by James Frey
Alone?
Yeah.
I told you not to go in there alone.
I was with this girl Candi, who’s a stocker. She had to go to the bathroom. I thought I’d be fine.
What’d he say?
Awful things.
Like what?
He said he wanted to eat me like a hamburger.
Dylan laughs. Maddie’s annoyed.
It’s not funny.
Okay.
It’s not.
You’re right I shouldn’t have laughed. What else did he say?
That he’d nibble my nipple like a sesame seed.
Dylan laughs again. Maddie’s annoyed again.
Come on, Dylan.
Sorry.
Seriously.
I said sorry. Keep going.
He said he wanted to cover my coochie in butterscotch and strawberry sauce and use his tongue like a spoon.
Dylan laughs again, this time louder and longer. Maddie moves beyond annoyance into anger. She pulls away from him, sits up.
It’s not funny, you asshole.
Dylan can’t stop laughing.
Stop it, Dylan.
He can’t. She hits him on the shoulder.
STOP IT, DYLAN.
He calms down.
I’m sorry. I couldn’t help it.
You could have.
I said I’m sorry.
It really sucks, Dylan. He totally freaks me out and makes me uncomfortable.
Are you scared of him?
Not really.
Do you think he’d actually do anything?
No.
He’s a harmless weirdo.
Yeah. But he’s really really weird.
And don’t get mad at me, in a way it’s pretty funny. I mean, what kind of freak tells someone he wants to eat them like a hamburger. She giggles. He keeps going.
And nibble their nipple like a sesame seed.
She giggles again. Keeps going.
Imagine what must be going through his head to actually say that kind of shit.
He’s a loon.
Although I do sort of like the butterscotch and strawberry line.
Another giggle, she speaks.
It won’t work on me no matter how nice you say it, so don’t even try.
He laughs.
What do you think he says to his wife?
Nothing.
You don’t think he’s got some specials saved up for her?
I met her. She scared the shit out of me. She’s, like, the size of your boss, and could probably kick his ass.
Get her number in case I need her.
They both laugh. Dylan speaks.
I have a question. An important one.
What?
Are there any lines he could use that would work?
You’ve gotta be kidding.
I’m not.
Why do you want to know that?
So I can use ’em. Maybe get some before we fall asleep.
You don’t need lines. You have other things that work on me.
She leans over starts kissing him it’s pitch-black and they can’t see each other but they can feel each other with hands and legs and lips the tips of their fingers feel.
Next day is the same as the last nothing changes week after week after week. They work, eat noodles and soup from the 99-cent store discounted to 66 cents, they go for long rides through the Hills, they watch TV play sleep. Dylan never calls home has not called since they pulled away, Maddie calls every few weeks her mother always answers. Maddie doesn’t speak, just listens as her mother, who somehow knows that she is on the other end of the line, yells at her, tells her she’s worthless and stupid, calls her a piece of shit, calls her a cunt and a whore, tells her she’s a waste of space and would be better off dead. Sometimes Maddie hangs up on her, sometimes she doesn’t, when she doesn’t she sits and listens for two three four minutes eventually her mother gives up and slams down the phone.
Her mother’s hate doesn’t always affect her she can walk away and forget it happened. Sometimes, though, she sobs for hours after it’s over she lies on the bed and sobs. Her mother has been telling her the same things, calling her the same names, for most of her life. Maddie tries not to call but she can’t stop herself. Part of her believes what she hears and part of her doesn’t. She thinks that someday she’ll either hang up stop listening never call back, or speak out and say I know, Mom, you’re right, I am everything you say I am. Until that point, that moment, that decision, she’ll keep calling, keep listening, keep thinking, keep sobbing.
For Dylan, life at the shop vacillates between moments of extreme boredom, occasional contentment, and extreme terror. Tiny is very particular about the motorcycles he will and will not be allowed to be fixed at his shop. He doesn’t allow Japanese or European motorcycles of any type, any brand. He doesn’t allow bikes ridden by people he considers RUBS (Rich Urban Bikers), individuals who work normal day jobs, often high-paying white-collar day jobs, and wear leather and ride motorcycles on the weekends. He doesn’t allow motorcycles of members of other motorcycle clubs, though most aren’t stupid enough to bother trying, and he doesn’t allow motorcycles owned or ridden by members of law enforcement. The one time a cop’s bike did end up in the shop, Tiny set it on fire and dumped it in the cop’s front yard. Most of the bikes that come in belong to members of his club, or associates of members of the club.
When a member’s bike comes in, Tiny accompanies the member, who is usually between thirty and fifty, bearded, dressed in jeans and a black leather motorcycle vest, and terrifying, back to see Dylan. Tiny will stare at Dylan until he looks up. When he does, Tiny speaks.
This is one of my brothers.
Dylan will nod, speak.
Nice to meet you, sir.
He needs his bike fixed.
I’ll do it right away.
Don’t fuck it up.
I won’t.
Use new parts and don’t charge him.
Okay.
And if you fuck it up, we’ll kick your fucking ass.
I won’t fuck it up.
We’ll kick your fucking ass like it ain’t never been kicked before.
I understand.
You better. You fucking better.
Tiny and the member then go to his office, where they shut the door and laugh, drink, get high. The associates, who are usually less terrifying, and usually work or run errands for the members, are treated much worse. Tiny doesn’t care what kind of parts Dylan uses for their bikes, doesn’t care how well he fixes the bikes, and he charges them a fortune for the work. Dylan is amused by the interactions with both the members and the associates, and always does a sound job on the bikes, regardless of who owns them. When there are no bikes to fix, he reads copies of porn and gun magazines Tiny keeps in giant stacks in the back of the shop. Once or twice a week members of the club come in with people who don’t ride bikes, some of them drive pickup trucks, some of them drive Mercedeses and Porsches, and Tiny tells Dylan to get the fuck out of the shop. Dylan usually walks up and down the street looking at vehicles in used-car lots, trying to decide which one, if he could afford any of them, he would buy. There is a sky-blue Corvette in one, an old Chevelle convertible in another, a third that seems to have an endless supply of restored pickup trucks from the ’50s and ’60s. And as much as he may like those, there is a silver DeLorean, in all of its brushed steel, winged-door glory, that always brings him back. It sits in the back of a low-end lot, and from what he can tell, it never moves, and may not even have an engine, but he loves it, and dreams of rolling through his former town in it, seeing his father walking out of a bar and giving his father the finger. When he doesn’t look at cars, or stare longingly at the DeLorean, he sits in one of the five burger restaurants within sight of the shop and eats French fries and vanilla milkshakes. When the visitors leave, he goes back to work. If there’s nothing to do when he gets back, he reads magazines from Tiny’s stacks.
When he walked towards work t
his morning, there were two Mercedeses in front of the shop, three Harleys. The garage door was closed, which it normally isn’t, he assumed he wasn’t wanted until the cars were gone and the door open. He went across the street. The closest of the burger restaurants, which served breakfast biscuits and scrambled egg sandwiches before 10:00 AM, was open he went in and ordered a biscuit and a coffee.
As he ate slowly and drank the coffee slowly and read the paper more bad news just bad fucking news, he thought about Maddie, about what she was doing, about her job and her ridiculous boss, about how badly he wanted to get her away from there, away from the motel, away from the desperation they both knew and felt but couldn’t acknowledge. He thought about the promise he had made to her. They wouldn’t live there forever, they would find a better life. He believed he could keep the promise he just didn’t know how. There were no promotions coming, no other job prospects. They didn’t have savings there were none coming.
Though he never let her know it, he was scared of the other residents of the motel, and knew, if it really came to it, he probably couldn’t protect her from them. Occasionally, he looked across the street. Nothing changed. He kept eating two biscuits one with bacon one not kept drinking three cups of coffee milk no sugar he read the entertainment section of the paper twice, goddamn those movie stars make a shitload of money he kept thinking about his promise, aside from Maddie herself, it was the only thing in his life with meaning. After two hours, and a large number of dirty looks from the restaurant’s Bulgarian manager (#1 burger man from all of Iron Curtain!), he sees five Hispanic men get into the two Mercedes sedans, watches them pull away.
He gets up walks out of the restaurant the manager is happy to see him go the manager doesn’t like the motorcycle men from across the street they’re big angry and mean sometimes they call him a commie and tell him to fuck off sometimes they make fun of his accent and tell him to go back to Russia. The one time he asked them to stop insulting him, they rubbed a ketchup, mustard and pickle laden burger bun in his face.
As Dylan walks across the street he senses something’s wrong. The garage door is still down there is no noise coming from behind it. The door next to the garage is open, swinging. As Dylan approaches the door he hears moaning his heart starts pounding as he gets closer the moaning is louder he’s scared.
He stands at the door. He can hear multiple voices, one is moaning another says help me the third says fuck. He stands at the door can’t move he can hear the voices he can hear pain, helplessness, anger. He stands at the door his heart is pounding his hands are shaking he wants to run, he wants Maddie, he wants to be back in Ohio, he wants to call the police, he wants to run he can hear the voices.
He steps into the garage. It’s dark there is a streak of light coming from the door another from the office, which is in the back. He can’t see anyone. He starts walking towards the office he hears a voice in the shadows, it’s faint, labored, hurt.
Kid.
He turns towards the voice.
Kid.
His eyes adjust.
Help me.
Tiny and three other bikers are duct-taped to folding chairs, their ankles to the front legs their wrists to the stems that hold the back. All of them are bleeding their faces cut and swollen there are open circular burn wounds along their arms and chest. Tiny and two others are conscious one of them isn’t his head is hanging limply against his chest. Dylan stops, stares, he wants to run. Tiny speaks.
Kid.
Dylan stares at them.
I need your help.
One of the other men moans.
I need…
Tiny loses his breath. Dylan steps towards him, speaks.
What do I do?
There’s a knife in my back pocket. Get it out and cut me free.
Dylan reaches around, Tiny tries to lift himself off the chair can’t do it. Dylan wriggles his fingers in the pocket feels a polished-wood pocketknife pulls it out. He flips the blade his hands are shaking. What do I do first, your hands or your feet?
I don’t give a fuck.
Tiny’s breathing is labored there is blood dripping from his nose, his chin, running from a cut above his eye, the teeth on one side of his mouth are in shards, Dylan can smell the burned hair and flesh on his arms and chest. The other two are staring at Dylan both are in the same condition, the last one still hasn’t moved. Dylan starts cutting the tape from Tiny’s wrist he frees one arm, steps around to the other. He cuts it free the tape was wrapped three or four times around he moves to his ankles cuts them free. When Tiny is free Dylan stands. Tiny moves his legs a few inches away from the chair, leans back takes a deep breath, the flow of blood changes direction starts dripping from his cheeks, his ears. Dylan speaks.
You okay?
Tiny leans forward, speaks.
No. I’m not fucking okay.
What do you want me to do?
He motions towards his friends.
Cut them free, you dumbfuck.
Dylan cuts the one next to Tiny free, the one next to him. Both of them react the same way Tiny did, move their legs slightly, take deep breaths.
Dylan looks at the fourth man, whose head is still on his chest. He doesn’t appear to be breathing. He looks at Tiny.
I think he’s dead.
Tiny looks back, speaks.
You a fucking doctor?
No.
Just cut him free.
Dylan starts working on the tape, Tiny slowly stands he walks over to the open door and closes it and locks it. The other two slowly stand they’re also covered in blood and still bleeding. When Dylan cuts the fourth man free he slides from the chair hits the floor in a heap his body is limp Dylan stares at him. No movement, no breath, nothing. Dylan looks back at Tiny, who is walking towards his office. Dylan speaks.
I think this guy’s dead, Tiny.
Tiny ignores him walks into the office, looks around, starts yelling. Fuck.
FUCK.
FUCK.
Dylan is frozen. The other two men are dazed and appear to be in shock, they’re breathing heavily, looking at and gently touching the wounds on their bodies. The fourth man still isn’t moving. Tiny picks up the phone in his office, throws it against the wall it shatters he yells FUCK again, steps out of the office, looks at Dylan, speaks.
Give me your fucking phone.
I don’t have one.
I need a fucking phone.
I don’t have one.
Find one.
I could call 911 from a pay phone.
We’re not calling fucking 911. That’s the last fucking thing we need.
Don’t you need an ambulance?
Find a fucking phone.
One of the other men looks at Dylan, speaks.
I think he has one.
He points at the man on the floor, who still isn’t moving. Dylan steps over and leans down he can smell burned flesh and blood. He pats the man’s pockets he doesn’t feel anything. There are two pockets he can’t reach without turning the man over. He looks back at Tiny, who is looking through his office, yelling fuck. One of the men is sitting in a chair staring at the wounds on his arms, the other is sitting on the floor he’s coughing and there are fragments of his teeth getting caught in his beard.
Dylan feels like he’s going to vomit. He doesn’t want to touch the man beneath him, but doesn’t want to deal with Tiny if he can’t find a phone.
He gets on one knee puts his hands on the man’s hips and chest rolls him over. It’s dead weight. He can feel cold flesh through the man’s chest. He wants to vomit.
He checks the man’s back pocket finds a cell stands and walks it to Tiny’s office he can still feel the cold, dead weight he still wants to vomit. He reaches the door, speaks.
Here’s a phone.
He holds it out for Tiny, who steps over and takes it, steps away and starts dialing. Dylan looks at the office. The drawers of the desk are all open and their contents, papers, repair manuals, pens, a calculator, are
spread along the desk’s surface and on the floor. The phone line is cut, the fax machine destroyed. The paneling against the back is smashed, there are two safes, which were once behind the paneling, that are open and empty. Tiny puts the phone to his ear, waits, speaks. It’s Tiny. We got a situation.
He waits.
Some fucking spic meth dealers taped us up and tortured us. The safes are both fucking empty. We need a fucking doctor right fucking now.
Waits.
Just get the fuck over here.
He hangs up, looks at Dylan, speaks.
What the fuck do you want?
What do you want me to do?
Stand in the corner and shut the fuck up.
Can I leave?
Try and I’ll put a bullet in your fucking head.
Okay.
Dylan stands at the door, unsure of what to do. Tiny starts looking through the mess on his desk. Dylan steps back looks across the room.
The two men are sitting together staring into the distance even though there is no distance to see. Both are still bleeding, occasionally look at each other or mumble a word or two to each other. The fourth man still hasn’t moved, and will never move again. Dylan is shaking and his heart is pounding and he still feels like he’s going to vomit. He walks to the back of the shop, as far as he can get from the blood and the chairs and the duct tape and the vacant, wounded men and the motionless body and raging Tiny and whomever else is coming and whatever else is going to happen he wants to get away. He finds a dark corner moves a battered box of used parts and a pile of rags there is grease and oil on the floor he sits down anyway. He pulls his knees to his chest. He stares across the length of the shop. The door is still locked, the garage gate still closed. He sits and stares.
Thirty minutes later he hasn’t moved. Tiny has been on the phone the entire time rummaging through his office yelling fuck. One of the remaining men has passed out on the floor, though he is still breathing.
Dylan hears motorcycles approaching, the bikes that the club members ride are extremely loud and can be heard from blocks away. He can tell by the rumble there is more than one of them as they pull into the driveway the garage door shakes, the windows shake. Tiny motions to the one conscious man to open the door he stands and slowly, gingerly walks towards it every step he takes looks like it hurts, every movement he makes looks like it hurts. Before he reaches the door there is pounding the doorframe shakes yelling open the motherfucking door. He does not change his pace. He slowly, gingerly and painfully walks towards it, the pounding continues the yelling continues. He reaches it unlocks it opens it. Huge bearded men stream into the garage four five six seven eight nine of them. A smaller man, without a beard and wearing slacks and a golf shirt, who is carrying a black leather medical bag, comes in with them.
