The Feet of God

51 - THE YOUNG DUDES

I squinted into the high-beam headlights of the car as it cruised to a halt in front of me.  The passenger door opened and a shady outline stood up.  “Hey, dude, what are you doin’ here?”  The voice was young and male.

“Takin’ a leak,” I lied.

“You homeless?” the voice asked.

“Got a home in Bakersfield.  I’m just hitching my way to Florida to visit my sick mom.  She’s retired out there, and I thought I’d see her in time for Mother’s Day.”  (So what if I lied some more?  What kind of scum would hassle a guy taking a piss who was planning to go see his own ill mother?)

The shadowy form ducked down in the car and I could hear other voices peep and mutter.  The night breeze picked up and carried over the distinct fragrance of mamma’s cookin’, and I mean primo stuff, not that skunky shit most young guys carry.  I felt a twinge of envy.  I shielded my eyes from the lights.  The shadow stood up again, “You wanna ride?  Goin’ over to Norfolk for a few beers and hang.  Wanna come along?”

What the hell.  I got me some new clothes and a wad of cash still bulging in my pocket.  A man would have to be a fool to turn down a free ride and an opportunity to move forward.  “Thanks,” I slung my backpack over my shoulder and headed toward the car’s bright lights.

Once out of the glare, I could see that the ride was a cherry 1970 Pontiac GTO.  There was four passengers inside, all young guys close in age.  The dark shadow now had the outline of a face, and from the overhead light in the car I could see they was all sandy-haired and blue-eyed, and each of ‘em had the same honking big-ass nose, so I figured they was all related.

“Hey, bra’, get out and let our guest ride in the middle.”  The door opened and the passenger got out to let me slip in.  “We don’t want him falling out on any sharp corners.”  I settled in the middle of the back seat hugging my backpack.

The driver piped up, “C’mon, bra’s, let’s get this shit movin’.  There’s wild whisky women out there just waitin’ to meet us.”  The doors closed, the overhead light went out and the driver peeled out the way young guys do in a muscle car, with a loud screech and leaving signature skid marks on the pavement.

The skinny boy next to me gave me a crooked tooth smile, “We’re goin’ to Norfolk.  Gonna raise a little hell.  Hey, dude, ever been to Norfolk?”

“Bra’, he just said he’s from California, so he’s never been to Norfolk,” the passenger on my other side answered for me.  “Don’t you never listen?”

“Hey, he might be from California and he might be goin’ to Florida, see I do listen, but he might have gone to Florida before and he might have gone through Norfolk before, so shut your fuckin’ mouth.”

I pressed my knees together and hugged my pack a little tighter.  I could see the driver in the rear view mirror and I slid a glance at the guys on either side of me.  This was a little creepy.  All four of these guys looked like clones.  What kind of road trip had I got myself into?  I figured I’d better find out.

“So, what’s happening in Norfolk that gets you dudes headed out that way?”

Front right boy spoke up, “They take our fake ID’s without any questions asked over at The Moose Knuckle, so we can go inside and sit down and drink beer and meet hot chicks lookin’ for some strange.”  He wiped his nose on a coat sleeve.
 
“Yeah, young strange, they go for that,” the driver hooted.  “And fuck it, our money’s as good as any other asshole’s.”  He nudged his companion in the front seat, “Hey bra’, fire a bowl for the Old G, an’ give him a beer.”

A can of Pabst Blue Ribbon was passed over, and I heard the familiar sound of a lighter crackling over the aromatic dried contents of a small brass pipe.  (As hillbilly village-of-the-damned road trips go, this one was shaping up just fine in my estimation.)  The pipe got passed my way.  I joked, “The dude abides.”

Popular posts from this blog

The Feet of God

67 - ONE IOTA OF DIFFERENCE It was turning light outside and morning dew sparkled like glass beads.   It was time for me to go.   I tucked the gun back with the stacks of bills stashed inside Yeller Tom’s leather case, then headed over to a gravel path that snaked downhill toward two lanes of asphalt where I might hitch a new ride. While walking along the path a white pebble landed at my feet.   I didn’t know I had company.   I looked back and saw an old man and woman tossing away whitewashed stones from the second letter E in BIBLE HELL.   (I figured there wasn’t much for kids to do around here except maybe Fentanyl, alcohol, screwin’ their first-cousins, and pull’n practical jokes like this.) “Hey, up there, watch out!” I shouted, as a flung white rock hit me above the eye. The elderly couple stood up in a shock of surprise, almost as if they was caught red-handed do ’ n something wrong. “Sorry, friend.   We were cleansing away some smut.” ...
Read more

The Feet of God

60 - UP AND AT ‘EM I heard Yeller Tom whistling Reveille .  “Wake up,” he gave me a smack to the head. I rubbed my eyes awake.   The effects of knockout gas and dope and booze still lingered.  He handed me a small pack of seeds. I didn’t disguise my disappointment.  “I was kinda hoping for an omelet with bacon or French toast or something more nourishing.” “It is not for you.   Feed le pigeon , Gertrude.” The smell coming from the cage below my seat was getting kinda rank.   “Ain’t you gonna clean this bird’s cage?” “ Non .”   Yeller Tom’s nose flared.   “Now we fly.” I ripped open the bag of seeds and threw ‘em below my seat. Yeller Tom pulled on levers and knobs and dials again, and his little blue biplane started with a huge discharge of smoke.   As we taxied down the bumpy path I knew there’d be no in-flight meals served but I could sure go for some breakfast.   Even a lousy bagel without the cream cheese, but I didn...
Read more

The Feet of God

64 - HATE TO EAT AND RUN I watched Madame and Yeller Tom grow smaller and smaller until they vanished through the swing door back of the pastry counter.   My head rolled backwards and my eyes saw above me countless holes in ceiling tiles moving, breathing, expanding, shrinking...damn, this was some kinda special cream cheese. I then heard a voice, “Jeebus, how much didja eat?”   It was the bear of an airplane mechanic, Chuck.   He’d entered the bakery shop and sauntered over to the coffee stand and poured a cup.   “Here, drink this, it’ll help pull you together.” I fought to stay focused as I held the hot mug.   “You’re no barrel of laughs,” I cracked myself up.   “Mr. Grease Monkey.”   I doubled over laughing. “Just drink,” the huge man ignored my convulsions of idiotic laughter.   He grabbed a folding chair and sat down beside me.   “You’re gonna be stuck in that plane with Tom for hours, y’know, and you don’t wanna be flying high...
Read more