Running Wide Open Page 2

  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 shor
t. 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.

  “What’s that?” I asked, standing in the doorway.

  “Richard Petty’s 1970 Plymouth Superbird.”

  There wasn’t even a hint of impatience in Race’s voice, so I took that as an invitation to keep talking.

  “Why’s it got that big thing on the back?”

  “The wing? That helps hold it down on the track. It’s a superspeedway car and it can go over 190 miles per hour.”

  I was five years old. I had no idea what 190 miles per hour meant.

  “That’s more than three times as fast as you guys went on the freeway coming here,” Race explained, setting the car down and swiveling in his chair to face me.

  “Wow. Can I have it?”

  “No, but I’ll draw you a picture.” He fished a pad of paper and a pencil out of his desk and scrawled for a few minutes, creating a totally cool replica of the Superbird. When he was done he ripped the page from the tablet and handed it over. “How’s that?” he asked, shooting off a grin that would have made me follow him into the bloodiest battle.

  When we went home later that night I stuck the sketch up on my wall, where it had stayed for almost ten years. I hadn’t seen Race after that, and for months I’d wished he’d been my big brother, instead of my uncle. But I was kidding myself if I thought that he was gonna fill that role now.

  I stuck the Superbird drawing in the top drawer of the desk. Then I broke down the boxes I’d emptied and slid them under the bed so I wouldn’t have to get new ones when Race kicked me out.

  With my unpacking finished, I rooted through the closet until I found the box Race had made a crack about. Good thing he hadn’t pressed the issue. It wouldn’t have done much to promote my bad-ass image if he’d figured out I liked to read.

  In my crowd it was acceptable for a guy to check out the occasional comic book or dirty magazine, but I read real books. Current authors like Alden R. Carter and Chris Crutcher, and even the stuff they taught in school. I totally got into how a writer could pull you away from the world and manipulate your feelings. It was like painting, except the pictures were created with words and ideas instead of watercolors or oils.

  I flopped down on the bed with my dog-eared copy of Stotan. The mattress drooped seriously in the middle, folding around my sides like a taco shell. No matter. Within minutes I was drawn in by the story.

  “Hey, Cody, come out here and get some dinner.”

  Race’s voice jolted me. I slapped my book shut and shoved it under the pillow.

  “Cody?”

  “I’m coming.”

  In the kitchen, I found my uncle ferreting through the cupboards for clean plates. “Turn on the TV,” he said. “There oughta be something good on cable.”

  I picked up the remote—complete with duct tape to hold the batteries in place—and flipped through the channels until I found MTV.

  The plate Race handed me a minute later held nothing but a huge, orange mound of macaroni and cheese.

  “Real balanced meal, dude.”

  “You don’t expect me to wash more than one pan, do ya?”

  From the appearance of the kitchen, it looked like it had been a long time since he’d washed any pans.

  Race grabbed a second plate off the counter and sank into a chair that was covered with clean laundry.

  “I probably oughta get you enrolled in school tomorrow,” he said, “but maybe you could use a few days to get used to things first.”

  “Sure.” I kept my focus on the Guns and Roses video I was watching.

  “Somehow, I expected a little more enthusiasm than that.”

  “I appreciate it, dude. Seriously.” To show I meant it I gave him a few second’s eye contact before loading up my fork. You can get a lot of macaroni on a fork if you stab it instead of scooping it. The noodles all squish up and compress.

  Race sighed. “Your dad sent some money. If you need anything, we could go get it tomorrow.”

  “Cool.”

  “You a big Guns and Roses fan or something?”

  I shrugged.

  “Do you always talk this much?”

  “No.”

  He gave up and pulled a magazine out from under a couple of beer bottles on the coffee table. It had race cars on the cover.

  We ate in silence until my plate was empty. “You got any more of this stuff?” I asked.

  “Sure. Over there on the stove. Finish it up if you want.”

  There wasn’t much left, so I sat down with the whole pan. My lack of manners, which would have made Mom go nuclear, didn’t attract a glance from Race.

  Somewhere in the distance a train whistle sounded. I didn’t think much of it until it wailed again, this time much closer and accompanied by the clatter of wheels. As the noise got louder, the trailer began to shake. Dishes rattled in the cupboards. Beer bottles jiggled off the edge of the coffee table. Race sat quietly on the couch, flipping the pages of his magazine.

  “Holy shit!” I hollered. “How often do those things come through here?”

  “I dunno. I don’t hear ’em anymore.”

  “You don’t hear them?”

  “Not really.” Race kept his eyes on the magazine. “It’s not so bad now, but before I had cable, they used to really mess with the TV reception.”

  I stared at my uncle, unable to believe people actually lived like this, then got up to drop the pan in the sink. As I headed for my room, I hesitated.

  “You gonna give me your list of rules?”

  Race blinked at me. “Uh—yeah. If you go someplace, let me know where you’ll be, and if you’re gonna smoke, try not to burn the trailer down.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Well, aside from not doing anything illegal. But I already told you about that.”

  I couldn’t believe it. Back home there were tons of rules. The problem was they changed from week to week, so I’d developed a policy of doing whatever I felt like and not getting caught.

  Race seemed pleased to finally have my full attention. “You wanna go see a movie tonight or something?”

  What did he think this was, a Brady Bunch re-run? Still, something about the way he wouldn’t quit with the nice guy routine almost made me want to give him a break.

  “Not really,” I said. Then, before he had a chance to suggest anything else, I retreated to my room and cranked the music.

  * * *

  In bed that night the full force of reality hit me. I was in a whole different town—a total burg compared to Portland—away from my friends and everything I knew. Dad might not be on my list of favorite people after banishing me to the nether regions of the state, but at least I was used to him.

  I thought of my mother, off partying in Phoenix. A familiar anger gnawed at me, and I hated myself for caring. You’d think by now I would’ve learned she wasn’t gonna change. You’d think I could’ve let it go. But some hopes keep springing back to life, no matter how many wooden stakes get driven through their hearts.

  If I’d had any brains I would’ve considered myself lucky when she left. It was better than being criticize
d all the time—reminded I was weak and worthless like my dad. But something in me couldn’t see past the injustice of her sneaking off and leaving things unresolved. You can’t start a fight then walk away from it.

  Shutting my eyes, I drifted back to the biggest mistake of my life. I felt the nozzle of the rattle can under my finger, heard Mike shouting, “Cops!” I saw red and blue lights spill over the sidewalk as beer surged through me, fanning my anger until it roared up like a grass fire.

  And there in front of me, the dripping orange paint spelled out what I couldn’t say to my mother’s face: Saundra Everett is a worthless bitch.

  Chapter 2

  The next morning sunlight fought its way through the trailer’s grimy windows to burn away the previous night’s doubts. But I was still in Eugene and it still sucked.

  The thing was, I didn’t really mind my uncle. There was something about his puppy-dog friendliness that was hard to blow off. I could see myself getting to like him, but what if I gave in to that feeling and he decided I was too much trouble? Even worse, what if he didn’t like me?

  After experiencing a new level of hell trying to wash up in a shower that wasn’t big enough to turn around in, I moussed my hair into its proper spiked form then went to confront my new life.

  Race snored away in the front room. I found half a box of Cap’n Crunch in the cupboard, poured it into a pot, and dumped milk on top.

  With Race monopolizing the couch, the only place to sit was the chair with the laundry on it. I picked up the remote and hunted till I found a channel that was showing a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles cartoon.

  Race groaned, blinking at me across the room.

  “You snore, dude,” I said.

  He grunted, worked an arm out from under the blankets, and squinted at his watch. “I don’t think I’ve been up this early since the last time I was up this late.”

  “It’s seven-thirty,” I informed him, fixing my attention on the TV, where Raphael—the coolest of the Turtles—was kicking some bad guy’s ass. “This is the time most people get up.” I steam-shoveled my spoon into the pan, bringing it up fully loaded and dripping. A couple pieces of cereal escaped, disappearing into the pile of clothes underneath me.

  Race burrowed back under his covers. “Turn it down,” he said. “I don’t get up till nine.”

  After having those damned trains rattle me awake several times during the night, I wasn’t feeling particularly sympathetic. I clicked the volume down exactly two notches. Race didn’t fight for more.