When we last left our heroes they had four wheels in the air, sailing across the graveyard of the Salem Hellers Church (true name, swear to God). The engine screamed as the tires spun without the resistance of the road to slow them down. We were the real-life Dukes of Hazzard. We were adolescent Evil Kinevil's in a duel with death and dismemberment. As the old Pontiac leapt across the manicured grass of the graveyard, flying over the corpses who were suddenly rolling in their grave, one thought crossed my mind.
I'm dead.
I somehow knew that this was the last ride. I was on the highway to hell and I never even put on my seatbelt. At least they wouldn't have far to carry my body.
The flight of the Phoenix (the Pontiac type) came to an abrupt halt as bumper met tombstone. In a cacophony of clashing objects, cracking marble, me screaming like a girl, and the protest of metal bending against its will, that sudden slow-motion world I'd been inhabiting suddenly left me. It was replaced by that tumbling breathless feeling that only happens in a vehicle accident. I was a rag doll in a shoe box and someone was shaking the hell out of it.
From our earliest elementary science classes we're taught that objects in motion want to STAY in motion. We learn that from our first encounters with skateboards and roller skates and falling down steps. But let me tell you, its a hell of a lot less fun when you practice that theory in a one and a half ton American-made automobile. When bubba's car collided with the tombstone it provided enough resistance to stop the car dead in its track. I, however, did not. I'm not sure how it happened, nor do I remember it, but I suddenly found myself in the front seat. My head was down on the passenger-side floor, wedged in there like a tennis ball in a chainlink fence. Cheez Nips littered the car. They were on the floor, in my hair, on the seats, the dash. They were crumbled on the side of my face as if I tried to eat them by shoving my head into the box.
I managed to un-wedge my head from beneath the dash and struggled myself back into a sitting position. By now it was dark, the only light falling on the graveyard was cast from the halogen lights over the church's parking lot. The hood of bubba's car was crinkled and pushed up. A bluish-white cloud of steam rose from beneath it. I couldn't think straight. I was dumbfounded. I couldn't believe it. One minute we're two kids, wanderlust between us, happier than we've ever been. The next, we're sitting in a graveyard in a cheez nip strewn, crippled car. I had to fight the urge to burst from the vehicle and run off into the night. We were in some deep shit.
"What the..." I started, "What the FUCK just happened."
Bubba moaned to the left of me. I looked over at him and noticed his face was bleeding. His face pounded the steering wheel so hard that his tooth punctured through his lip and the blood was flowing down his chin. He tried to mumble something through his swollen mouth that vaguely resembled a line from Fat Alberts Mush Mouth character.
"Oh my god," He said, but it came out Ohm by dod.
"What the fuck," I repeated. I tried to open the passenger door but it was stuck shut. I leaned into it with my shoulder and the door broke free with a protesting groan and swung open. I jumped out, surveying the damage. "How tha....?" I asked, my question trailing off into the night.
"What are we gonna do, Wit," bubba asked through bloody teeth.
"WE????" I barked. How had this become a "we"? How did I suddenly become an accomplice in the murder of an innocent grave stone, which now lay in the damp grass in two pieces. Before I could argue more, I saw the look in bubba's eyes. It was a terrible look of pain, embarrassment, and fear all rolled into one. He looked on the verge of falling down into the grass and giving up. I suddenly had a dull fear that it would be bubba darting off into the night instead of me.
"Okay...okay," I said in a somewhat calmer tone. "Lets see if we can get the car running again." I had it in my head that if we could get the car running, we'd get the hell outta Dodge and stash the car at my house until we could figure something out. The car had other ideas. Bubba turned the key and the engine turned over reluctantly but never fired to life.
"Its dead," bubba said but continued to turn the key, hoping that the master of the house we just invaded would smile down on him for a split second and help bubba get his car going again. I think god was a little too pissed off at his broken tombstone and the huge tire marks in his front yard to grant us his forgiveness at this point.
"It ain't gonna start," I said. "We need to flag down a car or something. Can't walk home for christ sake."
No sooner had the words left my mouth and I saw lights coming around the turn up the road. A car was coming; the first car since we'd pulled our stunt. Who knew when the next car would come along? "Go down to the road and get that guy to stop."
As bubba trotted off to hail the driver, I surveyed the damage again in disbelief. I was trying to think of someway we could get out of this. It was hopeless. The tombstone was destroyed, the grass torn up in long muddy rutts, and the said tire tracks would lead right back to us. Again, we were screwed, we had zero luck, God hated us, and our parents were gonna chop off our heads and pee down....
"He has a phone in his car," bubba called, thankfully derailing my train of thought. Now you have to remember something. This was 1986. Cell phones were almost non-existent except for the techno-phobes and the well-to-do.
"A what?" I called back just to make sure I heard what I heard.
"A phone," He called back waving me over. I trotted over to the car. The driver had a look of confusion on his face that mirrored the way I felt. Don't ask, buddy, you wouldn't believe it anyway.
"Call my mom for me," bubba pleaded.
"Boy, you musta hit your head pretty hard back there," I said, wide-eyed. "I ain't calling anyone."
"C'mon," he begged.
"Screw you!!! Just call them and tell them you had a minor accident and you need them to come get you!!"
"They're gonna kill me," he replied, his eyes looking a little wet around the edges.
Well, yeah, I thought. That's probably exactly what they're gonna do. "No they won't," I said in my most confident voice, "its not even that bad." No, not at all...
"They're gonna kill me," he mumbled again as he dialed the number. I stood by, listening intently for screams of angry surprise from the other end as he told his parents about his "accident." I chewed my fingernails as he answered a number of questions I couldn't hear but could imagine. Are you hurt? Did you kill anyone? Are you freakin' retarded? Were you driving too fast? All answered with a yes or no or uh huh, all the while looking as sick as a new sailor. Finally, the conversation ceased and bubba handed the phone back to the nice gent who had the will to pull over and help us out.
We watched in silence as the Samaritan drove off, both wishing to be anywhere but standing here on the side of this farm road listening to the crickets chirp and our own dread set in. I looked at bubba. He didn't look back...just kept staring down the road as if expecting an answer to come...either that or a truck to come along and run him over.
"Its bad," he said, finally. The look in his eyes matched the tone or resignment in his voice. "My Dad is on his way."
Tune in for Part III - Bubba, Master Story Teller
posted by Michael Witmer @ Monday, March 01, 2004
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