Six Bad Things

give up and I ran. It’s the truth. Tell the truth.

I reach for the doorknob. Stop. Turn and grab Mom and kiss her cheek.

– I love you, Mom. I won’t be back. I’m sorry. I love you, Dad.

I open the door and the dogs come barking down the stairs. Blow up the world and they won’t notice, fuck with the front door and they go berserk. I step outside. Over the barking dogs I hear Mom.

– We love you, Henry, no matter what.

I pull the door closed, and I’m running again.

THE SHOP is in the middle of town, about a ten-minute walk. I can’t move very fast with my leg, but I know a shortcut. I dig the guns out of the bushes, huddle there for a second as a van drives past on the street, then walk up to the corner, take a right, and climb a short chain-link fence. It’s not easy with one leg to work with, but I make do. On the other side, I sit down on the edge of the dry culvert, push off, and slide to the bottom. I hit bottom and get a shock of pain up my left leg.

I’m lucky it’s been a dry winter so far; there are only a couple inches of water down here. I splash through the darkness for a couple hundred yards till I get to the spot where steps are carved into the south wall of the culvert. They’re steep, like Kulkukan. I shake that vision from my head. No time for that.

At the top some kids have clipped a hole in the chain-link. I squeeze through and pop up under the bleachers of Patterson High’s football field. I weave through the lattice of struts, come out from the west end of the stands, cross the track that circles the football field, cross the field itself, and stop. Right in front of me are the baseball diamonds. I trot as quickly as I can between the diamonds, glancing at the spot where I broke my leg and U-turned my life.

Get over it, Henry.

The campus is pretty much like it was back in my day. I cross the quad with the big red P painted in the middle. This is where we used to grab unsuspecting freshmen and dump them facedown in trash cans for showing insufficient Tiger Pride, and then I’m on the street in front of the school looking at downtown Patterson in all its after-midnight glory.

CSM is tucked between a John Deere dealership and a U-Haul. I unlock the office door, go in, close it behind me, head into the shop, and flick on the lights. And there’s my car, wheels removed, up on jack stands. Right where Dad left it so he could start replacing the brake pads first thing in the morning. Thanks, Dad. Then the alarm goes off because I didn’t enter the code within thirty seconds of opening the door.

DANNY WAS wearing an America’s Most Wanted shirt, which means he’s a fan, which means he recognized me when I beat him up, because, according to The Man Who Got Away, I have my very own episode of America’s Most Wanted. Even a dildo like him could hop online and do enough research to find out where my parents live and come here looking for me. He probably thinks catching me will earn him a reward and make him some kind of hero. And it would, it would.

The sheriff and his deputies know who my folks are. They know Mom because they frequently dealt with her students at the continuation school and, after my shit went down, they spent a fair amount of time staked out in front of the house, helping to deal with the media and such. Danny or Leslie or one of their cronies are going to pop out with my name. How long till that happens? How long after that till one of the deputies remembers how close my folks live to Wade? How long till they get a report on the alarm at CSM and remember my dad owns it? How long will it take for these podunk cops to connect the dots and really be after me? And how long after that before the state cops and the FBI are involved?

Leslie is hysterical. Danny was unconscious when I last saw him. Ponytail Boy had two broken limbs and is probably in shock. Mullet Head? He didn’t look like he’d be talking to anyone soon. Fat Guy. Will he talk? Will he say, “Yeah, we spun up here after a wanted murderer instead of calling the cops because he beat up my friend and we crashed our truck here and…”? He’ll keep his mouth shut. That’s what he’ll do. That’s what he has to do for me to have a chance.

I’M PULLING tarps off of cars while the alarm continues to ring, calling to deputies who are otherwise engaged. The ’53 ’Vette is way too visible. Likewise the ’73 Jaguar XLS. The 1970 Mercedes 280 SL has no engine. The ’50 Studebaker Commander is buried at the back of the row. But the ’85 Monte Carlo SS is just right. I grab the keys from the rack on the wall and hit the ignition. Nothing. Of course, because no one has driven it lately and the battery is dead. I wheel the charger over, pop the hood, and stare at the big block 502; 450 horses and over 500 lbs of torque. I hook up the charger.

While the car is juicing I go back in the office and dig around the shelves until I find a greasy road atlas. I limp back toward the shop and trip over something. A box of CSM jackets, each one wrapped in plastic. My jacket! The jacket that Leslie had pressed to her daughter’s forehead. That’s the kind of clue that will get the cops here in a hurry.

I try the key again and the Monte Carlo rumbles to life, almost as loud as the alarm. I disconnect the charger, drop the hood, and hit the button to roll up the garage door. It’s almost one in the morning. Outside, the heavy San Joaquin fog is starting to muffle the valley. I ease between the other cars, hoping that Dad’s insurance is up-to- date. I stop the car just outside, go back, reach in, and hit the button, dropping the door. No reason to invite trouble. I’m behind the wheel, seat belt on. I take a right out of the drive directly onto Highway 33, and gun the engine, popping from first to second to third. The fucker is so loud I don’t hear the siren of the sheriff’s car until it bursts off of Poppy Avenue, right in front of me.

My left foot jacks the clutch while my right heel-toes the brake and the gas. I crank the wheel over. The rear of the Monte Carlo whips out and around and keeps whipping. Instead of pulling a nice neat one-eighty, I doughnut all the way around and end in a dead stop. The sheriff’s car swerves around me and streaks into the CSM driveway, out for bigger fish than a late-night joyrider like me. Cool. I pop into first and roll. The sheriff backs out of the driveway, pivots, and comes after me. I hit it, heading west, straight toward… Newman and the sheriff’s headquarters. Not cool. Let’s try that one-eighty again.

Clutch, heel-toe, crank wheel (not too much this time), come off the brake, into the gas, clutch coming out straight into second gear, rear wheels catching, sheriff’s car whirling into view through the windshield, jolting forward, teasing wheel to right as sheriff brakes and jerks left, correcting wheel for fishtail, left rear quarter panel banging sheriff’s left rear quarter panel as we pass, correcting again, and blasting back north on 33. Just like Jim fucking Rockford. The sheriff’s car gets turned around and is on me with full sirens and lights as I brake hard, take a right off of 33, and ease over the train tracks onto Las Palmas.

EAST LAS Palmas Avenue shoots northeast out of the center of Patterson and straight into ranch country until it bends due east and becomes West Main Avenue around the almond orchards, then turns into West Main Street as it passes through Hatch, and finally crosses the 99 just outside Turlock. It’s a fifteen-mile shot all the way out, but the first mile and a quarter is the tricky part, the stretch where the avenue is lined with huge palm trees, one every ten yards. You hit 100 mph there? The trees look like a wall. When I was a kid, we’d drag here when we thought we could get away with it. Right before getting into your car, you always said the same thing to your opponent: “Don’t fuck up.”

The Monte Carlo was clearly put together with an eye toward on-track drag racing, but it’s currently geared for street use. That slows down the acceleration a bit, taking your 0-60 sprint time from a flat six seconds to something around seven. Ho-hum. I lead-foot the pedal to the floor.

The dual carbs make a huge sucking sound as they fly wide open, the rear end bites down hard, smoke spews out from under the tires as I leave fifteen-foot twin stripes. The animal under the hood screams and I explode forward, the cop lost in the cloud of wheel-smoke behind me. I’m still in third when the speedometer hits 100.

I am not prepared to control something like this. No one is prepared to control something like this. I’m just trying to keep straight. If I waver I’ll lose traction and spin into the wall of massive palm trees flipping by on either side. I ease off the gas. The needle peaks at 110 and starts to drop. I want to check the rearview for the sheriff, but don’t dare move my eyes from the road. The last of the trees blinks away behind me and an ounce of tension leaves my shoulders. The sign in front of me announces that my lane must merge left due to road construction.