Salvage
The Taconic State Parkway. Early July, 1985.
The tire and rim were still tumbling as the Oldsmobile groaned to a stop, engine sputtering and dying.
Jerk strained against his seat-belt–cornered, thrashing, and blind. It was still buckled, but he didn’t understand what was restraining him, clawing at air and the door trying to pull himself out.
“Buddy? Buddy?” Late pulled on Jerk’s seat belt, hitting the button and releasing the latch. Jerk pulled himself out of the car and almost immediately fell to his knees. Late unlatched his own belt and got out. A pickup truck that he’d seen in the northbound lane as they spun out was driving across the median behind them, destination obvious.
Late came around the car as Jerk puked and rolled over. His jaw clenched and eyes rolled into the back of his head, body stiff and jerking. “Shit!” was all Late could say. He fell to his knees, gravel digging in, cradling Jerk’s head so he stopped banging it against the grassy shoulder. He heard the truck skid to a halt and looked up, the passenger door opening before they’d even stopped.
“Daddy, call the staties on the CB, boy’s seizing.” She had the hips of a mother with the hustle to match, hurrying to reach them. “Keep his head and neck still! How hard did he hit it?” She asked as she dropped, sliding next to them.
“I don’t know! I was trying to keep the car on the road.” Jerk stiffened and jerked his head one more time before going limp. “Buddy!” He began sobbing. Jerk didn’t move.
“He’s breathing.” It was the only comfort she could offer at the moment. The man, older, was jogging over. “Daddy?”
“Charlie’s on his way and I told him to call for an ambulance. Said he’ll try to get an ETA before he gets here.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” His tears were falling on Jerk’s face as he held his head. “Not you too.”
“You boys out joyriding?” It was the older man who was asking. He knelt next to Late, hand on his shoulder.
“I borrowed my mom’s car so I could impress a girl.” A small sob. “He was trying to stop me from being too stupid.” More tears on Jerk’s face. “I’m such an idiot.”
The minutes ticked by reluctantly while they waited for the trooper and ambulance. Late wiped his snot on his shoulder, refusing to let go of Jerk’s head, as if it might fall apart any second. He could smell burned rubber and scorched metal.
The older man introduced himself as Rick, his daughter as Sissy. Rick asked what happened. When Late described trying to correct and making it worse, he nodded. “You acted on instinct. It was just wrong.” He explained. “Learning better’s a problem for tomorrow.”
The trooper–Charlie–cut his siren a half a mile back and rolled up behind Rick’s truck, lights still on. He had ice blue eyes and black hair beginning to salt and pepper. When he began walking over, Rick stood. “Charlie, let me help you set up some flares.”
Late could hear him talking to the trooper, gesturing at the Olds. “Brothers were joyriding, but that blowout wasn’t their fault, look at the rest of those tires. Shouldn’t have passed inspection.” They moved out of earshot laying down the flares.
“Not brothers,” Late said quietly, watching them walk away. “But he takes care of me like mine did.” He looked down and wiped his tears off Jerk’s face. “He doesn’t look mad at me. I wish he was mad at me.”
Sissy put her hand on his arm. “He’ll be real mad when he wakes up, promise.” An ambulance passed them going north, sirens and lights going. It faded, growing louder again a minute later after they’d u-turned.
Jerk groaned at the sound of the siren. “You awake sugar? Can you squeeze my hand?” Sissy asked, slipping her hand in his. Jerk groaned again, squeezing her fingers. She leaned over, whispering to Late. “Oh yeah. Real mad.”
Late wasn’t sure if what came out of him was a sob or a laugh.
“I could be sitting here all day writing you tickets.” Trooper Charlie had pulled Late aside-away from the EMTs, away from everyone. He had his thumbs hooked in his belt loops and shifted back and forth on his boots while Late stared at his sneakers.
“Failure to maintain lane. Unsafe speed for road conditions. Bald tires. Unlawful operation.” He let out a short huff, almost a laugh. “And let’s not forget forgery. That one’s more than a ticket.”
“I’m going to prison.” Late muttered to the pavement.
“Not sure prison’s the cure for your flavor of stupid.” Charlie said. He pulled out Jerk’s brown leather wallet and pressed it into Late’s hands. “I didn’t see this.”
Late looked up, startled. Eyes wide. “Thanks,” he breathed.
“I’ve still gotta write you up for something. Failure to maintain lane. Just a fine.” Charlie glanced back toward the Oldsmobile. “Way less than you owe your mom.” He held out the citation. “You boys got lucky. The type of lucky you don’t get to be twice.”
“What about Buddy? Can I go with him?”
The Broadside’s Roof, Late September 1995
Kid stopped Late. “Wait. Wait. Buddy?” They glanced at Tiny, then back at Late. “Jerk’s nickname was Buddy when he was a kid?”