Rogers strolled out of the kitchen. Captures of old basketball games streamed on the wall display. He carried a stainless-steel water bottle in his hand and he drank from it as he ambled through the house to the main entryway and stepped outside. It was late afternoon and the sun was closing with the mountains. His baseball cap was on backwards, obscuring a shock of dark black hair. A pair of sunglasses with acetate frames sat perched on its bill. He reached behind his head and grabbed them and slipped them on, rescuing his eyes from the sinking sun. It was already the end of August. Despite all it had contained, the summer had still flown by. Time to get focused.
He continued along a flagstone walk, his pace sure but leisurely. Although he could follow the route with his eyes closed, he remained attentive to his surroundings. Across the paved courtyard was a cluster of outbuildings, among them a regulation basketball court. He glanced at its composite surface, freshly swept this morning as always, and in his mind’s eye he visualized flashing to the hoop for a game-winning dunk. Purpose pulled him like a magnet and he nearly changed course. He could feel the ball in his hands, saw it pass cleanly through the metal ring as he imagined draining a shot from forty feet. The ball fell through the net, bouncing to a stop in a series of ever shortening hops, before he let the mental image fade.
Ahead of him rose the tallest of the outbuildings, a vast and cavernous shop. From an open overhead door issued a thunderous cacophony of noise. He continued toward it. He had shot a thousand jump shots that morning and made them all, and somehow the court still called him. He practiced every day and yet he always wanted more. He would shoot free throws until his hands bled. The game was his religion and the court his temple and most of the time it was the only place he really wanted to be.
He arrived at the entrance to the building and paused for a moment to consider its construction, concrete and wood and steel beams, before he finally stepped inside. The music was even louder inside the space and he was assaulted by its violence. The open floorplan of the workspace reverberated with a heavy metal roar. Rogers pushed his sunglasses up onto his forehead. He took his link from his pocket and pulled up the audio system and hit mute. The final note echoed in the sudden silence.
“What the shit?!” a voice exclaimed.
A massive Ford pickup dominated the space, a human body half buried inside the engine compartment. A boy, wearing oil stained coveralls and the requisite ball cap, yanked his head out from under its hood and scowled at Rogers.
“What the fuck, man?”
“Damn, Hubcap. You call that music?” Rogers said. “What was that nonsense?”
“Oh, hey, Rogers. You know. Just a little evil.” The teenager snorted and turned back to his work. “Fuckin’, uh, what’s goin’ on?”
“Just got back from town,” Rogers answered. As he approached the big diesel he made a mental assessment of the space. The tractor had been moved. A multitude of the perfectly ordered tools that hung from brackets above the workbenches lining the walls were strewn about. A pool of liquid spilled on the floor. He looked at kid. “Saw your ride outside, wondered what you are doing. Something wrong with the truck?”
“Oh, nah, nuthin’ really. Just checkin’ filters and shit. Basic stuff,” the other answered. “Hold on a minute and I’ll, fuckin’, finish ‘er up.”
“Okay.”
The kid turned back to his work but kept one eye on Rogers. Furtive glances like a wary rat. Rogers ignored him as he circled the truck. Absentmindedly, he reached out a hand and let it drift along the bed rail. The machine had belonged to his father, who had purchased the crew cab when they first moved to Montana. It was stalwart, a workhorse, meant to offset the savagery of their surroundings.
“Fuckin’ Rogers, dude, that truck is too fuckin’ sweet,” the kid under the hood had said when Rogers mentioned liquidating it. “Don’t sell that shit, man. Fuckin’, let me slap some swampers on it. When I get done, you won’t even recognize it.”
He could hardly stand the sight of the pickup, barely stomach the view from behind the wheel. But rather than selling the Ford he let the boy remake it, and Josh had spent the bulk of the summer in the shop doing so, more time than Rogers would have liked. Rogers gave the kid a budget, and he had run with it. The suspension got lifted. Big new tires were wrapped around custom wheels. The heavy front bumper already had a winch but the kid added another out back. The diesel motor was chipped and tuned and the turbo kitted and the entire exhaust system replaced. Air-lockers added front and rear. Josh Brown, the kid they called Hubcap, worked on the truck day and night, becoming a more constant fixture around the Dunn place then he usually was. Not that Josh minded. Even more than he enjoyed fantasizing that the truck was his, Brown appreciated the excuse to escape his own sordid existence. He ordered parts on Rogers’ account and pulled wrenches in the shop until the Ford bore little resemblance to the truck that had first rolled off the assembly line, or at least the one Rogers’ father had drove. It still evoked a flood of memories, but at least now, when Rogers sat behind the wheel, his perspective was entirely different.
“Dialed,” the kid said.
He hopped down from his perch and wiped the grease from his hands on what were already filthy coveralls and appraised Rogers.
“What up, boss?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing. I just noticed you were out here, thought I would come see what you were up to. Gunnar and Scotty are riding out.”
Rogers retrieved his water bottle from where he had placed it on a nearby work bench. He opened it and drank. Closing it, he used the hand that held it to point at the pickup.
“Think I need some different tires? For winter?”
Brown shook his head. Oily hair the color of dirt framed a potholed complexion. He lifted his grimy baseball cap and repositioned it with a stained, scab covered hand.
“Fuckin’, what for?” the boy asked.
He added the curse without any sense of dramatic effect. Every pause in his speech was filled with one.
“I mean, these new mudders are golden, man,” the boy continued. “And now that she’s geared proper, fuckin’, they ain’t even gonna effect the mileage. Ah hell no, man. I sure as shit wouldn’t change ‘em.”
Rogers made a mental note to stop at a tire shop, get a professional opinion. Brown was a competent mechanic, but his motives were always in question.
“What about the generator?” Rogers asked. He knew the turn in conversation would likely spark resentment in Brown but he kept on this tack. “Coach says I need to winterize the place. I leave for Missoula in a couple days. Likely will not be back until spring break.”
“Shit, man, yer like an old lady.”
Brown’s face wore a wounded look. They both knew he secretly hoped to stay on at the house as caretaker while Rogers was away at school. Considering it, Rogers could hear Lee’s voice in his head. Just wait, partner. That shithead grifter is gonna screw you good one of these days.
In a flash, Brown’s piteous demeanor pivoted, and the speed with which his expression changed to an amiable smile was unsettling. He grinned at Rogers.
“Fuck, College. When has ol’ Hubcap ever let you down?”
He dropped the tool in his hand on an adjacent work bench and swapped it for an aluminum can. It was local beer, not cheap, the kind Brown could never hope to drink if Rogers didn’t keep the refrigerator in the shop stocked with it. Rogers’ keen eyes went to the tool and the boy saw this and he picked it up in his free hand and returned it to its proper place. He turned to face Rogers.
“I’m fuckin’ all over that shit and shit,” the kid said. “Hell, it’s still fuckin’ summer, dude. Fuckin’ beer drinkin’ at the lake weather. Jesus, man. Live a little. I got it covered.”
“Okay.”
Suddenly, all Rogers wanted was to escape the boy’s presence. At that moment, he didn’t even care that Hub would undoubtedly commandeer the house while he was gone. Despite his competency in a workshop, Josh Brown maintain a place in their circle of friends more through his own insistence than by anyone else’s conscious decision. His aptitude as a mechanic and fabricator and his willingness to do anything for money had secured him various odd jobs on the Dunn homestead. He had used that opportunity to immediately bury himself in, as Lee Harper put it, like a tick at the table.
Hubcap epitomized the despairing character of the area. Rogers felt sorry for him. His parents were unemployed and drunk, and Josh suffered the same emotional and physical abuse they themselves had experienced as children. On the surface, he seemed harmless enough, full of shop talk and exaggerations, but Rogers had seen him run over a neighbor’s cat and laugh about it. He was compulsive, an easy target, and once provoked, prone to unpredictable behaviors, often devious and malevolent. People crossed the street to avoid him. The other members of their group gave the boy even less consideration than Rogers did. Harper openly loathed him.
Rogers edged towards the exit but then he paused. He truly felt sorry for Josh.
“Party here tonight, Hub. If you want,” he called back over his shoulder.
“No shit, huh? Fuckin’, last bash at the castle. And ol Hubcap’s invited?” It was like he knew what Rogers was thinking. “Well, ain’t that sumpthin’?”
The grin covered his face and it brimmed with insolence. His tone mocked Rogers. He sucked loudly from the beer in his grubby hand. The smile returned as he lowered the can.
“Yeah, ‘spose I’ll show, even though I know that fuckin’ Harper will be here, talkin’ shit. Don’t know why that dick thinks he’s such hot shit. At least I get ass. That guy’s prob’ly a homo.”
It was enough. He turned his back on the boy and made his exit. Outside it was still hot but the sun was creeping behind the mountains. He thought about the girl Josh ran with. She was smart and cute and pleasant enough and he wondered what possibly she saw in Brown. Like most of the girls around here she had a wild crush on Rogers. He liked her, but he kept his distance. She had been fixated in her pursuit of him, like a cheetah at the chase, and he made it a point not to aggravate the situation. With an outstretched finger, he flicked his sunglasses down in front of his eyes.
He was moving toward the house when he heard it, the sound of a vehicle traveling along the county road, maybe two, the subtle sound of tires rolling on the pavement accompanied by a deep and persistent thump. He paused and his eyes gazed down the driveway. The sound of their travel abated momentarily, changing pitch. They were turning into his place. He heard the tenor of the sound change yet again. It increased, and seconds later a compact utility vehicle sprang into view. It was an inexpensive hybrid and the driver pressed it hard around the corner so that it hunched over its outside wheel and made the tire squeal. It drifted toward the edge of the pavement before settling into a proper tack and made a beeline toward Rogers. Close behind another machine followed. It was Brady’s green Toyota.
They sped straight toward him, waiting to the last moment to brake and come screeching to a halt. Much to his surprise, the hybrid’s driver timed the maneuver better than expected. Rogers found himself staring through an open window at a beaming Scott Ewell.
“We got beer!” Scotty yelled.
The giant teenager was folded into the passenger seat of Gunnar’s hybrid. His expression was that of a man who had just struck oil. He pitched a glass bottle into the air. Rogers caught it with a quick ready hand.
“Thanks,” he said.
His voice contained only half of his friend’s enthusiasm. Rogers peered past his former teammate and addressed the driver.
“Hey, Dude-Man. When did you start driving this thing around like that?”
Gunnar leaned forward. He tapped the touchscreen in the dash with a fat finger and squelched the rap music pounding inside the passenger compartment. His hair was burnt orange and cropped short and his face round and freckled and he grinned at Rogers.
“Shit, man, didn’t I tell you? Pickin’ up my new ride tomorrow. Fuckin’ gas burnin’ turbo! Fast as fuck! Finally get rewarded for those ninety days in A.K. without getting laid.”
In the passenger seat beside him, Scotty screwed up his face and shot Gunnar a look.
“Shit, Dude-Man, what the fuck are you talking about? You never got laid around here, you fuckin’ cherry. Don’t go makin’ it sound like porting your virginity to Alaska was something new. I know jockstraps seen more pussy than you.”
Gunnar reached out and punched Scott soundly on the shoulder with a meaty fist. His face turned a quick red.
“Gimmie back my beer, you fuckin’ fairy tale, and get outta my fuckin’ rig. Fuckin’ Beanstalk.”
Rogers laughed. It was good to be around the redhead again. Gunnar always made him smile.
“Get out of here, you clowns.”
He banged the flank of Vind’s hybrid with the flat of his hand.
“See you inside.”
Gunnar stomped on the accelerator. The vehicle lurched forward in a pathetic attempt at acceleration. Rogers shook his head and waved Brady past as well before following after them with a bounce in his long easy stride that had only just then returned.
Comments (0)
See all