Page 106 - What They Did to the Kid

94 Jack Fritscher

Rector Karg said, “Just when I think you’ve thought up everything,
you think up something else.”
At twenty-one, I was embarrassed because I looked no more than
fifteen. My summer job was pumping gas at a filling station owned
by my father’s best friend who was the rich Mason. He had given me
the weekend off. My red Volks wag en Bug, borrowed from my dad,
hugged the unbanked curves, except when my speed swung my rear
tires onto the shoulder, shooting small hail storms of gravel into the
birches and pines. I loved the radio competition between the bad
boys and the good boys with Elvis wailing “Heartbreak Hotel” and
Pat Boone crooning “Love Letters in the Sand.” Nearly noon on the
Fourth of July, and on the whole length of county road I had seen
only two kids pushing a bicycle. Sunlight sifted down through the
forest that arched high up and full over the road making a dappled
green tunnel.
I slowed for a blind left curve, downshifting for the fun of it,
still drifting a bit right, playing the small car’s quick response. In the
middle of the road, two human figures, jumping like startled targets
ahead, separated fast a couple yards before my bumper. I passed nar-
rowly between them at no more than thirty miles per hour. A thump
hit the right side of my car. I held the center of the road, skidding to
a stop on the shoulder. The little car rocked back on its brakes. The
dust cloud caught up and settled like powder all over the red hood.
I sat holding the wheel.
“Hey, kid, you trying to kill somebody?” One of the two men
ran up to the car. He was shirtless and built bigger than Hank the
Tank. He wore plaid swimming trunks, and he shoved his face with
a red beatnik goatee into my window. He ran a hand through his red
flat-top and shook his head at me.
“Say I didn’t hit anybody,” I said.
“You like almost killed my buddy.”
The other guy appeared at my passenger window. “Hey, Rip,
should this kid be driving?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “What was that thump?”
“Kenny kicked your fender,” Rip said.
“See this fist?” Kenny leaned into the car, beer-breath first. “Rip’s
like the strongest guy in town.”

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