Authors: Joel Thomas Hynes
—Robbed that out to the Village anyhow.
Bobby was already over waitin’ in the truck. He didn’t look too pleased with the situation. He was expectin’ a little private moment I s’pose. But not tonight. He could have all the
privacy he wanted when he dropped me off. I climbed into the middle and Keith sloshed in alongside me. I nudged my knee against his until I felt the wet soak through my own jeans.
—Keith, I thought you told me you were heading off to Toronto? Said you were going this morning?
—Who said? Me? I never opened me mouth to you.
—Last night, b’y! You were in by Natasha’s place and I came out to talk to you. Don’t tell me you don’t remember?
Keith stared out the side window for a second before answering.
—Yeah, I remembers talkin’ to ya. But I never said nothing about Toronto…Jesus, I’m froze. Roll up that window, Bobby. Who got a smoke? Mine got a bit wet.
I lit a cigarette for him. Bobby drove on for another few minutes before slowly rollin’ up the window. Taking his time in his daddy’s truck. The track was so narrow in spots that alders scraped at both sides of the truck. No one spoke. We were almost up to the halfway flag when we saw headlights comin’ towards us. Bobby sped up a little.
—Move faster, Bobby, we’re not goin’ all the way back in there now. Shag that.
—What do you want me to do, girl? Tear the rear end out of ’er, will I?
—It’s a four-wheel drive, b’y. You’re hardly gonna tear the rear end out of ’er. She’s designed for this kind of road.
—Listen to you. Wouldn’t know now but you knew—
—I knows if we have to back up I’m gettin’ out and walkin’. How’s that sound?
Bobby shifted the truck into four-wheel drive and gave ’er a shot of gas. I glanced at Keith. He stared straight ahead, this
devilish gleam in his eye, the hint of a sly grin at the corner of his mouth.
The approaching headlights got brighter and brighter ’til they were right upon us and we had to stop. We hadn’t made it past the flag. The car came closer ’til we were bumper to bumper. It was Francey. I took hold of Keith’s arm. No way in hell was I sittin’ there while Bobby crawled back towards the pond in reverse, Francey-fuckin’-O’Dea gawkin’ up through his windshield at me.
—Let me out.
—Natasha. C’mon. It won’t take that long.
—It’s long enough gettin’ this far going forward, Bobby. I’m walkin’.
—Hold on a second, girl. He probably thinks there’s people left in there.
Francey got out of his car and came round to Bobby’s window. I slid closer to Keith. He laid his hand on my leg. It felt right. I didn’t care if Bobby saw or not. Bobby rolled his window down but Francey looked right past him and settled his eyes on me. A shiver went through me. I hated him.
—You gonna back up there, Bob?
—Francey, there’s no one left in there. Be easier if you just backed out to the road.
—Well, I’m long past the flag, Bobby buddy. And I’m goin’ the rest of the way now, seein’ how I came this far. We’ll have a little draw sure. How are you, Natasha? Lookin’ healthy.
I shrank back into the seat. I could feel Francey’s sick mind at work, his eyes scannin’ my body. I wanted to die, curl up into a little ball and die. Keith gave my leg another little squeeze and I felt for a second that he understood. No. How
could anyone really understand without
knowing?
He was just squeezin’ my leg to see how far I’d let him go.
Bobby offered Francey another half-assed protest, but soon enough we were inchin’ our way back in to the Kitchen. Bobby was more interested in the prospect of a draw than anything else at this point.
Francey would let us back up about ten or fifteen feet, then rev up his engine and charge at us full blast, stoppin’ only inches away from our front bumper. Bobby was impressed.
—Some fuckin’ power in her what? Stops on a dime too.
—Too bad she’s wasted on a fuckin’ moron like that.
—What’s your problem, Keith b’y? Francey’s the best kind.
Francey’s repulsive face starin’ up through the windshield at me. Pushin’ me back into the night. Forcin’ me into a corner. Holdin’ back for a while, then revvin’ his car to burst back at me, all the while lookin’ up at me with this triumphant smirk as if to say
I got ya now, don’t I?
I couldn’t take it anymore.
I was about to explode.
Then Keith sent the night in a whole new direction.
He was rootin’ around down on the floor and came up with a dirty old can of Big 8 cola. Gave it a little shake and pretended to open it in my face. I never even blinked.
—Hey, Bobby, I ever tell you about the time I fucked over this fella from the Goulds with a can of drink?
—What? Hit him with it?
—Christ, no. He was a big fella…I poured it in his gas tank.
—What?
—Oh yeah, it fucks everything right up. Ya often heard tell of sweetening up someone’s gas tank?
I don’t know about Bobby, but I’d certainly heard tell of it. Someone did it to my father’s boat a couple of summers before. It was a hot topic around the house for a while. The government had given Dad a sentinel fishin’ license that summer. Him and my uncle Rick were the only ones in the Cove allowed out after cod. Dad and Rick were delighted to be back on the water, but a lot of people were pretty pissed off. But Dad wasn’t even allowed to take home a single fish so I don’t know what all the racket was about. They were to haul the trap every morning and whatever was caught had to be turned in to the fisheries for tests and stuff. They had to carry out some kind of tests themselves too, like recording the water temperature and wind conditions. Anyhow, about a week into it they were out at the mouth of the bay when the engine stalled. They tried all their tricks to get her goin’ but nothing worked. Then Rick opened the tank and found sugar spilt all around the rim. Right away they knew the engine was screwed, and they were pissed off, but it wouldn’t be the first time someone had to row in out of it. Only thing was, when they went looking for the oars, they were gone. Probably tossed overboard the night before. On top of that the box of flares were emptied, so they couldn’t even shoot one off for help. And, worst of all, the lifejackets were missing. If you asks me, that’s attempted murder. Dad and Rick drifted out to sea for about half an hour before the wind turned. Imagine. They finally flagged down a tour boat outside Burnt Cove. The cops were back and forth to our house for a few days but nothing ever came of it. Dad is pretty sure he knows who done it but he won’t say. He likes to pick his moments too.
Keith was gettin’ more and more animated as his story went on. Some guy in the Goulds was after shortchanging him on a draw.
—’Course a bottle is better than a can, but when you’re stuck you’re stuck. All ya needs is a bit of stick or a pencil to hold open the airway. Pour the drink right in. If you spills a bit you can just sop it up with your shirttail. But, see, real sugar is messy and someone can see right away that the car is after being fucked with. Plus you have to go shaggin’ around with a funnel. But a can of this shit—
He clenches the can of Big 8 in his fist and looks straight into my eyes as if making sure I’m fully graspin’ the tact in his little story. I nods and smiles. He don’t miss a beat.
—…no mess. He don’t know what the fuck is going on. Goes to start his car and she won’t go. Sugar in the gas lines. I don’t know how it works, but it works. You can spoil the engine for good if it’s not flushed out quick enough.
Bobby glanced sideways at me and rolled his eyes. But Keith seemed so proud of himself, baskin’ in the memory of his own mischief, I couldn’t help but feel a little proud of him too.
Francey was drivin’ normal again now. Probably thought we were talkin’ about him. I looked right at him and smiled just to make him paranoid.
When we made it to the clearing Bobby pulled up next to the remains of the fire and Francey pulled in headfirst on the other side, near the edge of the woods. We all got out and followed Francey down to the wharf. He stuck a joint in his mouth and pulled it out slowly between his lips, staring at me the whole while. I could see the grease around his nose glistenin’ in the moonlight. I really wanted a draw but no way was I smokin’ something that touched his scuzzy mouth. Filthy
pig. Keith and Francey and Bobby formed a semi-circle at the head of the wharf. I kept myself out of it. Francey lit the joint, the paper soaked through with his pasty saliva. Keith cracked open the rotten old can of Big 8 and took a swig. I wondered if Francey could swim. Bobby held the joint out to me. He was in his glory.
—You gonna have a draw, sweetheart?
—No. I’d only fall asleep…I’m bustin’ to piss anyhow.
—Well, go on then. We’re in the woods. Ha ha! More for us.
Bobby let out a thick blast of smoke and it smelled so sweet. I didn’t really need to go piss. I just had to get away before I gave in. I wanted some so bad. They all seemed good and stoned already. But I couldn’t. I would not.
As I was turnin’ to go up to the woods Keith handed me the can of drink.
—You want the rest of that?
I thought he was jokin’ first. Then it all clicked in. The possibility. All of a sudden I really did need to go pee. I took the can and had a little taste. It was warm. Bobby tried to bat it out of my hand.
—Are you cracked, girl? That’s in the truck since Christmas. Father had that for mix.
—So? Not like it goes bad. I’m dyin’ of thirst, b’y. Leave me alone.
—Alright then. But you’ll be doin’ more than pissin’ after you drinks that slop. Ha ha!
Bobby was wrecked. Keith winked at me as I left. Francey was in another world altogether. I walked straight towards his car. It was hidden from view behind the truck, so they wouldn’t see me at it. My heart raced. I scoured the ground for something
to use to hold open the airway like Keith had said. I found a Popsicle stick. My heart. A roar of laughter rolled up from the wharf and I caught a faint whiff of the weed. I had another look down towards them. They were lightin’ up another joint. Keith glanced up but I don’t think he could see me. I crouched down beside Francey’s gas tank and I went right at it.
What if he caught me? But then again,
so what
if he caught me? What in the fuck could he do to me? Not like he could beat me up or anything. Not like he could say one god-blessed word about it for that matter. No doubt he must be aware, somewhere in that thick skull of his, that if I wanted to, I could make things pretty complicated for him. I could ruin him. If I wanted to.
I got the gas cap off and then had to go fumbling through my pockets for the Popsicle stick.
Found it.
Stuck it in the hole.
Say
Ahhhhh.
My hands were shakin’ so hard I could barely keep the can steady as I tipped it into the tank.
Another rumble of stoned laughter from the wharf.
And then a calm washed over me and time stood absolutely still.
All I could hear was Big 8 fizzling down into Francey O’Dea’s gas tank. I couldn’t recall a moment quite so…satisfying. A heady sensation of power, a fresh current of strength seemed to course through my veins. The can of Big 8 growin’ lighter, and my heart along with it.
And then the can was empty.
And I was not.
—Natasha?
—Hold on. Hold on. I’m coming.
I screwed the cap back on and closed the shutter. No mess. When I stood up I felt ten feet tall. I pretended to be doin’ up my pants as I walked down to meet them. Then I realized I’d forgot to go pee and I really,
really
needed to go. But I’d wait it out.
Now, I thought, what if Francey’s car don’t start and he wants a ride with us? Well, I decided, I’d throw a fit and walk out. And I’d make Keith walk with me. Tell Bobby where to go. Jump Keith in the bushes somewhere on the way out.
Keith Kavanagh.
Keith and Natasha.
I liked the sound of it.
They were finished their toke, stumbling back towards the cars. Off in their own little worlds. Bobby’s head bobbin’ up and down and Keith with this zoned out, foolish grin on his face. Francey had his eyes to the ground and for the first time ever I wanted him to look at me ’cause I felt I might cut him in half.
—Ya missed it, Natasha. Fine old buzz.
I felt like sayin’ I had a fine old buzz on myself. But I was startin’ to get worried about how this was all going to play out. No way Francey was ridin’ with us. He’d be gettin’ in the back. Or we could tie him on to the back bumper and drag him out to the highway. That’d suit me just fine.
We piled into the truck. Francey jumped into his car. Bobby pulled out to the opening of the track. Francey had come in head-on, so he had to get the car turned around first. I strained to see him fumbling the keys into the ignition. And then the engine roared to life and my heart sank. He revved her up. She
sounded healthy as ever. I glanced at Keith. I think he winked but his eyes were sunk so far back in their sockets it was hard to tell. He did a little drum roll on the dash.
—Let’s get the fuck outta this place, Bobby man. All systems go.
—We gonna wait for Francey?
—Naw, fuck ’im. He knows the way.
Bobby put the truck in gear and we were movin’. I looked back and saw the arse end of Francey’s car buckin’ like it’d just struck a brick wall. Was it workin’? He started her up again, gave a big shot of gas, put her in reverse…she stalled again. I looked at Keith, who was lookin’ at me, and smiled. I turned on the radio and turned it up a bit so Bobby wouldn’t pay no mind to Francey. He was too stoned to notice anything anyhow. We rounded the turn and the Kitchen was out of sight. I thought I heard Francey’s horn so I turned the radio up another notch.
—Natasha, you never drank all that?
I still had the empty can in my hand and I felt a twinge of panic. Evidence. I’d never done anything like this in my life. I could get arrested or have to pay for damages or…Francey O’Dea had a long walk ahead of him tonight. I let out the first of a thousand giggles.
—No, I never drank it, Bobby. I poured it out.
Myself and Keith doubled over in the stitches. Bobby just shook his head.