by Brian Bakos
we stop under a tree for a membership conference.
“Maybe we should turn back,” Tommy says.
“We’ve come this far, so let’s at least get to the park,” Melissa says. “It must have a picnic shelter, don’t you think?”
“Probably,” Tommy says.
Quentin shrugs. “It doesn’t matter to me one way or the other.”
The crash must have deflated him quite a bit. Ordinarily, Quentin would want to press on even if the sky was caving in. I glance around us. The whole area looks kind of shabby and semi-abandoned. This adds to the general gloom.
Even so, the park can’t be far off.
“We may as well keep going,” I say. “We’ll get very wet in any case.”
Nobody disagrees too much, not even Tommy. So we start riding through the on again / off again rain toward the park and its supposed shelter – as if we are bound for the Emerald City, or some such place.
The atmosphere is shadowy and mysterious, my thoughts turn toward all sorts of weird ideas. I wonder, for example: what would happen to people who could only eat grapefruit if they became allergic to it? Or what if the couple starring in a romantic movie can’t stand each other in real life?
Or why do earth worms come out of the ground on rainy days just so they can get run over? I try to avoid them, but my front tire squishes one. Disgusting!
I also think about my Grandma and Grandpa Lenin.
If you’ve read First Ring Rainbow and are wondering if my communist grandparents got deported back to Russia, the answer is no. Not yet, anyway. Grandpa’s been sick in the hospital, which delayed things, and Mom found them a tough new lawyer who is fighting the Deportation Man hard.
We’ll just have to wait and see if they can stay in America or not. I certainly hope so, I’ve become very fond of them. They’re family, after all, even if they seem to be from another world.
The rain is coming down steady when we reach the park. The place is covered with thick mist, like some haunted cemetery in a horror movie. You could almost mistake a knocked over trash barrel for a tombstone. Tommy jabs out a finger.
“The picnic shelter’s over there,” he says.
I strain my eyes to pick the shelter out of the gloom. There it is, all right, like a dry oasis in a reversed desert.
Behind us, a police car is parked on the dirt road. The officer behind the wheel is sound asleep. The windows are getting steamed up, and I can barely see him anymore.
“Our tax dollars at work,” as my dad would say.
We leave the sidewalk and start riding over the grass toward the shelter; everyone except for Melissa, who is sloshing along on foot.
“What’s the matter?” I call back to her.
“I can’t ride through this,” she says, “my tires are too skinny.”
I get off my bike and walk it alongside hers. This is dumb, I suppose, but it doesn’t seem right to let her struggle on alone. Water soaks into my tennies, which is very disgusting.
“Looks like your English racer ran out of tricks,” I can’t help saying.
Before Melissa can make some snotty answer, thunder begins rumbling and a lightning bolt rips the sky.
“Oh!” Melissa and I gasp together.
“Hurry up!” Tommy runs back toward us from the shelter. “You’ll get sizzled out here!”
He doesn’t have to warn us twice. We dash the last several yards toward safety.
7. Things Get Weird
The shelter isn’t the classiest place I’ve even been. The cement floor is cracked and dippy. Beat up old picnic tables are jumbled about. Rain drums over us, and a steady stream of water leaks through the metal roof, collecting in puddles on the floor.
At least we’re out of the lightning, but the whole place is eerie and closed in. A wall of mist surrounds us on three sides; dense woods presses us from the back.
“How do you like it?” Tommy asks with his usual ‘look on the bright side’ manner.
He can be annoying sometimes with all his good cheer. And just how am I supposed to answer such a question?
“It’s like we’re in a haunted house,” I say.
“Quite so.” Melissa flicks a raindrop off her arm. “This trip was an absolutely fabulous idea, don’t you think?”
Quentin does not reply to this obvious dig. A thunderclap speaks instead. We all flinch.
“That was close!” I say.
“Yeah,” Melissa says.
Some of the sass has gone out of her, and she looks a bit pale. Tommy tries to smooth the situation.
“I was watching this TV show about India,” he says. “Over there, they lay out dead people under shelters that look sort of like this one.”
“How nice,” Melissa says.
“Yeah, and they burn corpses right out in the open,” Tommy says, “or dump them in the river.”
“Thanks, Tommy,” I say, “I really needed to hear that.”
He shrugs. “Yeah, well ...”
We all sit along a picnic table bench like a row of drowned rats. My hair is plastered to my skull and must look awful. I’m glad nobody has a mirror.
“At least I got my bike washed,” Tommy says. “It was getting pretty dusty.”
His words fall flat. Melissa rolls her eyes, as if to say that Tommy is not up to her lofty social standards. Somehow, her hair doesn’t look all that bad. How does she manage that? She glances at her watch.
“And to think I could have gone shopping with Nicole,” she says. “I wonder if she’s having as much fun as I am.”
Yeah, I think, but if you were at the mall, you wouldn’t be able to show off your fancy new bike!
I don’t say anything, though. This doesn’t seem like the kind of atmosphere where you’d want to argue with people.
A bike / roller skate track runs around the edge of the park. Rain hisses on the asphalt surface like frying bacon. It’s coming up on lunch time, but the dank, wormy smell in the air takes away my appetite. The whole area is deserted, except for us.
Another bolt of lightning shoots past; powerful thunder rattles the shelter. We all jump.
“That was really close!” Tommy says.
I gulp my heart back down.
“This is getting to be a definite problem,” I say.
Melissa goes another shade paler, and she grips my arm hard. Only Quentin looks unfazed, almost as if he wouldn’t mind getting zapped by a lightning bolt – as if this uproar is the most natural thing in the world.
Well, I guess this storm is only natural, but it’s darned unpleasant just the same. Anyway, we’re stuck out here until it passes.
“This shelter has been standing a long time,” Tommy says. “So, I guess it can survive another storm.”
“Or not,” Melissa says.
The sidewalk is a good seventy-five yards away. A dirt road runs alongside it. If there are houses out there, I can’t see them. I can’t see the police car, either – if it’s still there, that is.
I can hear the creek bubbling in a steep trench behind our picnic shelter, though. On the far side of the creek must be the railroad tracks, and then –
“The Tire Giant is back there, isn’t it, Quentin?” I ask.
“Yeah ...”
His voice dies out in the heavy air. We all push closer together on our bench.
I feel the Tire Giant lurking behind the fog and trees like some prehistoric monster. I have the unpleasant feeling that it’s going to appear any second and try to devour us. My friends seem to share my gruesome thoughts, judging by the way they all stick together on the bench – even though there are plenty of other places to sit.
At least the thunder and lightning are tapering off. Tommy stands up and walks to the edge of our miserable little sanctuary. He peers out through the beaded curtain of water dripping off the roof.
“The weather was like this on our last trip to Mexico,” he says. “We were visiting one of those Mayan temple pyramids where they used to sacrifice people. My d
ad almost fell into a pond where they dumped the bodies after they’d ripped the hearts out. Mom grabbed him at the last second.”
“That’s enough!” Melissa and I both cry.
Tommy’s family is from Guatemala, so he is our resident world traveler. He really needs to consider his listeners, though, before he rattles off the gruesome details of his trips.
Quentin changes the subject for us.
“I don’t think anybody has been out here for a while,” he says.
“You’ve got that right,” I say.
The park has an abandoned look, and not just because of the rain. A trash can is tipped over, and nobody has bothered to turn it upright or pick up the litter. The grass is too long and pokes over the edges of the asphalt track. The picnic tables in the shelter have a disorganized look, as if somebody has shoved them around and then left in a hurry.
Some punk has gouged a message into our table top: Joey is a ...
Why didn’t he finish his pathetic little statement? Why are there always people around who want to spoil things for others?
Quentin adds to the grim mood.
“As soon as this rain lets up, I’m going to the Tire Giant,” he says. “You still on, Tommy?”
“I ... well, I’m not sure,” Tommy says.
Quentin stands up.
“Come on, man, you’re not going to chicken out on me, are you?”
“It’s just that ...” Tommy glances around the park. “It’s strange out here, Quentin. Even that Mayan pyramid wasn’t this spooky.”
“You mean we’ve come all this way for nothing?” Quentin says.
“Why don’t you just admit it, Quentin,” Melissa says. “This ‘adventure’ is a total flop.”
Quentin sits down again. He doesn’t seem disappointed – he looks kind of relieved, actually. I
