Rant: The Oral History of Buster Casey

goiter.' While I'm feeding the kid my line, really I'm going over the stolen-property bulletins for the past year.

The kid's looking out my front window. He's shaking the sock to jiggle the coins still inside. He says his grandmother died and left these to him. Offers that as the only pedigree for his collection.

Allfred Lynch: Only single problem I ever had with Rant Casey was, every month or so we do random lunchbox checks. As the guys are headed home, we ask to look inside their lunchboxes. Our guys are alone in people's homes, sometimes with jewelry and valuables sitting around. A random check keeps everybody in line.

Never found Rant stealing diamonds, but once we popped open his lunchbox and the insides was crawling with spiders. Black widow spiders he's supposed to been killing that day. Rant says it's by accident, and I trust him.

I mean, who'd smuggle home a nest of poison spiders?

Todd Rutz: The deal ended up, I paid the kid fifteen thousand out of petty cash. Gave him every bill I kept in the safe. Fifteen grand for the 1933 gold twenty, the 1933 gold ten, and the 1879 four- dollar piece.

When I ask his name, the kid has to think, look around at the floor and ceiling, before he tells me, 'I ain't decided yet.'

Believe me, it didn't matter if he lied. Didn't matter that he refused anything except cash payment. Or that the kid's teeth he used to untie the sock, his teeth are stained black. Jet-black teeth.

My point being, just that 1933 gold Saint Gaudens Double Eagle, that's an eight-million-dollar coin.

19–Student Driver

Shot Dunyun (Party Crasher): One Student Driver Night, Rant asked Green Taylor Simms to take a picture, a photo of Rant standing next to me. Rant handed Green one of those throwaway paper cameras, and, holding one hand stiff, chopping at his own knees, he goes to Green, 'From here up.'

Green drove his car that night, his big Daimler, and we'd pit-stopped at a drive-in for something to eat. Rant stands next to me, reaches an arm around my shoulder. He fingers the knob of my port, where it comes out between the Atlas and the Axial at the back of my skull, and Rant goes, 'What's this like?'

He tells me how, because of rabies, his port won't boost. His fingers still pushing, rubbing the skin around mine. His fingers warm, as if he's been holding a cup of coffee. Fever-warm. Hot.

A port is like having an extra nose, I tell him, only on the back of your neck. Only not just a nose, but eyes and a tongue and ears, five extra ways to see. Sometimes, I say, it's bullshit. You're supposed to control a port, but sometimes you get a whole-body hunger for a Coke or potato chips, stuff you'd never eat, so you know the corporate world must broadcast peaks or effects that enter the port even when it's unplugged.

Green's standing, leaning against the driver's door of his car, holding the camera to his face, going, 'Tell me when.' Cars drive past, behind him, some cars with 'Student Driver' signs. Some Party Crash teams, slowing to see if we're flying a flag.

Rant cups the back of my neck in his hand, going, 'Now.'

For example, tonight, I wasn't hungry until we drove past this fast-food place. My drool, it's real. But the bacon-cheeseburger taste in my mouth is a boosted effect.

Green Taylor Simms goes, 'Say ‘cheeseburger. '

And, Rant's hand gripping my neck, he twists my face toward him and plants his mouth over mine. When the camera flashes, Rant's other hand is dug between my legs, spread and thumbing between the buttons of my fly.

The crazy asshole. His tongue hot in my mouth, his saliva on my lips, fast as spit can transfer rabies. The camera flash comes twice before I push Rant Casey away, and he goes, 'Thanks, man.' He takes the paper camera from Green and says, 'My dad won't believe I bagged me such a good-looking boyfriend.'

How bullshit is that?

And me, I'm just spitting and spitting. The hot taste of cheese and bacon and rabies. Spitting and spitting.

From DRVR Radio Graphic Traffic Reports: Bad news for those of you westbound on the 213 Freeway: A four-door hardtop has sideswiped the inside divider and flipped, trapping the driver and one passenger inside. The ambulance boys say the driver is a thirty-five-year-old male, losing blood from a compound fracture of his femur; his pulse is weak, and his blood pressure is falling rapidly. His current prognosis is cardiac arrest due to exsanguination, with another update on the quarter-hour. This is the DRVR Graphic Traffic Report: We Know Why You Rubberneck…

Shot Dunyun: On Student Driver Nights, the flag is one of those signs that warn: 'Caution—Student Driver at the Wheel.' You have to make two good-size signs and wire one between your taillights, across the back of your trunk and rear bumper. You wire the second sign across the front of your hood, but so it won't block ram air into your radiator. Beginners, teams that expect too much from their viscous fan clutch and coolant pump, they'll make a sign that blocks the whole grille, and you'll see them overheated at the side of the road.

Echo Lawrence (Party Crasher): Party Crash rules require all the teams use some form of 'Ajax Professional Driving School' sign since a few seasons ago a real student driver wandered into the course, during the window. That guy's a legend. The poor student, the story goes, six different teams serial-tagged his car, chased him for blocks, gang-banging his rear bumper until his muffler dropped. People say the student and the instructor just bailed, drove up onto a curb and left the front doors hanging open and the motor running.

From DRVR Radio Graphic Traffic Reports: Here's another update regarding that rollover accident on the 213. Driver extrication continues, but we're already looking at signs of a cerebral subarachnoid hemorrhage and pneumocephalus caused by the driver's forehead contacting the windshield-mounted rearview mirror. That's all there is to see on the westbound side. We'll have another update on the quarter-hour. This is the DRVR Graphic Traffic Report: We Know Why You Rubberneck…

Shot Dunyun: Party Crashing might sound exciting, but most of it consisted of sitting, talking, and driving in circles. Cruising around, watching for another car flying the correct flag for that time window. The flag announced on the phone call or e-mail or instant message that went around. Some windows, you'd see a team without a clue, dressed for a Honeymoon Night with wedding shit on their car. Or you'd see a team wearing the wigs and driving a car painted with 'Go Team' shit, perfect for a Soccer Mom Night. If your flag is wrong, you look like assholes. Or worse.

Teams with the wrong flag up, people say they're police trying to break the game. Or they're teams that tagged too hard, rammed other cars in the side or some other verboten spot. You commit enough fouls and people start to call the Party Crash Hotline and report you. Enough fouls go on your tally and you stop getting notices about the next flag and window.

From DRVR Radio Graphic Traffic Reports: Here's a quick look at the rollover on the 213. The meat-wagon boys tell me the driver exhibits bursting lacerations of the pericardium—that tough little bag that holds your heart. Early word is, localized impact appears to have driven the heart against the vertebral column, resulting in a contusion of the posterior wall of the interventricular septum. Dead means dead, and drive time