Downers Grove (3 page)

One day we were bored out of our minds, cruising aimlessly in Tracy's bug when the mechanic rolled up beside us at a stop light in his awesome purple Charger. I was sitting there checking him out, so Tracy beeped her horn and finally he glanced over at me. We locked into a momentary stare, but when the light turned green he burned a fat patch of rubber right beside us. It was definitely one of those looks like, someday, somewhere, something's gonna happen, but when I stopped for gas a few days later he acted as if I were the invisible girl.

Tracy started arranging her cutouts on a sheet of newspaper. The cover story was about that plane crash in Wisconsin. The
headline said 75
SECONDS OF HORROR
! in bold type. I stared at the picture of the wreckage. The little pieces reminded me of dinosaur bones found in an archaeological dig. A woman's dress hung from the limb of a tree, and I wondered if I could ever be that woman, my remains indistinguishable from hundreds of others, lost in the debris, scattered forever.

“We gotta go,” Tracy said, “the movie starts in ten minutes.” She tossed the glue stick into my lunch box, stood up, brushed paper scraps from her skirt and picked little pieces off her sweater, then grabbed her blue suede jacket. I got up, twisted the sleeves of my black sweater around my waist, checked to make sure we didn't forget the cigarettes, then turned off my bedroom light.

Tracy drove us to see
Kurt and Courtney
at Meadowbrook Mall. She had an ancient red Volkswagen Beetle. Her dad left it behind as part of his guilt trip when he ran off with the hussy of his dreams. All my dad left me were his scratched-up bongo records, embarrassing leftovers of his beatnik hour. Her feet barely reached the pedals, but she drove like a maniac. The mall was only five minutes away. Tracy made it in three. We smoked the rest of my allowance in the parking lot before going into the theater, and I was swimming in it by the time we bought our tickets.

We flashed our stubs to the usher and slipped between the folds of red velvet curtain. My eyes took forever to adjust and I wobbled through the darkness. Tracy marched up front so the screen was right in our face. The place was pretty much deserted, except for a clan of jocks munching popcorn toward the back.

The movie started, and before long my stomach started doing
flip-flops, so I went and sat in the lobby. The carpeting had one of those geometric patterns, and I tried following it, like a race car speeding through a video game, but when the room began to swallow itself I ducked into the bathroom and leaned over the toilet bowl for a while. There goes potluck. Afterward I felt a million times better, bought a small Coke to rinse my mouth, then went back into the theater.

Tracy was front and center, curled into a fetal position, squeezing her toes, her glassy eyes in deep focus. I handed her my Coke, and she grabbed at the straw like someone who just came back from the moon, sucked the whole thing down to one last giant gurgle of ice and backwash, then gave it back to me. I set the cup on the floor.

The movie made me sad. Everyone in it looked like they'd just survived a train wreck, everyone except Courtney that is. Tracy, however, was on a whole other wavelength. She studied the movie as if it were some kind of how-to manual for boys with guitars strapped over their waists. She felt destined to marry one and took every opportunity to learn more about them, as if she had cast herself in her own movie and was just waiting for the shooting to begin.

When the house lights came on, Tracy rubbed her hands on her tights, then tucked them under her sweater. “I'm freezing,” she said. I followed her up the aisle and through the lobby, squinting in the harsh light, careful to avoid the mob of head-shaved jocks crowding into the John. We crossed the barren parking lot. A thin layer of dew covered the cars, and the lights hanging overhead shone with the lonely afterglow of day's end. Tracy's VW started right up and she cranked the heat. The
weed was wearing off, the depression starting to simmer, slowly creeping back into my life. Tracy turned on the windshield wipers, lit a cigarette, then the whole car started shaking and tilting like that little girl's bed in
The Exorcist.
I rolled down my window and saw a pack of all-stars rocking the rear bumper of the car. Their leader tapped on Tracy's window. She rolled it down and blew smoke in his face.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Tracy asked.

“Evening ladies.” He waved the smoke away. “Looking for an adventure?”

“What are you—a travel agent?” she asked.

“There's a killer party around the corner. You should come check it out.” He winked at Tracy. “Unless, of course, you two just want to be alone.”

“We'll think about it.” Tracy rolled up her window, then looked over at me with one of her sex-crazed looks. The quarterback batted the top of the VW and danced back over to his blue Camaro. His cronies piled in one after another.

“Uh-uh,” I said. “No way.”

“Let's just check it out,” she said.

“I'm tired of trolling cul-de-sacs. He isn't even my type's most distant relative.”

“Maybe he has a cousin or an uncle. Think of it as shopping, if nothing fits we'll go somewhere else.”

I just wanted to go home, but Tracy had her own ideas, following a car full of drunken football players through silent subdivisions. I pleaded, but Tracy insisted, so we ended up at some shabby duplex behind a strip mall called Willow Creek. The apartments were faux ski lodge—very seventies. You
could hear the music in the parking lot, an empty keg was lying at the bottom of the stairs, a fresh puddle of puke on the first landing.

“Looks promising,” I sneered.

Tracy held my hand as we entered the apartment and dragged me directly toward the kitchen. Green Day was blasting. A few murky lights burned in the corners. There were lots of bodies, lots of sweaty faces, but nobody I recognized from school. A few rocker sluts were pinned down in the corners giving face to major scum.

“Where are we?” I shouted over the music.

“It's some poor idiot's idea of a bachelor pad.” Tracy shrugged her shoulders and pointed to the Bud babe poster taped to the wood-paneled wall. “I think his name is Chuck or something.”

“And what kind of guy is Chuck?” I asked.

“Probably an ex-football player who didn't get a scholarship and is now doing time at the local community college, trying to get his grades up for a shot at state college in two years. Maybe he'll even make something of himself as long as he doesn't kill anybody in the meantime.” Tracy went straight for the refrigerator, which was scarfed down to a torn open twelve-pack of Milwaukee's Best. Tracy took two and handed me one. I scanned the room and began sorting through the dismal prospects. The problem with jocks is that they're as interchangeable as a lightbulb. And when they look at you at this time of night it's with only one purpose in mind. Gross.

“Tastes like Lake Michigan,” Tracy said, looking at the can.

I opened the freezer. “What do you suppose is in those plastic containers?” I asked.

“Body parts,” some fathead said, butting in to grab a beer.

“How come looking around this room gives me very little reason to doubt you?” I asked.

“Maybe you watch too many scary movies,” he said.

“Or lived them.” Tracy began drifting away.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Over there.” She pointed toward the couch. “You still know how to scream don't you?”

I leaned against the kitchen counter trying to look ugly when Mr. Body Parts started hitting on me like I owed him something for the beer. He was an overweight musclehead with little or no understanding of his incredible lack of charm.

“I'm Chuck. Who are you?” He let out a huge belch, popping his beer can open one-handed.

“I'm gone.” I turned and headed for the bathroom which, thank God, nobody had puked in yet. I sat on the toilet, but was totally pee shy. My limbs felt cold, and I wished I was at home curled under my sheets sleeping toward tomorrow.

Someone hurriedly pounded on the door, so I pulled my corduroys up, flushed the toilet, and opened the door. Chuck comes barreling in and locks the door behind him. Fatso's got a big drunken date-rape grin leaking across his face, and he's acting all superior, like maybe he's too good for me and I'm about to get lucky.

“We meet again,” he says.

“We say good-bye again.” I tried getting around him, but he stood in the way and stared at my breasts like the vacant drooling ape that he was.

“What's your hurry?” he asked.

“Well, to be honest, I really don't want to watch you pee.”

“What are you doing in here then?”

“I'm not here, it's just an illusion.” I tried getting past him again, but he pinned me against the towel rack, pressed his nose against mine to advertise his psycho capabilities.

“You feel like you're here to me.” He laughed, as if the two sides of his brain were trying to outwit each other, then he grabbed my waist and pushed his against mine, so I could feel the merchandise packed under his denim jeans. He looked compulsive and prone to irrational ideas, someone who might prove very harmful if not handled with the utmost care.

When his hand slid up my arm and over my breast I stepped back and kicked him in the balls as hard as I could. He buckled under, screamed “Bitch!” like it was my fault or something, and crumpled onto the floor. He grabbed my left leg and tried to tackle me, so I stomped on his head with the other one. I didn't care what happened to his face. I just kept on kicking him over and over again until shiny drops of red blood dotted the linoleum floor. When his hand finally loosened its grip, I unlocked the door and excused myself. I hurried through the kitchen, found Tracy on the couch squeezed between the quarterback and some other steakhead. A pyramid of empty beer cans were stacked in front of her.

“Tracy,” I said. She pretended not to hear me.

“Tracy!” I screamed. “We have to leave!”

“Whatayatalkinabout?” the quarterback slurred, as if I was spoiling all his fun. Tracy looked up at me, and I gave her the death stare.

“Guys,” she said, slapping their knees, “it's been fun, but I have to go meet my boyfriend.”

“She's your boyfriend.” The quarterback pointed at me. “The carpet muncher. The queen of shag.”

Tracy stood up and walked toward the door.

“From one homosexual to another,” I said, nodding to him, then kicked the coffee table, and the pyramid of cans came crashing down into his lap.

“Hey you stupid bitch”—he brushed the cans off his legs—“who the fuck do you think you are?”

I gave him the bird with one hand while Tracy grabbed the other and pulled me toward the door. When we were outside Tracy started laying into me about how I always had to ruin everything. When we got into the car she gave me the silent treatment royale: Her Hole tape cranked and the Berlin Wall between us.

As we drove away I saw the fathead I made love to in the john come running out into the parking lot with a paper towel caressing his nose, obviously looking for
moi.
I had a good laugh. Several yahoo companions were right behind him. One of them pointed at our car while the rest loaded into an Olds-mobile that quickly backed out behind us. As we drove up Woodward Avenue past Wal-Mart, I looked back and saw
Revenge of the Steakheads
tearing up pavement behind us. Tracy was puttering along and I wondered if I should warn her or just let the circumstances fly.

It was only seconds before they pulled up beside us. Chuckie started throwing half-empty beer cans at Tracy's car. She rolled down her window.

“What the fuck's your problem?” she yelled.

“I'm gonna kill that bitch!” Fatso leaned out of the car and
pointed at me, his other hand still nursing his nose. I prayed for a telephone pole to chop off his head.

“Who is that pig?” Tracy asked. I squirmed in my seat.

“I think his name is Chuck or something.”

“What did you do?” Tracy rolled up her window.

“He busted into the John looking to play Mr. President, and when I said
N-O
he got pushy, so I was forced to suppress his advances.”

“Did you mace him?” Tracy sped up the car.

“No, I kicked him in the balls!”

“That's it?” She looked into her rearview mirror, shook her head back and forth slightly, a tiny grin lifting from the corner of her lips. I could tell she was starting to side with me. “You should have flushed his head in the toilet and gave him a swirlee.” She took her foot off the acclerator, rolled her window down again. The carload of monsters roared up beside us, their fearless leader still leaning out the window.

“Hey you!” Tracy yelled. “The guy in the backseat!” She pointed at him. An onion-headed dweeb peered out the rear window. Tracy slowed down even more, but not enough for them to do anything stupid, just enough so she didn't have to scream.

“You know what your boyfriend's problem is? He got beat up by a girl!” She laughed.

“He's not my boyfriend,” he said, and then spit at her, which of course, because of the wind, blew back in his face.

Tracy just lost it. She cracked up so hard I thought we were gonna crash. She rolled her window shut and made a sharp right into the far end of the empty Wal-Mart lot. The girl is a genius.

I looked back and saw the Oldsmobile spinning through a U-turn and into the lot behind us. They weren't giving up. Tracy kept her eyes peeled straight ahead, bouncing over speed bumps, determined now to lose them. But they were insane. Within seconds the deathcar rolled up and kissed Tracy's car from behind. We were knocked forward. Tracy reached for her seat belt and I did the same.

“Those assholes are really starting to piss me off!” Tracy made a sharp left out of the lot and raced back down Woodward to Sixty-third Street. The deathcar was still on our case. Tracy turned left onto Sixty-third, trying to cut them off at the light, then sped toward the highway entrance. The deathcar ran a red and followed, then roared up right behind us and rammed the back end of the car again. I looked back and saw their laughing faces and started to get real scared.