A story for my creative non-fiction class, spring 2014.
My dad tossed me the keys to his little red
pick-up. “So go to Wawa, tap mac,” he handed me his debit card, “and then pick
up the hoagies.” My brother and I climbed in the truck and rolled out of the
cul-du-sac to New Falls road. From there, it was a straight two miles tops to
the Mac machine, and as I was about to make the left hand turn, I saw Joey
drive by in his Jimmy.
•
“Just make sure you
grab toll money for the bridge, Coad.” I had no more than 40 cents to my name,
and my check wouldn’t be directly deposited into my account until the following
day.
After the Sunday
closing shift, my brother and I left our mall food court jobs as the summer sun
set low cast shadows over the tree tops that extend above the noise barrier. We
headed down 95 for a quick exchange; Coady, with 500 cash in hand and another
grand written out in check, was about to buy his first car (which wouldn’t end
up running too long, as my brother pulled off our street too close to a tow
truck; it was Coady’s fault, but the driver hit-and-ran.)
The silver Chevy Cav Z,
a sporty stick shift Coady couldn’t yet drive sat somewhere in South Jersey,
about two hours of highway away. We went down to sign papers and make ownership
official since the owner was quick to dump the car, and my dad was going to
take Coady down a few days later to drive it up.
•
I was 16 on the rainy
November Sunday, after church, when I saw Joey and wanted to catch up to show
off. I had my license for a month and three days, and though I had no car, I felt
empowered in the little red pickup. Rihanna’s “Disturbia” blared through the
speakers and Coady and I danced, his long 14-year-old skater mop forced flat to
his forehead under a cap. I looked to my right as the new lane opened, trying
to catch up to Joey, and I merged. But a tractor trailer turning into a
shopping center slowed traffic, and I hopped back in the left lane, and I
reached the Jimmy to my right.
•
We met the seller at a
Wawa, where he pulled up in a big, tricked-out truck that probably had a duel
exhaust mod and heated leather seats. He was a 20-something spoiled adult, (he
still lived at home in the highly desirable and rather affluent residential
area of Ocean City,) who brought his girlfriend, an attractive blonde that
lacked substance, and seemed to be there only to nag and mock her boyfriend.
From there, we followed the truck down a long,
shady rural driveway to a dirt lot, apparently on the property of the home/shop
of the seller’s father’s friend, who I guess inspected the vehicle before
purchase, though not officially. Coady bought the car without tags, (which
would prove to be a mistake when it was discovered that the break line leaked
while my father drove it home a week later.) We should have known that the car
would be jinxed after this trip; the obvious literary foreshadowing was as
present as the leftover junk in the Caviler.
It was hot for a summer
evening while my brother handed over the cash. I waited patiently in my car
with the windows down instead of running the air conditioner in an attempt to save
gas and make it home, no worries.
“You couldn’t even
clean the car out, Christopher?” the girlfriend bitched, rolling her eyes and
grabbing his “shit,” she called it, out of Coady's purchase. I watched, envious
of the girl whose boyfriend clearly spoiled her.
•
I cruised along, doing
about the speed limit. Coady and I both waved at Joey, the cool Senior that
dated one of my best friends at school. The lax bro was trying to get Coady to
join the team, and he was probably going to do it, even though he spent more of
his time biking or playing X Box. My 9th grade brother was pretty cool, and we
were starting to get along again after the middle school years tipped the scale
on the love/hate relationship scale to the latter.
We made small talk
about Coad being able to drive soon; this license to drive more a license to
freedom. We smiled and tried to get Joey’s attention, but he didn’t see us…
•
When we could finally
leave, both our phones had died, but we’d be home soon and able to charge them
to make plans with our friends for the evening. That’s all we ever did, make
plans for the night, though we’d end up simply sitting around with our friends.
We hopped back on the
highway and jammed to Wiz Khalifa (one of our few remaining common interests is
music,) all the way to the Walt Whitman Bridge, the $5 toll charged only to
enter Pennsylvania and not the opposite, something of an economic social
commentary about the perception of the respective states.
“Can I get that toll money?” I asked while I
squinted at signs for the toll only lane, steering with my left hand and
sticking out my right for the bill I anticipated.
“Yeah,” as he shuffled
through his wallet, reached in his pocket, then started to fidget.
“Uh… Uh… I THREW IT TO
THE GUY, THE SELLER TOLD ME I SHOULD GIVE HIM SOME MONEY TO KEEP MY CAR THERE
FOR THE WEEK,” he defended. While I was all “what the fuck, Coady,” he yelled
back at me, and in the midst of the chaos, I managed to find the last exit
before the big steel structure that ultimately held fines for crossing without
payment.
I figured we had to
find an A.T.M. for Coady to withdraw some bridge cash. I pulled up to a Pantry
One, a generally shady string of convenience stores in the Jersey area. Kid,
seemingly paranoid, left his wallet in the car before taking his card into the
store. He has that nervous way about him sometimes, not quite ready to dive in,
hesitant. In this case, there were dirty looking loiterers outside the door, so
I felt his trepidation was warranted, judgment aside.
I waited for my brother
annoyed, but not yet anxious, until he returned to the car.
“So… we’re fucked. I withdrew the limit from my
account today.”
“HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?” But then, I realized—he
just bought that damn car, the car that had us stuck here in New Jersey, and
not just Jersey, but Camden.
There were 67 murders
in Camden that year, plus all the rapes and robberies, making it the highest
crime rated city in the U.S. And my 17-year-old brother and I were here, alone.
By now, our shitty
cellphone batteries both dead and accounts inaccessible, I pulled out my G.P.S.
to try and find our way to the free bridge that spanned the Delaware in
Trenton, only 20 minutes from my house. But that was also dead, and the
cigarette lighter outlets that could charge any electronics in my whip were
broken. Shitouttaluck.
•
The speed in which the
car twisted is both unforgettable and unrememberable.
“FUCK!” Coady screamed, which was weird,
because we always told on each other when we cursed. We were such tattle tales,
always trying to escape the persecution, ultimately a “grounding,” by drawing
attention to the other’s foul ups and mischievous deeds.
It wasn't always bad though. I recall playing
on the side of the house, eating honeysuckles from the bush next to the oil
tank. We'd play video games all night, and go for bike rides to places we
weren't allowed. There was that one time, though, he beat me with a whiffle
ball bat while I tried to climb down from the silver maple in our front yard...
Snap.
“YOU HIT A FUCKING
COP!”
I opened the eyes that
I closed upon contact. The little red truck was now facing the shopping center
to my left, perpendicular to the white dashed and yellow solid paint that
marked the lanes.
All I could do was
yell, maybe bellow, “AHHHHHHH,” as I began to cry and smack my hands on the
steering wheel while the little red truck beeped and fizzed, “Disturbia” still
droning in the background.
•
I turned down the rap
that blasted the “n” word from my speakers as I drove away from the bridge and
convenience store. We were two white kids entering a tough neighborhood, and I
was not prepared for any awkward and/or risky encounters.
The next events were a
cluster of chaos; cars rolled by bearing full-sized Puerto Rican flags or skull
and cross bone banners, bungee corded to the hoods. Women’s legs hung out of
their hydraulic convertibles, passengers and drivers alike. Police drove around
the dilapidated homes. The sidewalk stoops were a scene out of a ghetto “Hey
Arnold,” where neighbors drank 40s out of paper bags and smoked long, thin
cigars on porches. And everywhere, in cars or on the streets, people were
screaming and yelling and laughing like they were tailgating a sporting event.
“I just need to find
out how to get to Trenton, then we’ll be cool,” I tried to reassure my brother.
But he was not having any of that, and continued to belittle my directional
ability. It started to get dark, and I was panic stricken. Plus, could I even
make it to Trenton with this much gas? Our hearts were pounding as I circled
around and around for about an hour, stuck, trying to get to a highway north.
We were practically
biting our fingernails, at risk of sounding racist, not because we hadn’t been
exposed to ‘Ricans or black people, but because this was not our turf. Plus,
when the people all around us were hollering, what were we supposed to think?
Other than…
“We’re
lost. Shit, shit, shit. What are we going to do? Where are we going to go?”
Expletive after expletive, us going nowhere, too scared to pull in anywhere for
fear that someone would mess with us.
•
I unbuckled while Coady
dialed my dad. Coad wasn’t nice to me, but I didn’t deserve it, and I can't say
he was mean either. Other than his angry bossy moments, (which come few and far
between these days,) Coady never seems like he’s happy, nor upset, to be with
me. We’re just in each other’s company
constantly.
My mom used to tell the
story: “When you went to kindergarten on your first day, we walked down to the
bus stop, and as soon as you stepped off those steps, you ran! And Coad ran, and you hugged
each other on the sidewalk like you were gone for weeks.” We’d roll our eyes
when she told this and get right back to bickering.
I got out of the truck
that I was sure was totaled and walked to the Sargent’s S.U.V. in front of me.
It didn’t look too bad, but the hatchback door was dented inward, clearly
impacted from my 45 m.p.h. neglect to notice he stopped in the left lane and
not the turning lane.
I approached his open
driver’s side door hysterical, trembling, and lost on a road I travel every
day.
“Are you okay?” When he
didn’t answer, or even look at me, I spat out, “I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry,
are you okay?” He said nothing, but he wasn’t bleeding. He just grasped his
wrist, the deployed airbag flattened down like a pillowcase.
Someone wandered over
to me and asked if I was okay, it turned out she was the passenger from the third
car involved, rear-ended by the cop, consequently on my behalf. But I had no
idea who anyone was, until another officer showed up and sat me on the curb. My
blubbering mess warranted Chief to request a dollar from my dad so he could buy
me a soda. Dad politely declined.
•
I drove toward the
hospital, thinking that this was an exit, but dead-ends and circles in the
Jersey city brought us right back to the chaotic heart of Camden. Coady was
noticeably irritated, which pissed me off. I was doing him a favor. He didn’t
need to buy the car that day.
Sorry I don’t know my way around the hood, dick
bag. Sorry your dumb ass is the reason we’re in this predicament. Sorry my car
blows and we can’t charge anything, but this is not my fault.
I rolled up and down
the streets, the sun getting lower and lower, and the screams seeming to get
louder and louder.
“What is going on
here?” Coady and I kept asking one another, “Is there like some holiday or
sports game going on?”
Suddenly, I saw a lady
police officer directing traffic on the corner a few blocks away, the sun
setting behind her head like the glow of a halo—my opportunity to find safety,
to find our way home. I pulled the car up and stopped. When she tried to wave
me on, I waved her over.
“Excuse me,” I asked
the cop, “Can you tell me how to get to Trenton?”
“Huh?” she asked, so I
repeated. “Oh, you gotta take this road out, over the street bridge, then make
a left and hop on the entrance for north,” she said, with some highway number
included. It took us another half-hour to find the road, but once we were on
it, my grip on the wheel loosened.
•
Since New Falls Road is
on the line of two townships, the police showed up in full force, as if someone
had robbed a bank. My parents pulled up on the scene, and the cops questioned
me somewhere in there, though there wasn’t much to say. I never told about
Joey, even throughout the court proceedings that would stick with me until my
junior year of college, a lie that I hoped would save me from more fines than
I’d already endure.
Dad cleaned out the
truck, as Coady struggled to tell the questioning officer his birthday, a
family joke that plagues the kid 6-years-later. I just sobbed on the curb until
the officer told my parents to take me home, my presence probably more
pestering than helpful. We went to Freshworks to pick up lunch, and life went
on for everyone except me; I couldn’t bring myself to drive for another two
months.
•
It was night when I
drove north with uncertainty, even though the signs “Trenton- 40 mi.” appeared
and reappeared with decreasing numerals for about an hour. The highway ebbed
between miscellaneous shopping centers and stretches of woods, but then,
finally, we knew where we were. I took the Capitol Complex exit and
headed to the bridges, the glowing “Trenton Makes, The World Takes” sign beckoning.
Approaching the light before the bridge, a big Suburban erratically followed
me, honking and swerving.
Coady repeatedly
commented, “What the hell is wrong with him?” until the douche merged in front
of us before the bridge. We followed him back into Pa., laughing and
joking about the nutty ordeal, where I traveled to Route 13, then back into the
Terrace.
The Terrace is a hood, minus the neighbor.
Shootings, stabbings; they happen here. I cut through the section because one,
I often do, but two, why not? We survived Camden…
Almost home; we pulled
up to the light exiting the section and let out a sigh too soon. My brother
beside me gasped, and eyes focused on the red light ahead, I asked, “what?”
“Look,” he uttered. So
I did, and I saw something that I’ll never, ever forget. On the bus stop bench
sat a deer, well, the head of a deer, eyes open, and a long thing I can only
describe as pantyhose-like hung down over the bench and reached the ground.
Coady fumbled for the
camera he brought to take pictures of his new car’s vin number, and I repeated
more curse words while nervous-laughing than ever thought imaginable. The light
changed, and I peeled out.
When we got home, my
mom bitched at us for not calling, clearly having hit the bottle while we took
our detour. They had ordered pizza and left us none. She told us we should have
just taken the bridge and they’d bill us. We were so excited to be home, but
with that welcome, we left.
I drove Coady to our
bank’s A.T.M. one night in the same car I drove to Camden. Only 40 or so yards
from the spot where I crashed the little red truck, we waited for a red light
to blink back to green. I was typically annoyed with Coady, making me drive to
deposit his check because he totaled his shitty Cav. We sat at the light,
getting along all right despite my irritation. The tension always seemed to be
there; we could hang out, but I always felt some type of way toward him. The
tip of the iceberg always comes out in the form of my bitchiness, but the
bigger part of the iceberg is a mystery because I’m sailing the ocean,
too.
The light changed on
the empty road, and I shifted my foot to the gas pedal. I slowly started
through the intersection when I saw the light flying from the right, and
slammed back on the break. The car passed through its red light only a few feet
in front of us, and we could have been struck. We both sighed, another simple
trip that went whack, but not so wrong that there was no coming back.
We
talk now about our family; our grandparent’s declining health and our guilt,
our father’s drinking habits and our fear, our mother’s mental state and our
disgust. He mostly gets annoyed with me for spitting out every little thing
that happens in my life, mainly the dramatic stuff.
“You
put your business out there too much, on Twitter and stuff.”
“I
know, but if I keep it all inside, I’ll never let it go. I need to get
everything out or I’ll dwell. It’ll eat me alive.”
“I
don’t tell anyone anything,” he finally admits, “I don’t know why. I’d just
rather keep my business to myself. I… I just don’t see the point.”
“Maybe
if you opened up more, you wouldn’t be so angry. Maybe if you expressed
yourself, someone could understand.”
“I
know.” He always knows.
We don’t deal with our
problems; we push them away. Through all the rough days, my brother’s been
there, not for me, but experiencing with me. We get that we don’t know how to
express ourselves, especially to each other, but that tiny understanding is enough
to bring us together in the worst-of-times. And since worst usually comes to
worst, I’m glad that I’m not driving down this road alone.
But
still, it's discomforting that when all of this nutty shit happens, I'm in the
driver's seat.
