Six Bad Things

– Actually. I think that’s pretty cool, Sid.

A smile cracks across his face.

– Dude?

– I think it’s pretty cool that you want to be a part of something, that you have ambition. And, you know, I’ve never had a fan before.

He comes over and sits back down, close to me this time.

– Never had a fan? Oh, dude, you have no idea! Online? There are, like, sites just for you, just for people to chat about you. Like, never had a fan? Uh-uh. Huge fan base, dude.

Rolf exits the restaurant.

– That’s cool, maybe you can show me sometime.

– Dude!

– Let’s chill for now. Rolf’s gonna give us both a hard time if he hears this shit. Call us fags.

– No worries, dude.

He looks from my face to where Rolf is approaching, and back at me.

– But, dude, you know I’m totally not.

– What?

– A fag.

Rolf walks up and stands in front of us. Sid spurts out a nervous laugh. Rolf looks at him.

– What?

Sid shakes his head.

– Nothing, dude.

He laughs again.

– Dude, what up?

Still laughing, Sid nods, waves his hand, climbs into the bus, gets behind the wheel, and starts the engine. Rolf leans close to me.

– Dude, I like the little dude, but he is kinda freaky, ain’t he?

THERE’S A checkpoint at the state line. The lights appear on the horizon and we figure what it must be before we get there. Sid slows down, but keeps driving toward it. Rolf climbs in the back, pulls the foam pad off of the bench/bed at the back of the bus. There’s a shallow depression underneath and the underside of the pad has been carved out to create extra storage space. Rolf grabs the sleeping bags currently occupying this space and tosses them on the floor.

– Dude, can you fit in here?

I peek in the cramped space.

– Uh, maybe I should just stay up here, put on a hat and.

– They have your picture, dude.

– They’re not looking for three guys in a.

– You been listening to Sid? We don’t know what they’re looking for.

Sid is nodding.

– Dude is right. If they’re looking for a Westy, we’re fucked no matter what. Otherwise, you’re the wanted man.

Rolf tosses the guns from his day pack into the stash space.

– Even if they search us, there’s a good chance they won’t find you in there.

– Let’s just turn around.

The lights are bright now. Sid’s shaking his head.

– Too late for that, dude. They see us flip a bitch here and we’ll have to pull a Smokey and the Bandit in this thing. No way.

Rolf is holding the pad up.

– In, dude.

– Maaan.

– Dude, who’s the professional people smuggler?

I climb in, kick the guns to the bottom of the space, and try to make myself flat. Rolf stuffs a couple sweatshirts around my head.

– What the hell are those for?

– In case a cop decides to sit on you.

– Oh, fuck you, man.

He laughs and drops the pad.

I’M NOT claustrophobic, but I do a pretty good impersonation of someone who is. It’s not so much small places that I’m afraid of as being restrained. I wasn’t born with this fear, it’s just that it reminds me of being gagged with a dirty sock, pinned to a bed, and tortured. That is something I have experience with, and I don’t expect to be getting over it. Ever. I looked it up once. There’s no name for my specific association, but there’s something called merinthophobia: the fear of being bound or tied. Being packed into a shallow depression and having a foam pad stuffed on top of you may not count as binding or tying, but it will do in a pinch. So I think skinny thoughts, try not to breathe too much, and eke what oxygen I can through the foam.

I HEAR the engine vibrating right under me and the squeak of the brakes as we stop. There are some sounds that might be voices, and then the bus is moving again, pulling forward. Fuckin’ A, that wasn’t too bad. We’re through.

The bus swings to the right, stops, and the engine cuts out.

My heart starts trying to slam a hole in my chest. I suck air, oxygenating my blood like a diver, knowing what’s coming.

The weight in the bus shifts. I hear two bangs: Sid and Rolf climbing out and slamming the doors. A gliding shiver, another bang, another lurch of the bus: the side door being pulled open and a cop climbing in. I stop breathing.

One. Two. Three. Four.

I’m counting. That’s a bad idea. Counting will just make me think about how long I’m holding my breath. I should think about something else. Calm thoughts. The beach. I picture my place at the beach. Palm trees waving, waves lapping. One wave. Two waves. Three waves.

Stop it.

Voices now.

– Mumble mumble in that cabinet?

Has to be a cop.

– Mumble here.

Rolf.

How close are they if I can tell what they’re saying? One foot? Two feet? Three feet? Stop it!

– In that bag mumble?

– Mumble laundry mumble mumble.

– Under mumble there mumble?

Under? Under what? The rug? Are these guys looking for a fugitive or just hassling Rolf and Sid? Under? Fuck! The bench/bed is the top of a low cabinet.

– Mumble look mumble in there?

– Sure, dude.

Fuck you, Rolf.

I can hear it, I can feel it: the cop kneeling on the floor inches from me, popping open the cabinet doors, shining his flashlight inside, digging around right under me, trying to find something that will make his evening more interesting.

He’s digging and digging. One. Two. Three. I need to breathe. I have to move. I can’t be held down like this. I shift a quarter inch to the left and something pokes me in the side. Pictures in my head: being forced facedown on