Peter scanned each ravaged shelf title by title searching for a notable survivor left in the wake of Black Friday. He discovered Gone in 60 Seconds stashed in the back of the foreign film section and unearthed the fourth installment of Die Hard from the bottom of the bargain bin. These were the only gems he could dig out of the rubble. There were science fiction titles scattered in the horror section, documentaries covering the floor in the television aisle, and all of movies that remained were straight-to-DVD, low-budget productions with Z-list headliners. The store was in ruins.
“Dazed and Confused,” Peter bent over and picked up a DVD. These three, he thought to himself, are a good kick-start to your collection back at school.
Peter looked like the movie section he was standing in. He buried his hand into the pocket of his USC sweatpants to feel for money as he shook the wild garden of uncombed hair on top of his head. It was a surprise that Peter even made it to the Twin Pines Mall in time to do any kind of shopping this morning. Between actually being awake early enough on a Saturday during break to witness the illuminated AM letters on his alarm clock and his brother forfeiting his car keys—
“Oh God,” Peter kept his hand in his pocket and pushed the crumpled bills to one side. And then the other. He smacked the outside of his sweats with the DVDs in his other hand. His pockets weren’t making any noise. They weren’t jingling.
Peter walked back down the aisle, this time searching for the set of car keys he might have accidentally set next to the action movies in the drama section. Or the drama movies in the action section. His bright, blue eyes kept jumping from shelf to shelf until they caught the window.
Kori Dymond.
There she was, walking outside, just beyond the posters of new releases. She moved gracefully across the storefront, auburn hair bouncing with each stride behind her. Kori sat next to him every day in his high school math class senior year, and every Friday she sat in her cheerleading uniform. Miniskirts and her long, tanned legs. Halter tops and spaghetti strap tanks. She often leaned over during class to ask about derivatives, or if she should be using sine or cosine, and she always smelled of vanilla. It was torture, but that didn’t hinder Peter’s perfect attendance record.
Oh Jesus, he thought. He tossed the DVDs into the martial arts section and chased after her. Peter rushed across the store to the exit and his palms were already sweating. He stepped up to the doors and they automatically opened just as Kori walked by. He jumped back into the store, retreating behind the posters before Kori could notice him and he jabbed his hand back into his sweatpants pocket. He pulled out an inhaler and began to shake it immediately. He squeezed out a puff and held it in his chest for a moment while he racked his brain for a subtle ice-breaker.
Nothing. Exhale.
“C’mon, Pete, you can do this,” he said to himself, “You’re never gonna get another chance like this.” He walked back outside, but he couldn’t find her.
Hold on, he thought. What do you think you’re going to do? Just walk up to Kori Dymond and start talking to her? Peter ignored himself and took off in a power walk in the direction Kori was heading. He stopped and scanned the parking lot.
You don’t know what she drives.
“She drove an Accord,” he started walking again. “Or was it a Prius?” He lost her. “Shit! Where did she go?” He dropped his head and stared at his shoes. He turned back to go find his movies, and when he picked his head up he found her through a display window in a different store, looking a fashionably dressed manikin up and down. Peter’s eyes lit up and he took a deep breath before walking into the store. She was gawking at this manikin, feeling the fabric of its sweater, checking the tag handing from the sleeve, and Peter watched her from the corners of his eyes while he inched closer and crept around the display.
“Petey?” Kori leaned around the manikin, “Petey Clark?”
“Kori! Oh hey, I didn’t even notice you there. Didn’t even see you—” he tailed off, flashing a tense smile.
“Well look at this,” she put her hands on her hips. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m, uh, I’m on break.” He hid his hands in his pockets and rocked back onto his heels. “Just doing some shopping.”
“Oh, no,” she smiled, “I mean what are you doing here? Do you normally shop at Ann Taylor?”
Peter found himself surrounded by all of the new winter arrivals of women’s apparel. “…Doing some shopping for my sister, yeah.” He pulled one hand out and rubbed the back of his neck. “Trying to get my Christmas shopping out of the way early this year, you know?”
“You have a sister?” she asked. “I thought you just had an older brother?”
“Half. Half sister. I have half a sister.” He shook his head. “Yeah, so, what about you? How’s your life going?”
“Yeah, good,” she nodded. “My classes are good and I like my professors.” She kept nodding, “I started doing yoga.”
“That’s cool,” Peter quickly replied. “Healthy lifestyle, love it.”
Kori picked up a blue sweater from a pile below the display. She held it out in front of herself to inspect it. “So,” she kept staring at the sweater, “how’s Jesse doing? I haven’t seen him in forever.”
“He’s awesome. Yeah, pretty good, you know. He actually lent me his car today.”
“Really?” She lowered the sweater and looked over the collar, “He let you take out the Chevelle?”
“Petey’s awake!” Jesse announced as Peter slid his feet along the linoleum floor into the kitchen.
“Who could sleep through that truck’s alarm?” Peter rubbed his eyes. “That thing has been going off for like forty minutes.”
“Think fast!” Jesse tossed Peter a can of beer.
“Dude, it’s not even noon yet,” Peter said and threw it back.
“5 o’clock somewhere,” Jesse cracked the can open and took a foamy sip.
“Well I’m not an alcoholic.” Peter grabbed a bowl and shook a box of corn flakes into it.
“You can’t be an alcoholic if you’re still in college.”
“Yeah, but you graduated.”
“I’m willing to make an exception.”
“But I’m not even close to being 21.” Peter went to pour milk into his cereal, but nothing came out of the spout.
“21?” Jesse’s eyes got wide. “Live a little, Petey.”
Peter shook the empty carton. “I’m going to the mall soon, you down?”
“Sorry,” Jesse toasted the beer the two flipped back and forth, “Number five.”
“Okay,” Peter threw the empty carton at Jesse. “Well can I borrow the car?”
“Ginger Smoke?” Jesse sat up straight in his chair.
Ginger Smoke was what Jesse named his car. Whenever he addressed his car by that name, it reminded Peter of a time when the two boys were much younger and their parents used their full names, first and middle, and when they called out Jesse Michael or Peter Joseph, you knew there was trouble.
Peter rolled his eyes and prepared for the same speech he heard since he had his learner’s permit. Peter could recite it verbatim by now, but he gave the floor to his older brother to get it out of the way.
“Let me tell you what Ginger Smoke is packing here, alright?” Jesse started. “This is a 1970, Chevrolet Chevelle Super Sport.” Jesse stood up. “She’s got four-eleven Posi-trac out back, 750 double-pumper and a Cowl induction hood.” He walked closer to Peter. “She’s bored over thirty, got eleven to one pop-up pistons, and turbo jet 390 horsepower.” He leaned over Peter. “We’re talking some fuckin’ muscle.”
Peter sung along in his head and waited until Jesse got it all out of his system. “C’mon, Jesse. I’m just going to the mall, not to Talladega.”
“Did you hear what I just said?” Jesse asked. “You can’t handle her.”
“What could happen at the mall?” Peter dumped the bowl of dry cereal into the trash.
The two brothers argued back and forth for a couple of minutes, until Jesse finally pulled the keys from his jeans pocket and slid them across the table. “Alright, Petey, that’s two coats of wax.” Jesse held up two fingers, “Two. And I want the Mr. Miagi, wax-on wax-off treatment for Ginger, okay?”
“Okay, okay,” Peter snatched up the keys and bolted for the door. Peter would have waxed the car for free. Peter would have jumped off bridges if his brother asked him to.
“And don’t forget to fill the tank.” Jesse called out after him, “It’s low!”
“Okay, got it!” Peter yelled as he slammed the door behind him.
“Yeah, so,” Peter shot out, trying to avoid more silence, “It’s lunchtime. I know that I’m getting kind of hungry.”
“I know, me too.” She folded the sweater. “I might catch up with Sarah and Leslie later. They just called me.”
“Oh yeah, Sarah and Leslie,” Peter said.
You’re losing’ her, Pete. Quick, think of something.
“Well, you know, if you wanted to, the car is right over—” Peter turned around and pointed through the display window to where he parked the car. Instead, he was pointing at his neighbor’s Chevy Silverado. He knew it was his neighbor’s truck because of the L.A. Police Department window sticker on the windshield. He also knew it was his neighbor’s because Peter listened to its alarm resonate through his bedroom for close to forty minutes this morning. With each passing alarm sequence he thought about what he would do to the truck if he got out of bed. How he would wolverine his keys through his fist and claw off the bright red paint. How he would take his father’s 18-gauge nail gun and crucify the tires. How he would slug each and every head, tail, parking, and flood light Louisville-style with his brother’s bat. He wanted to give his neighbor’s Silverado a reason to be alarmed.
Goddamned truck, he thought. Still taunting him, parked right next to where he parked Jesse’s car. Wait, Peter thought again, Exactly where you parked Jesse’s car.
Ginger Smoke was gone.
“Shit!” Peter turned back to Kori, “Sorry, I have to go.” Peter ran out of the store and turned out his pockets when he got outside. His inhaler and a few dollars spilled out. No keys. He gathered his belongings and stepped into the street.
Was it towed? Peter frantically looked up and down the street. Holy shit! He caught a glimpse of his brother’s car turn the corner about three or four lights down the street. Nothing was towing it.
“Holy shit!” Peter said again, but this time out loud. “Stolen? What do I do?”
Call the cops! Peter thought, responding to himself.
“I can’t call the cops,” he said, “If I call the cops, they will call Jesse and Jesse can’t find out!”
Well don’t you think it’s a possibility that he’ll find out when you go back home without his car?
“I have to get it back!”
How are you going to do that without the police?
Peter turned his head and looked directly at the Chevy Silverado.
No, don’t even think about it. Don’t even think about it!
Peter closed the door behind him as he jumped into the driver seat of his neighbor’s truck. It was unlocked. He looked around for keys, checked in the center console, flipped down the sun visor, nothing. He shot a glance out the windows and looked around for his neighbor.
Where is he? Peter thought. What if he comes back and his truck is gone?
“Jesus, keys, keys, c’mon.” Peter looked up and found the OnStar console on the rearview mirror.
It’ll never work, Peter thought and pressed the blue button. Only in the movies.
There was a chime and a prerecorded voice that came through the speaker, “Connecting to OnStar.”
“C’mon, please work.” Peter rocked back and forth in his seat.
“OnStar services, this is Barbra.”
“Oh good,” Peter said, “Yes, this is—” he paused.
Well it definitely won’t work if you use your real name.
“This is Matt, Matt Farrell,” Peter shouted at the mirror, “and I can’t seem to find my keys. And I’m running late for a flight. I’m going to San Diego for a convention. Can’t miss it.” He took a breath. “And I can’t find my keys.”
Where the hell did that come from? That wasn’t half bad.
“No problem, Mr. Farrell,” Barbra said, “Let me take care of that for you.”
The engine suddenly roared to life. “Is there anything else I can assist you with?”
“No, Barbra,” Peter smiled, “You are a life saver, thank you!”
I can’t believe that actually worked, he thought. His smile quickly faded. Oh my God, it actually worked. His eyes grew wide. I’m stealing a truck. Peter pulled his inhaler out of his pocket, squeezed off another puff, and held it in his chest.
Exhale.
I’m stealing a truck, he thought as he threw it into gear and dropped the accelerator to the floor. The Silverado bucked out of its parking spot and tore off down the street after Ginger Smoke. He got through the lights and turned onto the same street he watched Ginger Smoke drive down.
“Shit! Where did they go?” Peter drove around the back street for a while, what seemed like hours, looking for any trace of Jesse’s car.
The one time Jesse lends you his car. The one time he finally trusts you with her.
Peter looked over and saw a cop driving down the alley. He caught eyes with the officer for a second, only a second, but panic still shot through Peter and his stomach nearly dropped out through the leather chair. He kept calm and kept driving.
You can’t do anything right. Peter slammed his fist down on the steering wheel. You always mess it up. With Ginger Smoke, with Kori—
Peter never made a move his entire senior year. He played what he would say to her over and over in his head a thousand times, but never out loud. Never to her.
Why can’t you just ask her out? Why can’t you—
Slam!
“What was that?” Peter looked around as he brought the Silverado to a slow stop.
Sounded like a trunk. His eyes followed the noise and they locked on a vanity plate—
GINGER.
The Chevelle was sitting in a small lot behind a bar. Peter turned the wheel and pulled into a parking lot across the street that belonged to a bowling alley and watched Jesse’s car from the rear view mirror. There were two guys standing on either side of the car.
One was smoking a cigarette. He had skin like dark coffee with no cream. He was dressed in a dark blue suit, obviously blue against the color of his face and hands, taking drag after drag like he was in some kind of race. He knocked the ashes off the end and they fell next to his white, alligator skin boots. He kept on shifting his weight from one foot to the other, rocking his body back and forth like a metronome. He kept readjusting his pencil-thin tie with his cigarette hand and brushing the ash off with the other. He smoked down to the filter and flicked it into the brush just behind the car. He immediately pulled another from the pack and lit it up with a lighter he pulled out of his jacket pocket.
The other didn’t move an inch. His tennis shoes were anchored to the ground. His scrawny arms poked through holes in a denim vest. Both hands were gripped around the rabbit-fur collar, a crew neck shirt underneath. The sleeveless jean jacket hung loose and unwavering on the thin statue leaned up against the driver side door.
Oh my God, Peter thought, now what do I do? He kept taking his eyes off the rear view and bringing them back, hoping that the two men that stole his brother’s car weren’t really there. Why are they just standing there? Peter watched as the black and blue one already finished another cigarette and he flicked the filter nub into the same brush behind the car. He pulled out another and set it between his lips.
“Okay, c’mon Pete,” he told himself, “Think, buddy, just think you’re way through this. What are you gonna do?” Peter looked back at the mirror. The guy with the jean jacket finally made a move for the first time. He was adjusting his undershirt and re-tucking it back into his matching jeans. Peter saw the handgun holstered under his jacket.
“Shit, man,” Peter said, “what are you gonna do? What are you gonna do!” Peter started hitting the steering wheel. “Goddammit!” He set his head down on the steering wheel. He squeezed it in his white-knuckled fists as a tear ran down his cheek. He immediately picked his head up and wiped it away. He took a deep breath. He fished his inhaler out of his pocket with a shaky hand. He brought it up to his mouth but stopped short and just held it there for a second. Peter’s frustration erupted and he chucked the inhaler at the floor and he took a swing at the truck’s interior. His punch connected and caught the glove compartment right in the mouth. The blow disengaged the latch and the drawer fell open.
Peter looked at the glove box and back up to the mirror. Down at the glove box. Up to the mirror. Now what are you gonna do? He looked back down at the gaping drawer. He read the words engraved into the side of the barrel. Colt MK IV Series 80 Government Model 380 Auto.
“Holy shit.” His neighbor’s standard-issue firearm sat there in the glove box staring right back at him. Peter took another quick look at the mirror. The denim statue was back into his original position. Black and Blue was flicking another butt into the brush. Peter’s right hand slowly made its way to the other side of the cab. It stopped shaking. His fingers brushed against the cool metal and slid down the length of the barrel. They wrapped around the hard black plastic of the handle and lifted it up off the road maps and handy wipes. Peter brought the handgun back over to the driver side and he just stared at it. He never held a gun before. He liked the weight of it. He liked how well it fit in his hand and the smooth feel of the aluminum trigger. Peter extended his arm and locked his elbow. He closed one eye and looked with the other down the barrel through the sights and lined up a shot at a mail box down the street. He pushed the button on the side of the gun and the clip fell out of the bottom of the grip and into his left hand. Peter reinserted the clip and slammed it back into place, flicked off the safety, and pulled back the slide to load the gun and bring the hammer back all in one fluent motion.
“Wow.” He saw this done in the movies a thousand times.
Who do you think you are? Peter thought, Clint fuckin’ Eastwood? Put the gun back!
“I need to get that car back,” Peter looked at the gun.
So call the cops! He thought, screaming inside of his own head at himself.
“We’ve already had this conversation.”
It was stolen and it wasn’t your fault. Just call the cops and tell Jesse!
“I have to do this,” Peter said to himself and went for the door handle with his left hand, gun in his right. He pulled the door handle and slowly pushed the door open with his foot. He slid off the leather seat and landed on the stone lot with his back to Ginger Smoke and the men standing next to her. He clutched the gun in his hand and re-gripped his fingers around the handle. He slipped his trigger finger into place and quietly closed the door behind him. He spun around on his heels with the gun at his hip. Peter pulled the gun up and—
“Wh— where did they go?” Jesse’s car was still parked in the lot and the two guys who stole it were gone. Peter brought the gun back down to his side and looked left as far as he could see down the street.
Nobody.
He turned right and looked as far as he could down that side of the street.
Nobody.
“Thank God,” Peter whispered under his breath. He looked back at Jesse’s car and that is when he finally noticed the smoke.
“What the hell?” Peter walked across the street towards the car. And then he saw the fire.
“Jesus Christ!” The brush behind the car caught fire and was already big enough for him to have no chance of putting out himself. Then Peter felt the weight of his neighbor’s gun in his hand and he didn’t want to get seen holding it. He ran back across the street to the truck and yanked the door handle. The door didn’t open. All he did was set off the same alarm that got him out of bed this morning. He pulled and pulled at the handle, but it was no use. The alarm kept screaming at him. Peter started to hyperventilate. He could feel his throat swelling. It was getting tighter and his lungs started to burn. Instinctively, he went for his pocket. When his hand came out empty, he looked through the window and found his inhaler lying on the floor of the cab. Peter’s panicked eyes shot back over to Ginger Smoke and the flames that were lashing out and getting dangerously close to the car.
“Oh no,” Peter ran back over to the car with the Colt 380 Auto still in his hand. The fire licked at the driver side and was going for the handle, trying to get in. Somebody was going to come outside. The truck’s alarm was still blaring just outside of the bar and the bowling alley and Peter was standing there next to a car that was about to catch fire with a handgun sitting in his sweaty hand. Peter ran around to the other side of the car and jumped in through the passenger side door. He leapt into the driver seat and tossed the gun on the seat next to him. He could feel the heat seeping through the door and the window next to him. Peter could also feel a second fire beginning to sear through his chest.
Oh my God, Peter thought. A few more minutes and the gas tank is gonna catch.
His windpipe closed shut. A few more minutes and the oxygen in his brain was going to be completely exhausted. Peter knew this.
You have to get Ginger out of here! He wiped the sweat out of his eyes and looked around the car for the keys. Nothing fell when he flipped down the sun visor. He felt nothing when he swiped his hand across the top of the dash. His hands were getting numb. He finally looked down at the steering column and the keys were there, dangling in the ignition. He just had to turn them. The engine came to life and Peter dropped his foot on the gas. He peeled out of the parking lot with the wheels spinning and he tore off down the street putting as much distance between Ginger Smoke and the fire as he could. His body tensed up in pain and all of his joints set like cement into place. The alarm grew fainter as they drove away and so did Peter’s breathing. Tears began to stream down his face as he held his breath and the accelerator to the floor.
Jesus Christ, Peter thought, I’m dying. He would have screamed the words if he could. I’m fucking dying! Peter looked down at the speedometer and the needle was pinned at 120. He started to get light-headed. The world blurred past him as he raced down the street.
Breathe! C’mon, breathe!
His vision blurred as the world raced past him.
Please God, Jesus Christ, I don’t want to—
He felt his throat relax and he heard himself suck in a gulp of air. The icy oxygen rushed into his lungs and extinguished the fire. His chest was heaving uncontrollably trying to bring in as much precious air as possible. His teary eyes focused back on the speedometer and the needle was just under ninety.
88 mph? His leg was locked up and his foot still had the pedal pressed against the floor. His legs haven’t relaxed yet, but the car was still slowing down. The needle continued to slip under fifty. Then thirty. After a little while, Ginger Smoke finally rolled to a stop and Peter finally took his foot off the accelerator. The car had shut itself off. He looked next to the speedometer and the gas gauge read “E.”
That’s when Peter remembered the last thing Jesse said to him as he was running out the house this morning: “And don’t forget to fill the tank, it’s low!”
Peter sat there, completely still except for his paced breathing that was coming in and out through his nose now. His hands slipped off the wheel and into his lap. He wanted to cry, but he didn’t. His breathing calmed. He looked into the rearview mirror. Nobody was following him.
You did it, he thought, you got the car back. He looked over to the passenger side. The Colt 380 Auto was still sitting shotgun. Peter shook his head and a smirk crawled across his face. His chest started to shake again, but this time it was from laughter. His laugh grew into a roar and he started kicking his feet against the floor and rolling in his leather seat as the laughter took control of his body. Peter didn’t want to cry anymore, but the tears filled in his eyes from laughing so hard. He held his chest because it was starting to hurt again. It was a good hurt. He sat up in his seat and wiped his eyes. He shook his head again and thought to himself, Pete, you actually did it. He tried starting the car. The engine hummed and chugged, but never turned over.
Out of gas.
He took a deep, cleansing breath. Doesn’t Jesse keep a gas can in the trunk? Peter popped the trunk from the inside. He walked around to the back of the car and threw the lid open.
“Fuck.”
There was no gas container in the trunk. There were, however, several stacks of crisp twenties wrapped in white paper bands the size of match boxes and a couple bricks of flour wrapped in clear plastic of about the same size. Peter knew it wasn’t flour.
“Jesus Christ,” Peter said. He brought his hands up to his head and ran them through his hair.
“This is just a bad dream.” He wanted to pick up a stack of Jacksons, but Peter knew he would make it real if he felt them.
“This can’t be Jesse’s. This can’t be—” Peter cut himself off. He finally realized why the black and blue guy and his denim clad friend stole the car. Why they left so quickly after getting out. Why the keys were just sitting there in the ignition. Why nobody was chasing him.
Yet, he thought.
Sirens.
He thought too soon.
You intercepted a cocaine deal!
The sirens were faint, but they were clearly coming closer. And fast. Peter stood there next to the car staring in their direction. He has a cop’s gun sitting in the passenger seat. Drugs and money lying in his trunk. No gas. Sirens blaring. And no fucking clue what to do.
The OnStar system, Peter thought.
“What?” Peter asked himself.
The OnStar system in the truck, it has a stolen vehicle location assistance service.
“I’m going to jail, aren’t I?”
A concealed weapons charge on top of impersonating an officer on top of possession with intent on top of grand theft auto on top of…
“What do I do?”
You should think about using the gun?
“I’m not shooting a cop!”
I didn’t mean for you to use the gun on the police, Pete.
Peter’s mind was racing. The sirens were close. His face was wet, but he didn’t know if it was from sweat or tears anymore. He put his hands on his head. The sirens were coming around the corner. He looked through the window at the gun resting on the seat. He started to think if he should—
Fire trucks?
“What?” Peter quickly took his hands off his head as the fire engines screamed past Peter in the direction he had just come. “Fire trucks?”
The fire behind the bar!
“The blue suit’s cigarettes!”
The sirens faded as they drove away up the street towards the bar’s parking lot. There were no cops. Peter couldn’t believe it. He turned around and closed the trunk with both hands and he kept them there as he leaned against the back of the car.
That was too close, he thought as he moved around to the side of the car and reached in through the window. But you did it. You got her back just like you said.
He threw the gear stick into neutral.
“Man, I could definitely go for that beer right about now,” Peter let out a small laugh. He started to push Ginger Smoke towards a gas station that was just a few blocks away. He pulled her right up behind a bright green Honda Accord with a pink, flower decal painted above the bumper. It was unmistakable.
I thought she drove a Prius, Peter thought. He glanced over at the Quick Stop store and saw her auburn hair through the window, bouncing towards the counter as he removed his gas cap. He couldn’t believe it.
“Hey Kori,” Peter said out loud in a playful tone, starting his own imaginary conversation. “I’m good… Yes, I have been working out. I can’t believe you noticed… ” He let a flirtatious smile slide across his face. “Say, are you hungry? Wanna go grab something to eat? Great… Yeah, I’ll drive.”
“Petey?” He heard Kori’s voice from across the parking lot and turned around. “You know, Petey, I’m starting to get the feeling that you’re stalking me,” she put her hands on her hips and laughed a little.
“Well I never got the chance to ask you,” he squeezed the handle to start filling his tank.
“Ask me what?”
He watched the dollars add up on the pump.
“Ask me what, Petey?”
He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, “To ask you if you’re hungry.”
“Well actually, I just got back from lunch with Sarah and Leslie.”
“Oh, okay,” he turned back to the pump to hide his disappointment.
“But you know what,” she started to smile, “I will be hungry again, by say, seven.” She bit her bottom lip. “Are you doing anything at seven?”
“I didn’t make any plans yet.”
“You want to pick me up then?”
“Yeah,” Peter smiled back, “I’ll drive.”
