Authors: Alexa Land
River sighed and picked up a paper
grocery sack, then put two of the big sandwiches he’d made for the party inside
it and rolled up the top of the bag. As he handed it to his brother he said,
“I’ll tell Nana to dock my pay a few bucks to make up for that. You both gotta
take better care of yourselves. Lord knows I can barely take care of myself,
let alone y’all.”
Skye’s truck was ancient and dented, but
he’d taken spray paint to it in many shades of blue, turning it into a work of
art reminiscent of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. “Hang on a sec,” he told me. “The
passenger door doesn’t open from the outside.” He climbed in the cab and
reached under the seat for a big wrench, which he used to twist a little broken
nub on the inside of the door. Nothing happened.
He frowned at that, then said, “Stand
back.” Skye dropped the wrench, pivoted around on the seat, and kicked the
inside of the door with both feet. It swung open with a loud groan. “There we
go,” he said cheerfully. “It just sticks sometimes. Oh hang on, let me get this
stuff out of your way.” The passenger side of the bench seat was covered with
papers, junk mail, and miscellaneous detritus. His solution for that was to
sweep everything onto the floor with his arm. “All set,” he said with a smile,
then stuck the key in the ignition and fired up the engine. I was surprised it actually
started.
I climbed into the truck, heaved the
door shut, and had just begun to reach for my seatbelt when Skye took off like
a shot. “Holy crap,” I exclaimed as the truck lurched down the street. He’d
stuck the sandwich bag on the dash and I caught it as it came flying at me.
“You want to slow down just a bit there, Skye? My plans for today didn’t
include getting splattered all over the inside of your windshield.”
“Yeah, okay,” he said, easing off the
accelerator slightly and grinding gears with the stick shift. “I just want to
make sure we get to Oakland before that place closes, but I think we’ll have
enough time.”
I’d located the seatbelt, but it really
didn’t want to latch. In an act of desperation, I tied it to a lap belt that
spanned the center of the bench seat, double-knotting it and pulling the ends
tight. Skye glanced at what I was doing, then grinned at me. “I hardly ever
wreck. Don’t worry.”
“Hardly ever? That’s not very
reassuring.”
“In the ten years I’ve been driving,
I’ve only wrecked twice. Those are pretty good odds.”
“Ten years? How old are you?”
“Twenty-one.”
“But that would mean you were driving
since you were eleven.”
“Yup.”
I absorbed that for a beat, then
said, “I mean, I get that your mom is a free spirit and all. River told me
about being raised in a commune. But letting an eleven-year-old drive? That’s
pretty irresponsible.”
“Actually, I didn’t grow up with my mom,
or with River. He and I had different dads, as you can probably guess by the
fact that he’s half-Latin and I’m Wonder Bread white. Anyway, my dad moved from
Louisiana to Oregon when I was four and took me with him. He loved to go out
drinking on Friday nights, and taught me to drive so I could get him home
safely.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I think he made the right call.
Responsible kid versus drunk adult? Put your money on the kid every time.”
While I was preparing about fifty
rebuttals to that, Skye reached for the sandwich bag that I’d set down between
us. I pulled it away and exclaimed, “You’re barely staying in your own lane as
it is, and now you want to add eating to the mix? We’re about to get on the
bridge. Can you please hold off on lunch, at least until crashing through the
retaining wall and plunging into the bay is no longer a possibility?”
He smiled at that. “You’re pretty
uptight. But I like you, Trevor.”
“I’m not uptight. I just don’t want to
die.”
He patted my knee reassuringly. Then he
said, “We all have to die sometime.”
“
What
?”
Skye burst out laughing and said, “Oh
man.” He actually downshifted, slowing the truck to match the flow of traffic
instead of weaving through it. “See? You
are
uptight. You’re cute
though, so I’ll forgive you. Plus, you’re nice enough to let a total stranger
drag you to a junkyard in Oakland. I don’t think many people would volunteer
for something like that.”
“What exactly are we picking up,
anyway?”
“A clock.”
“You can’t lift a clock on your own?”
“Apparently it’s a really
big
clock.”
It actually turned out to be enormous.
After surviving the drive across the bridge and cutting through a highly
questionable part of the East Bay, we arrived at our destination. Skye
murmured, “Oh wow, look at that,” as we pulled into a barbed wire-ringed yard
and came to a stop beside the colossal timepiece.
The thing was maybe eight feet across.
Half of its metal numbers were missing, and its big brass hands dangled
loosely. It was already unusual because of its size, but what made it truly
bizarre was the fact that the plastic clock face had been painted to look like
the Man in the Moon. It had huge green eyes, a creepy, leering grin, and
painted-on craters that sort of made it look like it had a skin condition. All
in all, it was fairly nightmarish.
Skye cut the engine and was out of the
truck almost before it stopped moving, dashing up to the clock and running his
hands over the face. “This is the greatest thing ever,” he exclaimed as I
climbed over the bench seat and got out through his door. “Please tell me it
still has its gears,” he murmured, ducking down and looking behind it. “Oh wow,
it does!”
Meanwhile, a stooped African American
man of about ninety had come out of a trailer to our right. He slowly made his
way over to us, relying heavily on an ornate wooden cane that he clutched in a
hand gnarled by arthritis. “Hey there, Skye.” His voice was gravelly. “I’m glad
Elvis called you first. I told him you’d appreciate somethin’ like this.”
“It’s amazing.” Skye was totally
sincere, an expression of awe on his cute face.
“You know, a lot of people want them
clock gears and things,” the little old man said. “This here is a high-demand
item.”
“Elvis already told me I could have it
for a hundred, Tommy,” Skye said with a grin. “It’s too late to jack up the
price.”
“A hundred! He’s givin’ it away! How am
I supposed to make a livin’ with my grandson handin’ out deals like that?”
“Repeat business! You know I’m a
customer for life, Tommy.”
“Yeah, you
better
remember ol’
Tommy once you’re a big shot artist!” The man’s smile was made up of more gold
than teeth.
Skye smiled too. “You know I will.
You’re totally stuck with me.” He turned his attention back to the clock,
taking hold of the hands and positioning them at ten and two. “Where’d it come
from?”
“An old toy store in Vallejo that’s
gettin’ torn down to make room for some kinda fancy transit center. A few
pickers including Elvis got to go in there first and do some salvage.”
“It’s so great,” Skye murmured.
“It’ll never fit in the truck,” I
pointed out.
“Sure it will,” Skye said. “We’ll make
it fit. By the way, Tommy, this is my new friend Trevor. He works with my
brother. Trevor, this is the legendary Tommy Dulane, greatest trumpet player to
ever come out of the west coast swing scene, and now purveyor of fine
architectural salvage.”
That earned another big smile from
Tommy. “Now you’re just butterin’ me up. How short on cash are ya?”
“I’m not just saying that. You’re a
legend, Tommy. It has nothing to do with the fact that I only have seventy-six
dollars.”
“You know we have a strict
cash-on-the-barrelhead policy here, Skye.”
“I know, but I
have to
have this!
You know I’m good for the rest. Please, Tommy?” He actually hugged the huge
clock to his slender body, his big blue eyes pleading.
“Rules are rules, kid.”
Skye let go of the clock and dashed back
to his truck, where he began digging through the mess on the floor. A moment
later, he waved a crumpled dollar bill. “Seventy-seven dollars!” He held up the
brown paper bag. “And two sandwiches!”
I wanted to protest that he was trying
to give my lunch away along with his, but the look of sheer desperation on his
face made me feel bad for him. I pulled out my wallet, counted my cash, and
said, “I have six bucks, so we’re up to eighty-three dollars. Look how much
room that thing is taking up in your salvage yard, Mr. Dulane. It’s filling
valuable real estate. Wouldn’t you like to see it gone? I know I would if this
was my place.”
Tommy chuckled at that and finally
relented. “Fine, but just this one time, you hear? And keep it quiet! I don’t
want word gettin’ out that Dulane’s is extending credit to any little
blue-haired white boy that comes along and says pretty-please.”
“I won’t say a word,” Skye promised.
“I expect the rest next time I see you,
kid. Keep your lunch, though. The two of you look like a strong breeze would
knock you right over, you need those sandwiches more’n I do.”
Skye jogged over to the little old man
and grabbed him in a hug, then handed him all his money. I started to hand mine
over, too, but Tommy said, “Skye always forgets that he needs to pay the bridge
toll goin’ back into the city. You better keep a few bucks with you, you’re
gonna need it.”
“Thanks,” I said.
It took a lot of effort, but we somehow
managed to get the clock into the bed of the pick-up truck, wedging it in
diagonally. We tied it down with lots of rope, but I was absolutely convinced
it was going to go flying off on the Bay Bridge.
We were just about to get in and drive
away when Skye exclaimed, “Woah, what is that?” He dashed off across the junkyard,
reminding me of an errant puppy, and skidded to a halt beside a bunch of sheet
metal. He slid aside some big, heavy panels and revealed an old neon sign, of
which only a corner had been visible. “Tommy, I
need
this!” he
exclaimed.
I walked over to my new friend and took
a look at the art deco sign. It was about five feet high and seven feet wide,
and it said ‘Welcome to the Buena Vista.’ It had at one time been red and
white. Now it was scratched, rusty and faded out, but he said softly, “It’s so
beautiful.” I really wasn’t sure why Skye was so captivated by it, but then,
not many people saw the world like he did.
“You can’t afford that, Skye,” Tommy
called out.
“How much is it?”
“More than nothin’ and that’s all you
got right now.”
Skye looked dejected, but after a few
moments he dragged the big metal panels back in place, covering the sign
completely, and said resolutely, “I’m coming back for that, just as soon as I
make some money.”
“It’s been here for years,” Tommy told
him. “I’m sure it’ll be around a few more weeks, don’t you worry.”
“Promise you’ll call me before you sell
it to anyone else.” Tommy agreed to that, and Skye looked relieved.
Soon we were on our way back into the
city. The giant, precarious clock in the bed of the pickup had a calming effect
on Skye’s driving, so much that when he wiped his hands on his jeans and
started to eat his sandwich, I didn’t feel the need to panic and dig my
fingernails into the dashboard. Instead I joined him, enjoying the view of San
Francisco’s gorgeous skyline as we crossed the bridge.
When we finished our sandwiches and were
back on city streets, Skye asked, “Do you dance?”
“Do I what?”
“You know. Dance.” He let go of the
steering wheel and raised his arms up over his head, shaking his body to a tune
only he could hear. I gasped and grabbed the wheel, and he grinned at me.
“No, not even a little. I’m incredibly
clumsy. Why do you ask?”
“Okay, don’t laugh, but I moonlight as a
go-go dancer. The place where I work encourages the dancers to partner up, but
all the other guys at the club are kind of snooty. I was wondering if you’d
like to join me. It pays really well.”
“You’re kidding.”
“About which part?”
“All of it.”
“I’m totally serious. In fact, if you
wanted to, we could go in tonight and make a hundred bucks apiece.”
“Um, maybe you could, but I couldn’t. I
don’t exactly have the body of an Abercrombie model, you know.”
“Like I do?”
“Plus, I’m pretty sure people would pay
not
to see me dance,” I said.
Skye rolled his eyes at that. “Come on,
live a little! You’re exactly the right type for this place. It’s a club for
older businessmen who like twinks, and they’d
love
you.”
“That’s kind of creepy.”
“I know, but so what? You don’t have to
sleep with any of them. The only person that’d even lay a finger on you is me.”
He grinned and wiggled his eyebrows at me.
“Even if this somehow didn’t sound like
the worst idea ever, I seriously can’t dance. I’d make a fool of myself.”
“We can practice beforehand. I’ll be
Baby and you be Patrick Swayze, since you’re a couple inches taller than me.”
“You’ll be what?”
“Baby? As in, nobody puts me in a
corner?” I stared at him blankly, and he said, “Dirty Dancing? Hello!”