Shenanigans

Bogie is curled up in the fetal position snoring loudly and drooling all over the glass pane of the passenger window. I’m going 90 down a deserted road in the middle of nowhere with my hands tightly clenched on the steering wheel; I have literally not seen another car in days. On my left hand side I notice a gigantic billboard advertising “Barney Smith’s Toilet Seat Museum.” Ten minutes later I completely lose my shit.

We just stole a car.

And a Rolex.

And a pair loafers.

And a television.

And a computer.

And some original paintings.

And silverware.

And a lot of jewelry.

And about twenty-five bottles of expensive booze.

And a wooden crate filled with fifty jars of imported caviar, which we still have because the soup kitchen refused to accept it because it was too weird.

And a ton of other shit that we didn’t even want but we just took anyway because we felt like it.

Suddenly my heart starts pounding so fast I’m afraid it’s going break through my sternum. My palms start sweating and the back of my shirt is even stickier than usual. My mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton balls and I start silently hyperventilating. I keep checking the rearview mirror, expecting flashing lights or sirens or eighty squad cars or a helicopter or something. Overcome with debilitating paranoia my vision suddenly goes gray.

Bogie is still sleeping like a baby, completely oblivious to my sudden mental breakdown. I slowly pull the car over to the side of the road, trying to keep my breathing in check. I park the car, throw open the door, run to a small grassy plot by the side of the road, collapse onto all fours and vomit like my life depends on it.

*

The two boys sit silently; their arms are covered up to their elbows in magenta slime. The blonde boy has his hands on his knees, leaving long traces of pink sludge all over the fronts of his jeans. The darker boy is occupying his attention by trying to remove traces of pink substance out from under his fingernails.

A squat man with a tweed blazer and square glasses peers at them with an expression of heartbreakingly pathetic earnestness.

“I’m sorry,” the darker boy says, finally tearing his attention away from his fingernails, “what was the question?”

The squat man in the tweed jacket sighs and shakes his head, then stands to turn and look out the window with his arms crossed. It’s a maneuver so deliberately choreographed that it could only have been imitated from a movie about teachers that care too much. “I just don’t understand why you boys keep pulling stunts like this.”

The blonde boy guffaws while attempting to raise his hand in a sarcastic knee slap but finds that his hand is glued to the fronts of his jeans. He eventually manages to separate himself after a long struggle and an obnoxious, wet sticky ‘pop.’ The darker boy shoots him a look.

“Mr. Fuller, in our defense, our stunts really aren’t that bad…”

“I’m sure the owner of the car you vandalized would disagree with you,” the man turns, now revealing a smug grin that threatens to split his face in half. The blonde boy bristles, ready to lunge but the darker one glares again. It’s obvious that they’ve done this before.

“The owner of vehicle we vandalized,” the dark boy says slowly, obviously trying to keep his voice level, “is a kid named Tony Fortin. Heard of him?”

“The quarterback,” the tweed man says automatically.

The blonde boy snorts “Exactly.”

“Yesterday Tony tried to chase down a couple freshmen with his new truck. He left tire marks in the grass next to playground, you can check it if you don’t believe us.”

“Well that hardly seems like a good reason to….”

“I’m sorry, you must not have heard us,” the blonde boy shouts, visibly agitated “we just told you that he tried to run over people with his car. For fun. Run over. Kids. With car.”

The squat man chews the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. He retrieves a pen and a piece of paper. “What freshmen?” he asks with his pen poised.

“Jack Ingraham and Christian Shephard.”

The squat man smiles and puts his pen down, “Now, now, I happen to know Mr. Ingraham and Mr. Shephard pretty well and they have been known to tell some pretty tall tales.”

“Lying about a dog eating your homework is different than lying about some fucktard trying to kill you with his Daddy’s Ford.”

“Besides, they didn’t tell us about it. We saw it with our own eyes.”

“We saw, Tony. Chasing around a couple of kids. In a truck.”

“He almost hit one of them.”

“He dinged Jack’s arm with his mirror.”

“Christian was crying. He was terrified.”

“About 50 people saw it.”

“They were just standing around the parking lot.”

“Taking pictures on their cell phones.”

“We called the police.”

“Tony drove off when he heard the sirens.”

“Officer Doherty said there wasn’t enough evidence. Then he gave Jack an ice pack for his arm.”

“No one else was willing to take care of it.”

“We had to make sure it never happened again.”

“I would have done something about it,” the man says, defensively.

The blonde boy laughs again. “Do you have any idea what kind of face you made when we told you who he tried to run over? Jack and Christian might not be honor students, but they don’t deserve to get run over by a truck.”

“In front of their school…”

“While other people point and laugh.”

“So I guess, to answer your question, Mr. Fuller, we ‘keep pulling stunts like this’ because if we don’t do something kids like Tony Fortin get away with stunts like that…”

“…while the administration turns a blind eye…”

“…because he can throw a football.”

“Last year Tony and the rest of the football ogres got drunk and threw a log at a moving Mercedes…”

“…got off with a warning.”

“Six months ago he got caught smoking weed in the woods behind our neighborhood with a bunch of middle school girls…”

“…he had to sit out of practice for a couple days. He still played in the State Championship.”

“Yesterday he tried to crush a couple of innocent kids under his truck…”

“…so we covered his car in magenta slime.” The boys both start grinning maniacally.

“So I guess what we’re trying to say here is…”

“…we pull our little stunts…”

“…because you just sit back and do nothing…”

“…while kids like Tony Fortin go around destroying other peoples’ property…”

“…convincing little girls to get high so he can start molesting them…”

“…maiming kids he considers inferior just for sport….”

“…because you’re too chicken shit to do anything about it.”

“Mr. Fuller, you suspended us for building a trampoline in the library last year…”

“…’destruction of property’” the blonde boy imitates the squat man’s patronizing tone, waving his finger around erratically “is a serious business, boys.”

“But Tony threw a log at a moving car. He threw. A fucking log. At a car.”

“And I just can’t help but notice that kids like us keep getting in trouble while kids like Tony get away with murder in this town. Do you have any idea why that is?”

The boys both stare at Mr. Fuller, whose face has transformed to a series of gradient hues varying from scarlet to purple.

“The thing is, Mr. Fuller, the thing that separates us” The dark boy gestures to himself and his accomplice, “from Tony is that we don’t do bad shit. We are not bad people, but we are constantly being vilified for one reason or another…”

“…because Tony has something that we don’t have…”

“…and do you have any idea what that thing is, Mr. Fuller?”

The two boys sit silently, staring expectantly and the small, squat, blotchy man in tweed behind the desk.

The dark boy leans forward, fixing the man with an unblinking gaze, “The thing we don’t have,” the dark boy says slowly, “is ‘money.’”

*

My insides are acid and there are stress tears running down my face. I’m taking huge gasping breaths, heaving dry air because there’s nothing left in my stomach.

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck fuck fuck my life is over. There is nowhere to go from here and there is no turning back. There is no way in hell we’re going to get away with this.

I hear footsteps behind me and I spin around. Bogie is standing about ten feet away from me, barefoot and bleary eyed.

“You OK man?”

My attempt at recovery just debilitates me even more. I cough desperately trying to catch my breath.

“Fine” I wheeze.

Bogie looks around the thick woods and the deserted road. “Where the fuck are we?”

I look around. “We’re about twenty miles away from the Barney Smith Toilet Seat Museum,” I say.

“So, Texas?”

“Yeah, probably.”

Bogie stuffs his hands in his pockets while he continues to take in the sights, “Hey man, is it cool if I drive for a while?”

“Yeah, sure. I need some sleep.” I throw Bogie the keys and he catches them in his left hand.

“Ready to go?”

“Just a sec,” I say. I take a big deep breath and then vomit one last time into the dirt, “OK I’m ready now,” I say wiping my mouth.

“Dude, that was fucking disgusting. Warn me next time.”

“Sorry.”

We make our way back to the car in silence. Bogie climbs into the driver’s seat and rubs his hands greedily over the dashboard.

“Next stop: Toilet Seat Museum!” Bogie says as the car jumps to life, “Hey!” he turns toward me, “think they’ll want any caviar?”

“Worth a shot.”

“I bet people in Texas don’t even know what caviar is.”

“You didn’t know what it was until, like, three days ago.”

“Yeah but that was before I became all sophisticated and shit.”

“Well then maybe you should eat some.”

“There is absolutely no goddamn way I will ever eat that dank substance,” Bogie states.

“Yeah,” I say, cautiously sniffing the lid of one of the unopened jars, “should we have refrigerated it? It’s pretty pungent.”

Bogie shrugs and slams on the gas pedal as we jerk away from the corner. I glance over at him; his left arm is balanced on the edge of the steering wheel while he uses his right to change gears. His posture is slouched casually and his face is contorted in concentration. He pushes a pair of smoky aviators up the bridge of his nose.

“Are those Ray Bans?” I ask.

“What? Oh, yeah. Found them in the glove compartment when we were passing through Mississippi.”

“Not bad,” I say. I lean my seat back as far as it will go, trying to adjust myself into a comfortable sleeping position. “You know what, man? I think this lifestyle suits me.”