe he was better off.
“Help,” I heard weakly. To be honest, I wasn’t sure if I had muttered it or heard it.
“Help,” I heard again. I was pretty sure this time that I hadn’t said it but honestly I wasn’t a hundred percent.
“I’m coming,” I rasped aloud just in case it had been Paul. I knew he hadn’t heard me because I barely heard it and he was at least twenty-five feet away. Fla
mes began to lick up the doors of the car; even from this distance I saw the horror in Paul’s eyes as he turned his head and looked toward me. I stood up slowly, fearful I had broken my leg, back, or neck for that matter, and I would have to sit here helpless as my friends cooked alive. I puked, but while I was moving. I couldn’t waste time worrying about the muscle spasms in my gut, but my arm, that was another crippling matter. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt there was no way I was going to be able to use it when I got to the car. My forearm was bent. I would later learn that this type of break was called a compound fracture worsened by the bone poking through my skin. Would I be able to do what needed to be done with one arm? Fear raced through me and adrenaline surged. I lurched forward dizzyingly slow; my mind was still in hyper drive, making my movements seem even more exceedingly slow. My friends were going to slow roast while I shuffled over. But in reality little more than twenty seconds passed from the moment I stood up until I reached the car. I could feel the heat of the flames a full ten feet before I got to the door. Paul was frantically trying to pry the steering wheel off his chest, as it had effectively pinned him in like a vise. And to add to my horror I could see Dennis’ leg sticking up from the back seat. I had no idea if the force of the crash had killed him instantly or merely stunned him, but either way it didn’t appear to me that he would be making an exit of his own volition anytime soon. I stared at Paul in panic, searching my mind for some way to help; with one good arm I didn’t like the odds. And then without thinking I opened the passenger door, which was in surprisingly good shape considering the front end of Paul’s car was now an inverted ‘v’ to make way for the new oak exterior. One good arm might not do the trick but with two good legs I should have been all right, I figured.
“Paulie, you all right?”
“Yah, except for the broken ribs and potential barbecuing I’m doing dandy,” he wheezed.
“Paul, I’m going to get Dennis out first.” Paul understood the equation. Dennis wasn’t pinned against anything, so if the car blew at least somebody would survive.
“Just hurry. Barb’s gonna be pissed if I ruin this new shirt she bought me.” He grunted a little with what could have passed for laughter.
“Save your strength, I’m gonna need your help when I get to that steering wheel.” I showed him my broken wing.
“I didn’t know you were double jointed.” Paul said. I wasn’t sure if it was an attempt at humor or if he had slammed his head too hard on the steering wheel. I was trying my best to stave off shock, but Paul was rapidly succumbing, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad state to be in considering we could be fuel for the fire real soon. Sirens were wailing in the distance, but I knew they were too far off to be of any assistance to us now. It was going to be up to me, but I wasn’t feeling up to the challenge. I reached down, thanking all the gods I could think of when I felt a belt around Dennis’ waist; I jerked with all my strength, wincing as my broken arm was pushed against my body and the seat. Dennis huffed as I tugged on his belt. Thank you, God, I thought, he’s alive. But the blood flowing from his head completely convinced me he was going to be of no assistance once I released him from our fiery prison. Halfway up the seat and I almost dropped him back down as my protruding shard of bone had now broken skin on my rib cage. The pain was excruciating, my vision began to blur. If I blacked out, we were all toast, pun intended. So I braced my legs up against the seat and pulled for all I was worth, Dennis rolled over the top of the seat and square onto my broken arm. I screamed like a girl, a deep throated loud girl, and for a moment I did pass out.
“Mike! Wake up! Mike! Help!!” I could hear it in the distance, it sounded vaguely familiar, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out why my alarm clock would be saying my name. Man, it’s hot in here, my parents were too cheap to even get air conditioning. Fans in the summertime don’t do squat except move hot air around.
“Talbot! Get up!” There it was again. And the heat and the smell, what was that smell? It smelled like burnt plastic and rubber and what was that other smell burnt hair? I jolted awake, pain flooding my every sense. Dennis was in my lap, Paul was on fire. Huh?! I swept out the cobwebs as quickly as I could, shoving Dennis off me and turned to look at Paul, his eyes pleading with me to not leave him there.
“Paul, I just want to get him clear.” I bent down once again, grabbing Dennis’ belt and dragging him about fifteen feet from the car. I struggled with my one good hand to take off his jacket before I ran back. I hopped back into the car and threw Dennis’ jacket over the flame that had started on Paul’s left sleeve. I braced my back against my seat. With the heels of my feet I pushed for all I was worth on the top part of the steering wheel. Nothing happened. I began to wonder what burning alive would be like, because I knew in my heart of hearts there was no way I was leaving him here alone.
“Paul, I’m going need your help.”
“Mike, I don’t have much left.”
“Whatever you got, because we either both get out of here or we’re both going to be on the school lunch menu tomorrow.”
“Anything but that,” he croaked.
“When I say three.” But there was no time for a countdown. “Three!”
Paul gripped the bottom part of the wheel and pushed up while I continued my assault from the top. At first nothing happened. And then above the sizzling of the polyvinyl there was an audible creak. Something was giving and hopefully it wasn’t Paul’s ribs. The steering column moved a fraction of an inch at a time at a painstakingly slow pace. To make matters worse, as it moved, so did Paul’s semi-collapsed chest, giving the illusion that the damn thing wasn’t going to yield its prize. the Chevy did not want to die alone. With renewed effort Paul and I pushed with one final exhaustive burst of strength and there it was, daylight—well not quite—more like fire light, but I could see light between Paul and the steering column.
“This isn’t going to feel good.”
Paul barely had time to mutter “What?” I grabbed the material on his shoulder and unceremoniously hauled him out of the car. His butt slammed off the ground, now it was Paul’s turn to scream like a girl. Well, at least now he couldn’t use that against me, I thought as I dragged him farther away from the wreckage.
Police and fire rescue arrived as Paul’s car popped and shattered in its death throes; there was no Hollywood theatrical explosion; just more of a slow melt down. Besides a few broken bones and some burnt up beer cans we were no worse for the wear. Dennis awoke three hours later at Norwood Memorial Hospital with one hell of a headache, the result of a serious concussion. He missed the entire event, not being able to recall one single detail for the police. They thought he was covering for Paul, but he had been passed out and then knocked out. Waking up in the hospital had been a complete surprise for him and after he had the tale retold to him, he said he was glad he wasn’t around for it. Paul was a little worse off than my broken arm. The doctors assured me I would only have to wear the constricting itching cast for a mere six months. Paul had broken two of his ribs, scraped his lung and bruised his liver. Nothing deadly, but extremely painful and with the smoke inhalation he had suffered, the coughing fits were making his life a living hell. Even Barb at her best, or worst, couldn’t touch the pain he was feeling. I ended up receiving an award for my bravery, but I didn’t see it that way. Would I have done it for strangers? I don’t know. I did it for the love of my friends and the cowardice of knowing that had they died it would have been because I didn’t try to do anything. I guess the outcome was the same, but I was approaching it from a different angle. The more I look at this story as I write it the more believable the tale of the butterfly in Japan setting off a hurricane in Florida becomes. Little events seem to ripple out and cause greater change as they go. I will never forget that night.
Dennis left the hospital the very next day, the lucky bastard; we made him swear to us that he’d sneak us up some Chinese food from the Kihei. I stayed in Jell-O hell for another six days, but Paul took the prize
at a whopping two weeks. It was during these healing times that we stumbled upon probably one of the greatest board games ever created, Risk, the game of global domination. Some might have thought we were crazy to stay in on Friday nights to play a board game, but Paul couldn’t burp without crying, my arm was locked from the shoulder down and Dennis occasionally suffered from some mind-numbing headaches. We could usually rope a couple of our other friends into joining the fray. We spent many a recuperative night learning the ins and outs of strategy and tactics and I guess diplomacy. Hey, nobody wants to go out first. I loved those times, they were the most unhindered aspect of our young lives. We were in the company of great friends and we were alive. You always hear the clichés about people who say they have a renewed sense of what was truly important in life when they come face-to-face with death and for the most part they were right. The bond between myself, Paul, and Dennis had become rock solid. What I lost that night, though, was the feeling of invincibility, which all teenagers seem to have innately built within them. Maybe that was a good thing, the jury was still out.
CHAPTER 10 – Journal Entry 10
Senior year came and blurred by. The Friday night Risk games turned into the Thursday night occasional Risk games so as not to interfere with senior partying times. My love life had taken a twist that not even Paul or Dennis saw coming. For the most part I had flitted from girl to girl without so much as looking over my shoulder. I was something of a player. Although I didn’t see it that way, I just usually let the girls do the work for me. It was so easy. She would just blab away about how this or that friend thought I was sooo cute. And I’d be like ‘Oh, really, what was her name again?’ And then I’d just give the friend a call. Women are funny like that—they won’t think twice about stepping over their ‘friend’ to get to a guy. Guys, though, for the most part have an unwritten rule about seeing a friend’s ex unless it is clearly stated by the ex that he has no problem with that arrangement. Of course, there are exceptions to the rule. But even so, guys will beat the tar out of each other, pick each other up, shake hands and be done with the whole situation. Girls, well, they’ll pretty much be enemies for life, never going to fisticuffs but at the drop of a pin they will tongue lash each other at every given opportunity. And this is where my so-called player days came to a screeching halt. Her name was Mandy and she just plain-out floored me. The last thing I was looking for my senior year was a steady. But I just couldn’t help myself. She was gorgeous, she could cook, and she had the brains of a turnip, pretty much the three qualities any guy is looking for in a relationship. She genuinely loved me and I think at that time I might have actually had some of those same feelings for her. The problem was Mandy was a small town girl, she had no desire to go to college or even the next town over. She probably figured with my advanced degree in partyology, I wasn’t going anywhere, either. So when I received my acceptances from four different universities, I couldn’t find the intestinal fortitude to tell her. I basically just wanted to get up one late August day and be gone. I began to let everything slide once I realized I didn’t have to impress anymore acceptance boards. I coasted through the remainder of the year usually in an alcohol-induced daze. Two of the acceptances were from the Eastern Seaboard and never saw the light of day. I burned those so my mother or Mandy would never see them. My options, as far as I was concerned, were CU in Boulder or UCLA, but I was never a fan of warm weather or earthquakes for that matter. A lot of crazy things happen in this world. Planes crash, people die, but the Earth—well, that was never supposed to move. So CU it was.
