Running Wide Open (2 page)

Slouching back, I put my feet on the dash and rested my black Converse high tops in a pile of junk food wrappers that looked like they’d been there since Race bought the van. He didn’t seem to notice that my shoes were flaking dried mud all over his accumulation of rodent bait. He just turned the key, nearly blasting me out of the seat when the stereo powered up with Jimmy Buffett’s
Margaritaville
.

“Sorry,” Race said, lowering the volume. He glanced across the cab at me before unthreading the van from its narrow parking spot. “So I hear you took the rap for your friend.”

I snorted and turned to look out the window. “Yeah, I’m a real hero.”

If my uncle thought he could buddy up to me with a few sympathetic comments, he was in for a letdown. I’d gotten enough of that phony bullshit from teachers, and school counselors, and all the other people who considered it their job to meddle in the lives of “at risk” kids. They suckered you in, got you to trust them, and always let you down in the end.

But the comment made me think of Tim. I knew I wouldn’t hear from him as long as I was in Eugene. He wasn’t the letter-writing type, and his stepdad would kill him if he found long distance charges on the phone bill.

At least Tim had gotten away. The cops hadn’t bothered trailing him into the woods once they had me. Later he’d called me and offered to give himself up on my behalf, but I told him not to be a dumbass.

In less than a minute we were out of the downtown area. If you could even call it a downtown. I saw more trees than buildings, and I felt like I was stuck in a tiny green bowl, surrounded on all sides by low hills covered in Douglas firs. Welcome to Hicksville, USA.

The van rounded a corner with a swoop that made me clutch the door handle. A long-haired guy dressed in bell-bottoms, a tie-dyed Grateful Dead shirt, and Birkenstocks stepped off the sidewalk in front of us. Race dodged him, swinging into the other lane.

“Somebody needs to tell that dude it’s 1989, not 1969,” I muttered as the man grinned and waved, oblivious to the fact that he’d just missed taking the Big Trip.

Race laughed. “Eugene does have its hippie element. It’s interesting because damn near the entire population of this town is made up of college students, environmentalists, and loggers, but they manage to get along without killing each other.”

I grunted and went back to looking out the window. We were headed east now, passing a college. A few girls sunbathed on the lawn in front of one of the dorms.
Hmmm, not bad
.

“That’s the University of Oregon,” my uncle said. “Off to the left is Autzen Stadium, where the Ducks have their games, but you can’t really see it from here.”

Ducks
, now there was a real fighting name. It was even more pitiful than what they called their rivals, the OSU Beavers. At least Beavers had teeth.

We crossed under the freeway and drove along a narrow river. “That the Willamette?” I asked, allowing curiosity to overpower my cool.

“Yup. It runs right behind the trailer park where I live.”

I checked out the river. In Portland the Willamette was a monster that supported drawbridges and big ships. Here, it looked puny enough to walk across. There were even rocks sticking up out of it.

The river disappeared behind some trees, and after that the scenery went south. Rundown buildings and used car lots replaced the hotels and restaurants I’d seen near the University. Jimmy Buffett began crooning
Changes In Attitudes, Changes In Latitudes
.

“So what kinda stuff do you like to do?” Race asked.

I shrugged. Did he really think I’d spill my guts? For all I knew, he’d report everything I said to my dad. Things were messed up enough with him. He thought I’d gotten off too easily—that a week or two in juvie might have done me some good. I had no idea why the zoo had dropped charges against me, but the fact that they did proved it wasn’t any big deal, right?

Race tried again. “You into heavy metal?”

I answered with another shrug. Years ago I’d learned that this simple gesture was a good supplement to any vocabulary. People got fed up with it pretty quick then they tended to leave you alone.

“I’m not gonna get on your case about anything like that, if you’re worried,” Race said. He made a right turn just before a bridge that, according to a sign, crossed the river into the city of Springfield.

“I figure a kid your age needs space. There’s a couple things I’m gonna draw the line at, like messing with drugs or getting in trouble with the cops, but I won’t nag you on matters of taste.”

I took a final drag off my cigarette and threw it out the window. “Whatever,” I said, calling up my next-best tool for putting an end to a conversation.

Race nodded like he didn’t give a rip that I’d brushed off his attempt to be a good guy, but a twinge of disappointment flickered in his eyes. That figured. He was nice, but he was just like my dad. Weak.

* * *

Race’s trailer looked old enough to be the first place Noah rented when he got off the Ark, and I was pretty sure I recognized the mobile home park from a recent episode of
Cops
. About fifty feet to the north, a railroad trestle rose up out of the brush.

My uncle literally lived on the wrong side of the tracks.

I glanced across the van at him, hoping he’d made a wrong turn and taken me to the landfill by mistake.

“This is it, kid.”

That military school was looking better all the time.

I hopped down from the van and swung wide of the carport, which leaned dangerously to one side. It looked like the rusty car parts stacked around it were the only things holding it up. The trailer’s wooden steps, lined with a waist-deep pile of yellowing newspapers, felt spongy from dry rot as I climbed them.

Inside, the living room, kitchen, and dining area were one open space. Dishes overflowed the sink, dirty clothes peeked out from under the coffee table, and the whole place smelled like a Jiffy Lube.

“Damn,” I said. “This looks worse than my room back home.”

Race glanced around like he was seeing the mess for the first time. “I’m not much on housework.”

No kidding.

“Well, look, kid. This trailer’s kinda small, but you can have the back room. I mostly just use it for storage, anyway.”

“Don’t you sleep?”

“Sure, but I crash on the couch. Go ahead and put your stuff in the bedroom. I’ll be back in a minute to box up my junk, then we can take it down to my shop.”

A snort almost escaped me as I sidestepped Race’s drafting table, which filled damn near the entire kitchen. It was a neat-freak oasis in a desert of disarray, organized into tidy stacks of papers and art supplies. Clearly, my uncle was nuts. But there was no denying his talent. The sketches of cars and people tacked to the walls above his workstation looked totally realistic.

I slipped down the hallway that led between a closet and the tiniest bathroom I’d ever seen. At the back of the trailer, car parts and tools covered the desk, bed, and floor. Ugly black stains spotted the carpet, completely overwhelming its three-tone pattern. The only positive thing about the room was that it had its own door leading outside.

“This place really isn’t big enough for two people,” Race said as he joined me in the scrap emporium. “But it’ll do for the summer. By fall I oughta be able to afford an apartment.”

I grunted and dropped onto the bed, where I sunk into the flabby mattress.

Oblivious to my culture shock, Race secured the bottom of an old Valvoline box with duct tape then began tossing cans of spray paint into it. “I shoulda done this before you got here, but I’ve been kinda busy. I’m putting a roll cage in a guy’s car, and he wants it done by Monday.”

This time I couldn’t even muster a grunt. Paralyzed by apathy, I watched my uncle chuck stuff into boxes and milk crates. There was no way this could work. If the guy couldn’t take the time to clean out a room for me, what made him think he’d be able to put up with all the other things about a kid that would cramp his style?

I stared down at the flecks of orange paint that had spattered my favorite jeans the other night. I still couldn’t fathom why the cops had let me off. Dad refused to discuss it. All he’d seemed to care about was getting rid of me.

“Wanna help me load this stuff into the van?” Race asked.

I lifted my shoulders noncommittally, still staring at my jeans.

“Hey, the sooner we get this place cleaned up, the sooner you can make it yours.”

Now there was some incentive. I sighed and pushed myself up off the bed. Maybe it would be easier if I cooperated. I grabbed the nearest box and followed him out to the van.

Within half an hour everything was loaded up. Race had even vacuumed the carpet—with a Shop Vac—and found clean sheets for the bed. They were green and yellow striped. I glanced sideways at him.

“University colors,” Race explained, blushing as if I’d accused him of some sort of perversion.

“You went to the University?”

“Yeah. For a year.”

“You flunk out?”

“Nope. The parental gravy train dried up. Seems you’ve gotta read the fine print if you want to get an education out of our family.”

You had to read the fine print if you wanted to get anything out of our family.

* * *

My uncle’s shop, in an industrial complex on the west end of town, was spotless compared to the trailer. The one exception was the area right inside the doorway. A frat house reject couch and chair sat beside a table built from milk crates and plywood. The surface was buried under a roach’s fantasies: Coke cans, Taco Time wrappers, and the remains of stale 7-Eleven burritos. After stepping through that mess, the rest of the shop shocked me. It was crammed full of boxes, tools, and spare parts, but everything was organized. I walked around, giving it a casual once-over.

Even though I figured the least bit of interest would invite a landslide of enthusiasm from my uncle, I couldn’t resist the pull of the race car. Scuffed, battered, and painted basic black, it sported yellow eights on the doors and roof, which were shadowed with red to give them a three-dimensional pop. Both front fenders advertised Rick’s University Video, while the trunk promoted Willamette Electrical Supply. “Eugene Custom Classics” was stenciled across the hood under a sky blue pentagon with a skinny white star in the middle. I thought I recognized it as the logo for some car company. Dodge, maybe?

“A lot of work goes into one of these things.”

Race’s voice startled me, but I managed not to jump. With a grunt, I turned away. He took the hint and got busy unloading the van.

A second car sat at the back of the shop. The roof had been chopped off and the interior stripped. Inside, a structure of steel tubing was beginning to take shape. I figured that was the roll cage Race had mentioned. I could see why it was called a cage, since it hugged the outside contours of the car, forming a skeleton to protect the driver.

More exploration revealed an assortment of toolboxes and equipment. On one shelf, beside a row of car manuals, I spotted some trophies.

Race was good enough to win trophies?

I glanced over my shoulder. He was still stacking boxes, so I wandered closer. Several of the awards bore the date and the inscription “Trophy Dash Winner.” Others boasted a “Main Event” victory.

“How ’bout some lunch?”

I jerked back, hoping Race hadn’t noticed what I was looking at. Fat chance of that. He grinned at me, probably thinking he’d scored some points.

“You hungry?” he asked.

I shrugged. Was he for real? It was almost two o’clock.

“McDonald’s okay?”

“Sure.”

“Then let’s go.”

I followed him outside.

Trophies. I wouldn’t mind winning a trophy for something. I wondered what it would be like to drive a race car. I bet it was a rush.

* * *

Race seemed surprised when I ate three Big Macs, a large order of fries, a milkshake, and an apple pie. What did he expect? Dad was sending him money. Why should I go hungry?

I had to endure that same Jimmy Buffett tape the whole drive back to the trailer. As soon as we got there, I retreated to my room. Even with the car parts gone, it reeked of oil.

Margaritaville
was still bouncing around in my head, so I busted out my CD collection. Race had been way off with that crack about heavy metal. Sure, I listened to that stuff with my friends, but what I really dug was older rock. Stuff like Jerry Lee Lewis and the Beatles. Almost anything from the ’50s, ’60s, and ’70s. Chuck Berry seemed like a good bet right now. I stuck the disc in my boombox and cranked up
Maybellene
, wondering if Race would nag me to turn it down. Probably not. He seemed like the type to go out of his way to get along with people. I bet I could get away with a lot if I worked it right.

Secure in my protective bubble of music, I started unpacking. The majority of my boxes went straight in the closet—there wasn’t anyplace to put most of my stuff—but I did jam my clothes into the dresser and slide my posters out of their mailing tube.

I had to stand on a milk crate to tape the upper corners of the artwork to the walls. One of the curses of being short. I kept hoping someday I’d have a growth spurt, but I figured it was a lost cause. Dad was only five foot seven.

When I finished putting my personal stamp on the place, one thing remained. An old drawing of Race’s. I wasn’t even sure why I’d brought it. Maybe because it reminded me of the only memory I had of him, from when I was a little kid and we’d visited Grandma and Grandpa for Thanksgiving.

It had been one of those bleak November days where everything outside was gray and dripping. The scenery in the house had been just as dismal. Grandma decorated in every shade of white, sticking expensive, breakable things where you couldn’t be a kid without knocking them over. I’d wandered through the house until I came across Race’s room—a colorful refuge, just messy enough to be interesting.

Race must’ve been about fourteen then. He was sitting at his desk, putting together a model of a car with the number 43 on the doors and lots of lettering on the sides.