Les Kay

 

The expressway is packed with cars pressed close as abandoned books on a library shelf. Brandon’s truck fills with sonorous sounds of deep, throbbing bass lines that could stir your stomach like a kiss. Gabe and Brandon ride, gazing out the dark-tinted windows at the slow crawl of traffic. Making it to the park to watch the fireworks seems less and less likely. Gabe cleans residue of dirt from his glasses with the hem of his shirt, then takes two bottles of beer from the 12-pack at his feet, opens them, and hands one to Brandon. Gabe turns back to the window, scans the surrounding cars, and takes a quick sip, before hiding the bottle beneath the sleeve of his leather jacket.

It's 7:45.

"What time is the show?" Gabe asks.
"I don't know. We might've fucking missed it."
"Let's get off this highway and stop somewhere."
"Why? You hungry or something?"
"No. I bought this bag today. Mike says it's the best he's had in months."
"Is it any good?"
"I don't remember.... I passed out in five minutes."
Brandon hits his turn signal and squeezes past a minivan into the right lane. The soccer mom, drumming her fingers, flips him off. "Let me see," he says.

 
Gabe sets the bag into his outstretched palm.

Brandon looks down from the road, shoots his eyes back up, then unrolls the baggie and cradles it in his lap atop his half-finished beer. He flicks the turn signal and eases into the exit lane, downshifts, and idles at the stop sign long enough to open the bag. He turns down Cedar Lane. The bag, open now, hangs from his left hand, tapping against the steering wheel. He lifts the bag in one hand and takes a long breath.

Gabe snaps his head from side to side. Sighs.

"It smells like some good shit." Brandon hands the bag back to Gabe. "Roll a joint, and we'll stop by that park on 13th."
"Do you have any papers?"
"Check the glove box."

Gabe opens the glove box and the tiny incandescent bulb floods the truck with its light. He takes out a small .22, places it on his lap and leans forward to sort through insurance papers, a manual, and a few Polaroids of Brandon’s last birthday party. Without thinking, Gabe thumbs through the pictures, remembering how the cake ended up all over the carpet and how Brandon's stepfather had made a surprise appearance that night.

"You find the papers yet?" Brandon asks.
"Just your insurance and these pictures." He holds them up to Brandon.
Brandon's eyes dart between the road and Gabe. "Put those back, asshole."
Gabe starts. "What?" he says, holding the "a" like a squeal. "I didn't mean anything." He holds the pictures gently between his fingertips, as though they were the delicate fragments of an ancient manuscript, and slides them gently back to their final resting place. "There," he says, "all safe."
"Don't be a bitch" Brandon says. "I put them there so no one would ask me about that dickhead my mother married."
"Whatever."
"Dude, just roll the joint."

 

Gabe returns to his search, peering once more into the glove box. "Here they are." He puts his beer in a cup holder, takes the manual out, and places it on his lap. He opens the bag, wide, and chooses two large buds sprinkled with green crystal and red strands running through the dried plant like the veins of bloodshot eyes. He starts to break them apart.

 

"Watch for police, right?"
“How stupid you think I am, Gabe?”

Brandon turns his truck off of 13th and into the lot of Slow Creek Park. Gabe lights one of the thick joints, inhales. Smoke fills his lungs. He exhales. Thick smoke hangs above the dashboard. Brandon pulls in next to a cherry-red hatchback. Gabe hands him the joint.

Brandon takes the joint between his thumb and finger and brings it to his lips, like a sacrament. He inhales deeply and adds to the thickening smoke. He passes it back and empties what's left of his beer.

"Hand me another."
"What do you think?" asks Gabe.
"It's fuck-all good." He takes the joint again.
"Mike's the best."
"If he's around, we should fucking stop by later."
"Yeah." Gabe looks out the window and catches his breath. The reflective lettering of a police car, glimmering in faint light, blur past. "Cops..." he says.
"What's wrong," Brandon asks, "you nervous?"
"Come on. With college, this is the last place I need to be. What would I tell my father?" Gabe takes the joint back.
"At least you have a dad and not some fucking dimwit."
"But life would be a whole lot simpler if he’d just get off my case."

 

Brandon looks down at the empty bottle on the floor, picks it up, and twirls it so that the light from the streetlamp glances off the dark glass. "Sometimes I wonder where the hell my real dad is. I barely remember him. He never calls. Never helps my mom out. Nothing. I swear, if I ever see that bastard, I’ll break his fucking neck." Brandon's hand grips the neck of the bottle.
"Then there's John. Do you know what it's like to sit in a courtroom and have to point at your stepfather just to tell the whole damned world what he'd done to you?" His fist curls around the bottle, tightening. He flings it out of his window. The empty beer bottle somersaults above the parking lot, arcing into the street, and shatters on the pavement in a spray of glass and backwash.

 

"No," Gabe whispers. The roach of the joint burns his hand. He grinds it out in the ashtray, barely flinching.
The brakes of a silver sedan screech. The car crosses Brandon’s debris. There is a pop, then the hiss of air escaping. A tall kid bolts from the car, slamming the door shut. The tire, already, is almost flat. He walks around the hood of his car to the passenger side, leans over and peers at the tire. His fists curl at his side. He stomps toward the truck and leans into Brandon’s face.

 

"Which one of you fuckers threw that fucking bottle?"
"Get outta my face, man," Brandon mumbles.

Gabe watches the two of them staring at each other, their nostrils flaring like those of a bull about to charge. He wants to apologize, to explain how resentment can build like the pressure in a champagne bottle. He says nothing.

Brandon opens the truck door into the man's chest, knocking him back, and steps out of the truck, puffing out his chest like a peacock unfurling its feathers.

The tall one steps back again, starts pacing back and forth. "What's your problem?" he asks. “I said, which one of you assholes did that?” He points a shaking finger at his car. A girl standing behind the passenger door, watches, her hands pulling at the ends of her long black hair.

"I did it," Gabe says.

The tall one's face flushes red. He stalks around the truck toward Gabe.

Brandon clambers back into the truck, stretches across the seat, opens the glove box, and pulls out the gun. He glances up at Gabe, just catching his eye. "It's cool," he whispers.

Gabe opens the door and steps onto the parking lot, telling himself that he is not afraid. The back of his neck tingles. His teeth feel numb.

 

The guy grabs him by his shirt, yanks on it. "What the hell were you thinking? That bottle almost hit my car. It could've hit my girlfriend."

 

"Let go," Gabe's voice cracks. "It was just an accident."
"Over here," he yanks hard on Gabe’s shirt, dragging him by the lapel. "Look what you did."
"Look man," Brandon says, "it was an accident. He'll pay to have your tire fixed."
The tall one looks at Brandon, shaking his fist. "Shut your ass up," he says. "This is between me and him."
Brandon leaves the truck again, circling closer. "Unless you want me to kick your ass," Brandon growls, "you'll let him go.”
"How about I kick the shit out of your little faggot friend, here, then I'll beat you like a red-headed step child?"

Gabe snaps.

 

He throws his elbow into the tall one's stomach, turns and knees him in the groin. The tall one does not crumple to the ground writhing in pain; his face simply flushes. He grabs Gabe by his neck and yanks him into the air, then throws him into the back of the truck. Glass shatters. Gabe feels his back grow moist with blood. He can't breathe. He tries to stand up, coughs, stays on hands and knees. When Gabe looks up, he sees the guy shuffling backwards, his hands in the air. There is a shot. The tall one falls, cupping his stomach. There is blood. On his shirt, his hands, dripping onto the parking lot.
Brandon's hand falls onto Gabe's shoulder, softly. "Are you ok?" he asks.

Gabe nods, coughs.

Brandon helps him to his feet.

"Listen, we gotta get outta here." Brandon's voice is tight, tangled.
"Yeah." Gabe stumbles back to the passenger seat.

 

Brandon starts the truck, revs it, backs out, and presses hard on the gas. He turns onto 13th, squealing his tires, then up to Briarwood, right on 14th, then right on Brisbane, and back to 13th.

Gabe coughs. "Stop the car. I need to throw up."

Brandon pulls to the side of the road. Gabe opens the door, leans out, and watches the vomit pour from his mouth until he has nothing left, until he feels clean. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve. "Go to Mike's."

"No problem. No problem."
"You think she saw us?"

 

-from Big Slick, a short-story collection in progress.