Wild: Teen Odyssey

By Steve Blankenship

The Odyssey had WILD written all over it: wild parti es, wild

chases, wild fights, and at the heart of it the wild and loyal

friendship of Wayne Black and Willie Thor.


The goal was to be as wild as possible. Fueled by liquor, the

boys seemed indestructi ble, one adventure propelling them to

the next. In a 48-hour period, they take on aggressive brutes,

a social class, they cause a school riot, get expelled and go on

the run from the law. They prove that bonds forged in fire are

both life affi rming and long lasting.


Their story is not for the faint of heart. Wayne Black and Willie

Thor embody the best and worst of team excess. And along

the way, they manage to laugh their asses off . You will too.


Wayne Black and Willie Thor never went by the book

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456722302

Book preview

Contents

FOREWARD

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY ONE

FOREWARD

When I first decided to write this book, I was excited by the idea and told a friend.

Don’t waste your time; writing’s too hard, he said. Besides, you don’t have any talent. I wasn’t about to let a little thing like having no talent deter me. He was right about the hard part.

When George Plimpton, who started The Paris Review, interviewed Ernest Hemmingway in 1958, he asked what Hemmingway would consider the best intellectual training for a would-be writer. Hemmingway replied, Let’s say that he should go out and hang himself because he finds that writing well is impossibly difficult. Then he should be cut down without mercy and forced by his own self to write as well as he can for the rest of his life. At least he will have the story of the hanging to commence with.

What Hemmingway said is absolutely true, but if everyone were held to the standard of Hemmingway, Faulkner or even Henry Miller, who would ever bother to put pen to paper? But I had to try, simply because I had a few stories and a few characters worth remembering. William Faulkner said, The aim of every writer is to arrest motion, which is life, by artificial means and hold it fixed so that a hundred years later, when a stranger looks at it, it moves again, since it is life. Since man is mortal, the only immortality possible for him is to leave something behind him that is immortal since it will always move. This is the artist’s way of scribbling, Kilroy was here on the wall of the final and irrevocable oblivion through which he must someday pass. This book is my attempt to say, Willie Thor was here, Wayne Black was here, Feisty Betty was here.

Besides learning the lesson that writing is impossibly hard, I learned a few other things during the long years of crafting this book. One is that writing really is a craft. Just as a brick layer artistically crafts a house a brick at a time, a writer has much smaller material to work with. Books are crafted a word, a sentence, a paragraph at a time. Unlike a brick layer’s consistent measure, the writer’s parts are not equal. Sometimes a small word can support the weight of an entire paragraph or bring it down. A strong page can support its weaker parts. It is impossibly difficult to fit the pieces together well. Yes, writing well is impossibly difficult, writing is a craft and writing is a lonely occupation.

You feel the full impact of just how lonely a pursuit writing is when you say to a friend, Hey! I’m writing a book! It’s as if you just claimed that Hitler is alive and well and living in a condo in Palm Beach; they shrink back in horror. After the initial shock of these cold reactions, I got pissed off, and I said to myself, I’m writing this fucking book no matter what. If a nuclear holocaust is happening, I’ll be scribbling in the ashes somewhere.

After about four years of frantic scribbling and several reincarnations of the book, none of which gave much hope of supporting any type of literary life, I had the great fortune of meeting a really smart woman.

Lynne Schwabe is the sole editor of this book, and it is only because of her knowledge of writing, editing skills and patience that this book is in print. Thank you, Lynne, for your support and friendship throughout the 14 months it took to rewrite everything. You patiently edited, boosted my morale and made me laugh.

I don’t have the story of a hanging to commence with, but I’ve written this book as well as I can. If it makes you laugh, I’ve written it well enough.

—Steve Blankenship

22wild.com

CHAPTER ONE

Everyone has to hold on to something or risk being sucked back into nothing—the vacuum from whence we came. A lover, a child, a career, a dream to cling to—even a blade of grass will do, provided you pinch it tightly enough—anything that makes you feel part of this plane—this life. For the void is the vulture that waits—is waiting still. Wayne Black held on to his anger. It was always there when he needed it, like an umbrella by the door when rain pushes in and the clouds rise up. Today, it was going to pour.

Mrs. Good stared out the window, cradling the phone in her hand, fumbling for the dial. Her jaw dropped as she watched the red Corvette slide sideways out of the parking lot onto the road, just missing the passing car. Ripping the dial around, scared as hell, she watched as the girl stumbled to the pavement, while the boy writhed on the ground, injured. Holding the receiver tightly to the side of her head, she shouted forcefully into the phone, Operator, help! Give me the police! There’s a maniac on the loose!

A moment before, the middle-aged mother of three had barged out of her front door to investigate the source of the yelling, screaming and filthy language echoing throughout the neighborhood. Her house faced the school parking lot, where she saw three teenagers—two boys and a girl—in a horribly vulgar and profane shouting match. Approaching warily, she stopped at the edge of her lawn, looking across the street. Hoping to put a stop to the vulgar language, she called out, Stop that cursing! There are young children in this neighborhood. Have you no decency? Her hands rested on her hips in a pompous pose of authority.

Wayne Black didn’t like to be interrupted. He was a wild kid with a bad temper and being drunk just made it worse. He stopped his torrent of cussing, looking around to address the woman’s concerns—his eyes flashing anger.

Mind your own business, bitch, before I shove my foot up your ass!

The neighborhood hummed with the brief silence, and Wayne watched as Mrs. Good, speechless, turned in a huff and scurried back into her house. He then turned back to his ex-girlfriend, Terry, to continue where he left off. Where was I? Oh, yeah, you goddamn whore, go fuck yourself. No sooner had he made the suggestion, he saw a blur out of the corner of his eye, a fast moving object. His mind went black and starry, and he felt his knees give.

The force of the punch sent him reeling backwards and flattened him. He rolled around for a moment on the pavement, collecting himself. The warm blood on his face triggered rage and filled him with new resolve. Feeling his adrenaline surge, he bounced back onto his feet, dancing with the footwork of the boxer he was. He’d already been betrayed, and he wasn’t about to get his ass kicked too. He cleared his mind with a shake of his head.

Squaring off properly this time with Terry’s new boyfriend, Wayne’s fists worked in a blur, landing a dozen rat-tat-tat strategic punches on Mitch Arnold’s head. He was setting him up for a haymaker, waiting for the right moment. Jab, jab, move!

Mitch Arnold, a hardheaded, stubborn sonofabitch, resisted Wayne’s assault. Hoping to send Wayne on another trip to the starry climes, Mitch fired a whizzing fist that glanced off the top of Wayne’s head. Wayne responded with a travel package of his own, delivered with a crushing right hook that connected with Mitch’s jaw, snapping his head around and sending him whirling backwards and down towards the pavement. Mitch landed hard, and Wayne stood over him, waiting to finish the job if he tried to rise.

Wayne watched Mitch roll over on his back and heard him moan, and he knew that Mitch wasn’t getting back up—not from that punch! Mitch lifted his head up once, looked around in a daze, and then his head dropped back on the pavement—he was done.

Wayne stepped forward, looming over Mitch Arnold. He bent at his waist—hands on knees—exhausted and dripping with his own blood. Breathing hard, he turned his head and spit. Turning back, he shouted down at his old buddy, You can have the bitch! Good riddance to both of you! I’m out of here!

Wayne wiped the blood under his nose with a swipe of his forearm. Before he could fully catch his breath, his wildcat ex-girlfriend leapt on his back, screaming and clawing. She hung on tightly as Wayne spun around violently, trying to shake her off. She shrieked like a wild animal as they both whirled around in a circle. Wayne finally dumped her off and in one fluid motion hit her with a reflex backhand that sent her sprawling on the asphalt, causing her to drop the keys that she had been using to jab him in the ribs. Wayne watched Terry rise to her hands and knees and scoot toward her car keys, grabbing them. He stalked each feeble move, as she scraped her knees across the pavement. Wayne walked beside her, looking down, hearing her mumble something inappropriate. With that, he took his foot and crunched her hand into the pavement.

I’ll take those, bitch, if you don’t mind, he snorted. Feeling justified, he shifted more weight onto his foot and heard a knuckle crack.

Wayne bent over, wrestling the keys out of her hand. He walked to her car, jerked the door open and got in the driver’s seat. Angry and not thinking clearly, he jammed the keys into the ignition, listening to the engine rumble as he jerked the stick back into first gear. He was acting instinctively. His anger had taken control.

He engaged the clutch, and as he drove across the parking lot picking up speed, he fixed his eyes on the rear-view mirror. He saw Terry running after him, pummeling the sky with her fists, angry as hell. He took one last glance in the mirror and heard her scream, Come back here with my car, you sonofabitch!

Wayne watched her stumble on the pavement then jammed in the clutch and shifted into second gear, raw hiding the Corvette, sending the car into a reckless slide across the parking lot, finally fishtailing out into the main road. After spinning the steering wheel, Wayne straightened the car out, slamming the shift into third. He shot his arm out the window, giving the world the finger. The world had it coming.

Wayne picked up speed—the power of the car feeling like a dangerous extension of his anger. He was furious that his ex-girlfriend had goaded him into a fight with one of his old friends. He stomped the accelerator, testing the stolen car against the mountain road and held tight to the wheel as the Corvette raced down the curving two-lane. Silver guardrails flew by his headlights in a blur. Hitting sixty on the S-curves one after another, he yanked the stick back into fourth, looking down the mountain at a half mile of straight road.

Suddenly another car appeared on the straight stretch below, lights in the distance, approaching in the oncoming lane. Feeling reckless and out of control, Wayne kept the accelerator pegged, watching the white lines click by faster and faster as he sped toward the other vehicle. Wanting to destroy something, himself, the world and everything in it, he swerved into the left lane—right on top of the other car, racing toward a head-on collision. The cars’ headlights merged in a tumescent flash of bright light, half-blinding both drivers. Wayne heard the blaring horn and the other car rocketed toward him, threatening disaster as he jerked the wheel at the last second. The Corvette squeezed by, and Wayne heard tires squeal as he slid into another turn. He regained control as the road straightened again. The adrenaline rush purged his intoxication long enough for him to think clearly for a moment.

Wayne suddenly realized the implications of stealing the car—the cops—the cops would be after him now, but he didn’t care. If it came to that, he knew he had a good chance to outrun them. He knew these twisting roads like the back of his hand, and they weren’t going to catch him in these mountains—not in this Corvette. Not tonight.

Wayne took a hard left, accelerating up a private road that led to the top of the mountain. He wondered if there was a collection of gossiping old bitches anywhere in the world bigger than the ones that lived in the mansions that lined the road he was speeding up. He knew ninety percent of the vicious lies spread about him and his friends started right here on this Rumor Row—a coven of battered old witches, always meddling in other people’s business.

With these thoughts clouding his mind, he hit the turn too fast, almost losing control when he slammed on the brakes and came to a violent stop. He loosened his grip on the steering wheel and leaned his head back on the seat, feeling the car rumbling in an idle beneath him.

Silence settled in after all the chaos of the last few minutes, and Wayne felt his heart pounding, and he stuck his head out the window, feeling as if he were suffocating. A siren screamed in the distance—one long wail of a police car and then silence again. Mrs. Good—Wayne thought—she’s the only one that could have called the law that fast. Only one blast of the siren? The bastards think they’re going to sneak up on me?

He strained to listen but the whole mountain was quiet—a collective nothing. Then he heard an unfamiliar noise, a pop-pop-pop coming from the car engine? With a start he realized precisely where he was, sitting on the road above the Ashton mansion. The sound was coming from a tennis ball being batted back-and-forth on the well-lit court below. Wayne strained to look over the hill, and there were two old women volleying. One of them was Katherine Ashton, one of the worst of the gossiping old bags that lived on this road. The fucking whores! Where did they get off, thinking themselves better than anyone? He bristled at the sight of Katherine Ashton in her fancy tennis outfit, now feeling empowered looking down at her, instead of the other way around. Touché, bitch!

He thought about payback for their lying rumors—for their mere existence. He imagined busting out windows in their houses or slashing their tires. Instead he shifted into first gear, revving the engine loud enough to disturb their tennis game, red lining the rpm’s to 7000. The sound of the Corvette’s engine roared out across the mountain, and Wayne could feel the car rocking beneath him. He pegged the accelerator to the floor and yanked his foot off the clutch. Tires squealed as the car raced up the narrow asphalt, leaving tread marks behind and smoke hugging the road like morning fog.

The old women stood, mouths agape, fingering their tennis racquets as they watched the screaming car’s taillights disappear into the night. Accelerating along an unusually straight stretch, Wayne saw trees fanning back like playing cards, as the car hit 60. Approaching the crest of the mountain, Wayne slowed down, cruising by the Esso station, where the road went flat and straight, cutting between a cluster of little shops and stores on either side. Lights rippled across the shiny hood, washing over the windshield like thin silver.

Wayne slowed down and turned into a grocery store parking lot. Barely moving now and rolling past a row of parked cars, Wayne could feel his anger slowly slipping away, only hanging by a barb or two. He watched people scurrying in and out of the brightly lit store; he stopped, allowing a woman carrying two bags of groceries to pass. He couldn’t resist revving the engine to give her a start, to hurry her along. She gave him a cold stare in response—troubled by his bloody face, or maybe the slight nudge he gave her with the bumper, but she moved along quickly, wanting to get out of danger.

Spotting an empty parking space, Wayne backed into it carefully so he would be facing the main road. It would be an advantage if he could spot a police car driving by. He was amazed he hadn’t seen one yet. But maybe he was just paranoid—maybe Mrs. Good didn’t even call the cops. The siren? A fire truck? An ambulance? Maybe he could return the car, no real harm done. No, he was too pissed. He had trusted her. Big mistake! He was going to smash her car into the side of the fucking mountain.

Wayne pushed the stick shift into neutral and let the car idle. His mind was still spinning; his body pumped from all the action of the last 25 minutes. His temper got him in this mess and maybe the booze too. But what about Terry? What about Mitch? This wasn’t all his fault, was it? It didn’t matter now; he’d have to deal with it the best he could. The only thing he could think of was to run—get the hell out of Charleston. He just needed to let things settle down and enough time to develop an elaborate excuse for his behavior—low blood sugar or some shit like that. He could still get out of this without much trouble before it was too late. Fuck it.

Wayne sat there considering his few options. Only one thing to do, and he had it right the first time—get the fuck out of town. But, it would require money, and he had none—only dimes and nickels that fell mockingly into the bucket seat as he turned his pockets inside out. What now?

Wayne fumbled with his shirt pocket, pulling out a cigarette. He flicked his lighter with a shaky hand and took a long drag, as if he was trying to coax some answers from the burning tobacco. He looked at the store entrance, watching ladies with fat pocketbooks walking in and out. That was it, Wayne thought, a quick grab and run, then hit the road and head south to Myrtle Beach. But people knew his face—knew him—and he wasn’t any goddamn thief. No, he couldn’t do it; he’d have to find another way. Fuck it. Just smash the car into the side of the mountain doing 60—that would take care of everything!

Wayne looked at the gas gauge—almost full. He could drive this sonofabitch until it ran dry—probably make it to North Carolina—abandon the car, then thumb the rest of the way to the beach. He could bum money at the Pavilion. It would be easy enough to beg money for a couple of meals a day and some brews, and he could sleep on the beach. It was warm. It was May. He had a plan.

But, he had to move now! He needed to get out of the parking lot where too many people walking by could identify the Calloway’s car. If they saw Wayne, bleeding, sitting behind the wheel, they’d know something was very wrong. Wayne flicked his cigarette away, put the car in gear and drove slowly to the parking lot exit. Back on the main road, he eased up on the gas, letting the Corvette glide around the long curve. His adrenaline flooded back when he saw the policeman standing in front of the Shop-A-Minute with a Coke in one hand, smoking a cigarette. Their eyes met and locked for a second or two. An alarmed look swept across the policeman’s face, and the Coke smashed and splattered on the concrete as he dropped his hand to let it rest on his gun. He pointed and yelled, STOP! I said stop that car, boy!

Perhaps if the cop had asked a little more nicely, without so much emphasis on the boy? No, it was an insensitive demand. Wayne shouted, Fuck you! and kicked the accelerator.

CHAPTER TWO

It was a good race across the top of the mountain, the cops giving a close chase with lights flashing. Wayne outmaneuvered them through a series of tight turns, gaining distance on the straight. He braked suddenly, sliding almost out of control up a side road, stopped, cut his lights and waited. He listened to the sirens’ wail and fixed his eyes on the rearview. Seconds later, he watched the lights flash across the black glass mirror. Resting his head on the steering wheel, he let out a heavy sigh of relief, listening to the siren fade slowly back into the night, trailing off like a whisper. He had won. For now.

Wayne leaned back against the seat and popped a cigarette in his mouth. He flicked his disposable lighter several times without success, tossed it out the window and felt around for the car’s lighter. He flipped open the console to illuminate the front seat. Light spilled out, exposing Terry’s little black wallet. Running his fingers down the slit, he found it empty of cash. Opening the wallet, he saw Terry’s picture on her driver’s license, cute as ever. He held her picture down by the light, a flood of memories tugging at him, trying to seduce him. For one lost moment, he ran his thumb across her picture, as if he were caressing her skin, and then the betrayal seemed to settle on her face like an ugly rash. Suddenly, he saw her differently. She wasn’t who he thought she was. Wayne’s hard dick was a divining rod that was always getting him into trouble and never pointed him in the right direction.

Wayne was not a good student, but he was intelligent and read a lot: heady stuff—Dostoevsky, Henry Miller, Dante, Aligari, Playboy. Staring at Terry’s picture in the dim light, he remembered Dante’s assertion that betrayal was the worst of all sins. Good point, Wayne thought; he must have known Terry! Wayne flipped the wallet shut, as if closing a chapter in his life, holding it in his hand for a moment like a long goodbye.

Tossing the wallet out the window, the thought hit him: the West Virginia Turnpike had tollbooths. Tollbooths cost money, and he was broke.

Wayne found the cigarette lighter with the tip of his finger and lit his smoke, contemplating his dilemma, namely having no cash and being a fugitive. Pulling his headlights back on, he watched the green street signs’ shimmering reflection.

Ridgeview Road! Bingo! Wayne’s best friend, Willie Thor, lived at the end of Ridgeview. Problem solved, Wayne thought. Willie would loan him a few dollars, and then he would be on his merry way. Wayne kept puffing his cigarette, while shifting the car into gear. Willie to the rescue, Wayne said out loud.

Willie lived down a private road in a big house, hidden behind a tall row of hedges with his recently divorced mother. Willie referred to her affectionately and at times not so affectionately as Momma T. Momma T was a good woman, but no saint. She cussed and drank and could be a real pain in the ass. Willie loved her most of the time but hated her the rest. Momma T liked Wayne, but she knew he could be trouble; and Wayne and Willie together? Forget about it! She discouraged their friendship, without affect. Wayne and Willie were the same soul in two different bodies.

The Corvette rumbled as it pulled into the Thor’s driveway and stopped. The headlights shined on the baby blue Cadillac convertible parked in the open garage. Wayne looked up the sidewalk, seeing the porch light spill across the stone, then fixed his gaze on the top half of the kitchen door, trying to see movement through the glass. There was none. Wayne fidgeted, wondering whether to honk.

Willie sat back in the far corner of the kitchen, alone. There was some indefinable energy about the boy, even as he sat at the table, chomping the bologna sandwich, with a cigarette propped between his fingers. He alternately puffed, chewed and took swigs of the Coke he held in his other fist. His big blue eyes darted around the room, seemingly searching for any hanging thread he could yank to rip open the fabric of the world.

Willie heard the horn honk twice and fastened his eyes on the door across the kitchen. He counted slowly to himself—one, two, three, four. Five, he said out loud, pointing to the door just as the car honked again. It was Wayne. It was their code.

Wayne heard the door open and looked up to see Willie, strutting down the sidewalk toward the car. He was dressed in his typical clashing garb—plaid pants and striped shirt. His hair was thick, brown and ragged, like a Dickens’ waif, and as he approached the car, Wayne saw the cigarette clenched tightly in his lips.

Willie bent down and looked in the car.

Where’s Terry? What are you doing with the Calloway’s car? Thought you weren’t allowed to drive it.

It was only then, in the half-light, Willie noticed Wayne’s bloody face.

Whoa, dude, you’re bleeding. You okay? Did you wreck the car? Talk to me, Wayne, Willie said, alarmed, his eyes searching the inside of the car.

Yeah, I’m okay—no big deal. Got into a little scuffle, that’s all, Wayne said, staring up at Willie.

With who?

Me and Mitch Arnold had a little misunderstanding—well, not so little as it turned out. Wayne half laughed, moving his head around nervously.

Mitch Arnold? I thought you were friends. Why in the hell would you be fighting Mitch Arnold? Willie asked. He paused and shook his head. Ah, never mind, I get it! Jesus, Wayne, I thought you knew better. Fighting over women? Willie shook his head again. Goddamn, son, didn’t I teach you anything? You don’t fight over women. Fuck, Wayne, there’s just too much hole out there for that shit! Willie shook his head, as if disappointed. The entire world’s full of hole! Jesus, son!

Wayne didn’t respond, staring up at Willie, lost in some kind of post-car chase delirium, his eyes still wide with excitement.

What about the car, Wayne? How’d you get the fucking car? You steal the sonofabitch? Willie smacked his forehead. Ahh, no, man, don’t tell me you stole the damn car! Are you fucking crazy?

No, no, Willie, I didn’t really steal it, Wayne’s voice shifted to a whisper. I just sort of borrowed it. Everything happened so fast, I just…

Holy shit! Willie exclaimed. My best friend in the world is a thug and a car thief. Jesus, Wayne, you better tell old Willie what the hell happened–well, go on, spit it out. I’m all ears. Willie rocked from foot to foot, puffing up a halo of smoke, staring down through the car window.

Wayne explained the whole messy story in detail, up to the point where the police got involved. He thought he’d leave that out for a little while.

That’s a good story, Wayne, a lot of action—a lot of action—and you know how I love action, Willie took the cigarette out of his mouth and leaned down, pushing his head in the car, sniffing around. Wayne, old boy, I detect the smell of alcohol. Have you been drinking, my friend? Willie took one long sniff.

A lot, Willie. Wayne confessed.

Willie cracked up, laughing at Wayne’s answer. Well, that’s good—that’s good, Wayne. Now you’ve got an excuse! You can just take the car back and say to Mr. Calloway, ‘Mr. Calloway, sir, I’m just so sorry about hijacking your car, sir, but I was reeaal drunk! Us, kids, we like to get drunk sometimes on account of all the stress in our lives, like homework assignments and shit. You do understand, don’t you, sir?’ Willie let out a hearty laugh, Yeah, boy, that will fix everything. Dude, you’ve got to square this thing up somehow, I’m serious. Just leave the car here. I’ll give you a ride home. I’ll call Terry and tell her to come pick up the car—piece of cake, man. They’re not going to bust you just for driving a car over here. Don’t get in any deeper.

No way. I’m leaving town, Willie. Already made up my mind. I’m going to the beach. But I need to borrow some money. There was urgency in his voice, and he nervously glanced out the rear window. He looked back at Willie. You got a few bucks?

Ah ha! Ah ha! Money! Willie rose up in a grand gesture.

Willie looked off into the garage as if he were addressing a crowd. "This man needs money. He’s going to take a little vacation at the beach—going to relax—get away from some of that stress brought on by homework and the daily grind of teenage life. Well, what do you think, ladies and gentlemen? Should the First National Bank of Willie loan this fine young lad some money so he can take a little vacation?’ Willie held his hands out for a minute as if he were waiting for an answer, then looked back at Wayne and leaned down with his hands on the door.

Just take the car back, Wayne or let me drive you home. Don’t be a fool, fool!

I’m going to the goddamn beach. Can I say it any plainer? Wayne shouted in Willie’s face. Now are you going to loan me some money or not? He scowled. Jesus, son—yes or no?

Willie backed away from the car. Whoa! Take it easy, dude. No reason to get excited. You sure you want to do this? Drive to the beach in a stolen car?

Wayne didn’t answer, still looking around nervously and ran his fingers through his hair. Then he gave Willie a long, hard stare.

Willie took another step back. Well, okay, then. How much money do you need?

Twenty bucks. Wayne fastened his gaze on Willie. Whatever you can get your hands on.

I’ll see what I can do. With that, Willie turned and walked back into the house.

Wayne sat in the car smoking a cigarette. What was taking him so long? He either had the twenty bucks or he didn’t…why the suspense?

Wayne felt drained, and he was starting to sober up. He could feel his nerves starting to fray and his hand shook as he puffed. He could see his face in the rear-view mirror and his worried green eyes staring back at him. When he took a more powerful draw on the tobacco, he spotted the crusty black blood under his nose, his image a dead ringer for a young Adolph Hitler. It was only a passing thought, but he wondered if the Fuehrer had anger issues too. He had forgotten about the blood, and he yanked his shirttail out, spit on it, and wiped his face and under his nose.

Wayne got nervous, wondering what he would do if Willie couldn’t come up with the cash. It would be back to Plan A—drive south until he ran out of gas. He hoped Willie could at least loan him enough for a couple of hamburgers and a six-pack, or the other way around. He sure could use a beer about now. What’s taking him so long? he whispered to himself.

Right then, Wayne heard the door squeak at the far end of the walkway, and Willie appeared under the glare of the porch light. He had changed into an even livelier ensemble: black high top tennis shoes, checkered Bermuda shorts, striped long sleeve shirt and what appeared to be a sailor hat, the bill of it, white and flat against his forehead. The sailor hat threw Wayne a little bit. But what the hell! It was Willie! You just never knew what was coming next with the kid. He kept people on their toes.

Gentlemen, start your engines, Willie called out. "Well, go on, fool,