Taconic State
Despite the snack stockpile, Late insisted on hitting the drive-thru at a burger joint in East Crailo to satisfy his French fry craving.
“One burger, four fries, one chocolate shake, and an orange coke.” The drive-thru speaker’s metal cover rattled as the cashier’s high-pitched voice read Late’s order back like a list of charges. “Anything else?”
“No.” Jerk yelled past Late before he could order any more fries.
“Pull up for your total.” Late took his foot off the brake and the car lurched forward, stalling. “That’s weird.” Late laughed nervously. He turned the key and the car let out a gasp and a smaller lurch.
A pit opened in Jerk’s stomach. “We’re going to prison.” He muttered under his breath.
“Com’on.” Late pumped the gas and turned the key, brow furrowed. The car roared back to life. Late relaxed. Jerk couldn’t.
The cashier could hardly reach out the window. One of their front teeth was growing in, their hat was too big. “Aren’t you a little young to be working drive-thru?” Late said, handing over the payment.
The cashier sneered. “Aren’t you a little young to be driving that Buick?” They handed Late back his change.
“It’s an Oldsmobile!” Jerk yelled unhelpfully past Late.
“I’m a late bloomer!” Late was indignant.
The cashier laughed. “Sure you are.” They passed the order out through the window, drinks first. “My dad owns the franchise, so it’s legal.” Jerk knew how that worked. “Now get out of here before I tell my dad and he calls the cops on you punks.”
They parked behind a row of cars at the supermarket. Camouflage, just in case the cashier changed their mind. Late had eaten two of his four fries by the time Jerk finished his burger.
Jerk stole a fry and bit off the tip. It crunched-fresh out of the fryer. “This wallet…” Jerk grabbed Late’s wallet and turned it over. The bright green was almost offensive to Jerk’s eyes, a flare of immaturity in a situation where Late couldn’t afford to be seen like a kid.
“What’s wrong with my wallet? I’ve had it since 8th grade!” Late had impressive diction with a mouth full of fries.
“It’s a kid’s wallet. No ROTC cadet at Institute’s going to still have this.”
Jerk reached into his pocket and pulled his out. Brown leather. It was last year’s Christmas present, slightly worn with persistent bend to one corner from the way he stuffed it into his pocket.
Jerk began swapping the contents without asking. Late didn’t complain-just kept chewing fries. Neither of them had much: some cash, school IDs, Late’s fake. Jerk moved quickly, until he found the last card tucked behind the rest. Frayed edges. Worn paper. A figure-supposedly Jesus-knelt in prayer beneath a wash of heavenly light.
A prayer card. He’d seen it before-Stephen’s. Late looked away, pretending to care about a Mom yelling at her kids catty-corner to them in the next line of cars.
Jerk slid it into his old wallet, behind Late’s fake ID, and handed the wallet to Late. “This? This is an adult’s wallet.”
When they finished their food, Late turned right out of the supermarket lot onto a stretch of road where two U.S. highways ran concurrently-one heading east, the other south. Both pointed in the right direction. In a few miles, they would split, and they’d follow the one going south to the parkway, twenty miles and one county line away.
The Taconic State Parkway. Two narrow lanes in each direction, a hundred miles of concrete ribbon meandering through the lush emerald hills of Upstate. Jerk dozed, lulled by the rhythm of the tires rolling over the pavement’s joints four times a second. He’d nodded trying to calculate the distance between joints from the beats and the car’s speed.
Then a crack, like a shotgun being fired in a dumpster came from the front driver’s side, coughing a cloud of debris onto the concrete highway.
“Shit!” Late swore as the car collapsed on the corner. The rim dug in with a jolt, the left front anchoring forty-five hundred pounds of Oldsmobile hard into the pavement. The whole chassis twisted, whipping the rear right outward in a violent yaw.
Late instinctively twisted the wheel to the right, forcing the front-end back. He yelled “I’ve got it!” even as the rear whipped left and they were suddenly staring at the trees that ran beside the parkway. The car twisted another 90 degrees and the rear slid on to the grassy shoulder.
The rear wheel caught. The car snapped forward around it. What remained of the rim and tire ripped off, rolling and tumbling into the median as they came to rest pointing, impossibly, in the right direction. The whole car rattled with the engine before it sputtered and died.
Jerk was frozen. Everything was silent before he remembered how to hear again, and his ears rang with the high-pitched whine of a million cicadas. Where the seat belt held his shoulder back felt raw, burned. He’d slammed against the side, hitting his head against the pillar harder than Brother James had ever hit him for mouthing off. He could taste blood. Everything was blurry. Where were his glasses?
Late was shaking his shoulder, yelling something he couldn’t hear over the cicada. He pulled on the door handle, pushing it open and trying to get out, struggling against something. Late was yanking on the seat-belt trying to release the tension enough to press the button.
He fell forward as the belt released, bracing himself against the door as he stumbled out. The world lurched wildly, even when he was still. He fell to his knees, collapsing on all fours. Without warning he retched up rancid orange coke and bits of burger.
He tried to push himself up, righting for a moment, but the world lurched again. He rolled onto his side, thinking “We’re going to prison.” His jaw clenched. His back arched. His brain burned.
The Broadside’s Roof, Late September, 1995
The last of the purple and gold light was fading from the clouds, but the warmth of Indian Summer was lingering.
“I don’t remember much after that.” Jerk rubbed his arms, not looking at anyone. “Lights in my eyes. Being asked what year it was. That stupid collar.” He pulled at his t-shirt collar reflexively and shook his head. “I don’t remember most of that summer.”
“He couldn’t read without getting a headache. Kept forgetting what he was trying to say mid sentence. He’d get so frustrated he’d get angry, or start crying.” Tiny seemed to have been dozing before he spoke up.
“Don’t remember crying.” Jerk got up, rubbing his arms again.
“You said this was stupid. You almost died!” Kid was dazed.
“But I didn’t. And it was.” Jerk shrugged and looked at the fading light in the west. “I’m going to get a flannel. Late can finish from here, he remembers it.” Jerk went downstairs.
“Never been so scared in my life.” Tiny said after the Squat door slammed shut below.
“Jerk says he doesn’t blame me. ‘You didn’t cause it, the tire did.’” Late emulated Jerk’s flat affect perfectly. When he looked at Kid, there was guilt on his face. “I blame me.”
“He doesn’t remember much after that,” Late said, “but I do-every second.”