The Obstacle Course (41 page)

Besides, what little cash was left I was saving to use tomorrow night. Even with Melanie covering the expenses, paying for going to eat afterwards and anything else, I still had to get her a nice corsage and have some walking-around money.

All in all, it would be easier to go straight to the bank and make a withdrawal.

“Wait here,” I told Ginger, “I’ll be back in a half-hour. Less.”

She wet her lips. “Make sure you’ve got a rubber.”

Talk about luck. I’d bought a pack this very afternoon, for tomorrow night with Melanie.

“I’ve always got one,” I boasted.

It was darker than I remembered down in the basement, under the apartments. Some of the bulbs were burned out and hadn’t been replaced. That was fine with me—the darker the safer.

I hadn’t been back here since the time we’d almost been caught. We’d laid low after that, figuring the manager would have somebody patrolling for a couple weeks; you get extra-cautious after an incident like that. By the time it was safe to go back into business I’d met the admiral, and boosting coin boxes seemed like petty shit. Anyway, if I was going to Annapolis I needed a clean record.

But—one last time wouldn’t be any skin off somebody’s ass. Not when a piece of prime teenage pussy was on the line.

For one moment, right after I left the firehouse, I’d had a guilty conscience about fucking Ginger the night before doing it with Melanie, but I’d decided fucking Ginger would be good practice for Melanie, it would make me better. I wanted Melanie’s first time to be special, as good as I could make it. Ginger was doing both of us a favor, was the way I looked at it.

It was taking longer than usual to crack the coin boxes. I was sweating, nervous, because of what had happened the last time, and because I was alone. It had felt safer when it was the Three Musketeers, all of us in it together. Of course, we’d had to divvy it up three ways—this time I’d get to keep it all to myself.

I kept hearing noises. Not having Burt and Joe for lookouts was making me nervous. I kept stopping and listening to every creak and rat-scratching. But it was all in my head; the machines were empty, nobody was going to come down. Still, the sooner I could get out, the better my peace of mind.

Three boxes down. I counted the change: four bucks, one more dollar to go. I went to work on the next box. The fucker didn’t come easy, I was cursing it under my breath, jamming my pocketknife against the catch; a knife doesn’t work as well as a screwdriver, but it was all I had on me.

It popped open, scattering coins all over the floor.

“Son of a bitch!” I scurried around on my hands and knees, picking them up. This box was fuller than the others had been. This would do it.

The sound of heavy footsteps came charging down the stairs.

I looked up, petrified. Some people came storming into the laundry area from the far door. I grabbed as many coins as I could and took off like a bat out of hell in the opposite direction.

“Stop, you thieving bastard!” A woman’s voice, full of outrage and self-righteousness, rang out.

Over my dead body, I thought, going as hard as I could for the darkness.

The roar was deafening, an explosion of shotgun blast, both barrels, echoing and echoing in the corridor.

I felt a sudden sharp stab of fire, like someone sticking a hot poker into my calf, bringing a cry of pain I was unable to stifle. The entire bottom half of my right pant leg, below the knee, had been blown off, completely shredded, the jagged remains flapping like pennants. Hobbling as best I could I reached down and felt the wound. Blood was starting to ooze out from the half-dozen pellets of birdshot that had found its mark.

But I was lucky, if you can call getting shot at and hit lucky: most of the charge had missed me. Barely, by less than a foot. The paint on the wall alongside me was pocked with the full impact of the discharge, a spray pattern almost a yard wide, I saw it clear as day even though I was running like an Olympic sprinter: a limping, wounded Olympic sprinter. If whoever had fired the shotgun had aimed one foot to the left I would have been hamburger from the waist down.

I was running on adrenaline, on instinct. Around the corners I sped, hearing my pursuers closing behind me. They were grownups, not in as good shape as me, but they hadn’t taken a fistful of #8 shot in the leg, either, and they had the advantage of pure hatred fueling them. If they caught me they’d kill me, or give it a damn good try.

Around the last corner. I pushed the fire door open in passing but didn’t go through, running instead for my safety valve, the side corridor Burt and Joe and I had used as an escape the last time we’d almost been caught.

Behind me, I heard the fire door slam hard as it rebounded from my push.

“Up here, he went through here!”

“We’ve got him now, the bastard, that front door’s locked upstairs!”

Voices rich in gloating, a pack of dogs cornering the fox, they took the bait, rushing through the door and up into the hallway.

Finally: the safety, at least temporarily, of the unused corridor. I pried open the trap door. My leg was killing me—I was afraid I’d pass out before I could pull myself in. Pretty soon they would realize they’d been tricked and would be back down here, searching for hidden nooks and crannies. They might come down this way.

I pulled with all my might, painfully hauling myself up into the crawlspace, reaching back down for the panel to seal me in.

Then I collapsed. Around me, hundreds of beady red eyes glowed in the dark, approaching as they smelled the blood, squealing like a banshee orchestra. I picked up a clod of dirt and flung it, so they’d know I was alive, dangerous to them. I’d crush the fuckers in my bare hands if they tried to get to my wound. They kept their distance. They were patient; they could wait. So could I.

I don’t know how long I waited there, in the low crawlspace, surrounded by darkness. An hour, two, I didn’t have a watch, I had no idea of time. More than long enough to smell the stink of the mustiness and the rat shit, of the rats who might’ve died in here from rabies or anything. You see them sometimes when you overturn a pile of garbage, rabid little creatures running around and around in crazy circles, dabs of foam at their mouths. Sometimes, when we’re especially bored, we’ll cherry-bomb the garbage piles behind the grocery store. Hundreds of rats will come pouring out, like in those old-time cartoons you see on Saturday-morning television. If we’re feeling particularly adventuresome we’ll try to beat them to a pulp with baseball bats and shovels. The only good rat’s a dead rat, that’s my motto.

I hoped none of their relatives were in here with me now. That would really be the shits—to escape being shot by some pissed-off humans only to be mortally wounded by a bite from a sick rat.

But I didn’t get bitten; not once. They must’ve sensed they were in here with a madman, someone who would sink as low as them. I may be sharing your space, you assholes, I said to myself, but I’m not one of you. They understood that, somehow, and kept their distance, watching and squealing, hoping for a long slow slide into blackness.

Tough shit for them. I was as aware as I’d ever been my whole life. I was the rat in the garbage dump that got away.

At one point I thought I heard voices, from some distant corridor. Or maybe I was imagining it, a fear-induced nightmare, except I was awake. But they faded away, and for a long time there was silence.

The fresh air hit me with a blast as I crawled through the opening where I’d pushed out the grate. Sticking my head out cautiously, I looked around. The coast was clear. I squirmed through the hole, wincing as I scraped my bad leg on the asphalt.

It was dark out, but I could see the injury. Not too bad, considering. Only a few pellets had actually been embedded—most had grazed me. I’d be black and blue the length of my leg for a week, but it didn’t feel like there was any permanent damage.

The leg loosened up as I made my way through the dark, empty streets. Keep moving, I told myself, keep moving, don’t stop. Don’t give in to it. That’s how they get you. I wonder if this is how a deer feels, I thought, when it’s limping through the woods after being shot. Do they die or do they live?

T
ECUMSEH FELT COOL
against my back. I stretched, coming awake, and as I did the pain from my leg shot clear through my body, taking my breath away.

Motherfucker, that hurt. Slowly, I got to my feet, gingerly rubbing my wounded leg. It was throbbing, all the way from my waist to my toes, like a horrible toothache.

I braced myself against the stone Indian, waiting for the dizziness to clear my head. It was barely coming dawn; way to the east, over the Chesapeake Bay, the first tentative yellow-pink rays were breaking through. It would be hot today and humid to boot, the beginning of another steamy Maryland summer, months of misery, as soon as you put on a fresh shirt it’s wet with sweat, and there’s no such thing as straight hair.

The leg was tightening up, almost like I was wearing a cast. By nightfall it would be stiff as a board if I didn’t keep moving it. I’d torn off the other pant leg to make a raggedy-assed pair of shorts.

I could’ve gone to Prince Georges County hospital, down the road in Cheverly, last night, but they would’ve called the cops, and reform school was not in my plans. Later in the day I’d find someplace where I could get my leg looked after; maybe the infirmary here, I’d give them some cock-and-bull story about how I’d been out hunting with my friends or some such shit. They might not believe me, but they wouldn’t let a kid walk around with a bum leg, either. Then I’d clean and wash the wound every day until it healed. Right under my parents’ noses, too. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. By now they saw so little of me I could be gone for another week and they probably wouldn’t notice.

Slowly, step by painful step, I hobbled across the campus in the direction of the obstacle course. I wanted to get there before the sun was up, before anyone could see me and try to help. A limping kid draws attention, and I needed to be invisible.

In a few hours, a lot of things would be happening. Melanie would be showing up at the tuxedo shop, waiting for me with great expectation, her little heart pounding in her chest. When at first I didn’t show she’d be peeved, then impatient, then pissed-off, then she’d get worried—maybe I’d been in an accident, the boy of her dreams had been hit by a car on his way there, because she knew I was coming, I had to be, there was no other way. It was the most important day of her life, even more important than her recital: I’d be there, I had to be there.

Then panic would set in, and she’d call my house, and whoever got on the phone with her wouldn’t know jack-shit about her or what she was talking about—what prom, who the fuck was she, where had we met? The way my luck was running she’d spill the beans on me, the whole shooting match. The admiral and Farrington and everything. My old man would kill me if he ever found all that out, I knew that for shit-sure.

Or maybe she’d ask for me, shyly, and they’d tell her (Ruthie I hoped, there’d be some dim understanding from her, not much but maybe just enough to let it slide by) that I wasn’t there, my room was empty, they had no idea where I was, they never had any idea of where I was or what I did anymore. I was lost to them, whoever it was would tell her, and they didn’t give much of a fuck about that, either.

She’d wait at the tux shop for a long time, well into the afternoon. Hoping against hope that I’d show with some acceptable excuse; my dog had been run over by a car, my grandmother had to go to the hospital. Anything—she’d believe anything, as long as I showed up.

But I wasn’t going to. I wasn’t going to see Melanie Prescott again—not ever. I wasn’t going to see Admiral Wells or Mrs. Wells or any of them, not even if they called and begged me to—not that they would, but I wasn’t. And I wasn’t going to go to Farrington Academy, either. Not if they called me up tomorrow and offered me the biggest scholarship in the world.

It wasn’t for me; it wasn’t me. Not Melanie, although she really and truly was a nice girl and I could have her cherry if I wanted it. Not Admiral Wells, either. None of it. I was a kid from Ravensburg, Maryland, a kid with lousy grades and a shitty attitude, who was going to start Ravensburg High School in the fall and take the vocational course.

That was me.

And this. This was me, too. I hadn’t been coming here all these years, dreaming about it all these years, to just throw it away. Not for any of them, or my teachers, or my friends. Or my sister or my parents. None of them could stop me from this.

The obstacle course was empty. It always is early in the morning, that’s why I like it this time of day: when I have it all to myself, when I can own it.

I took my usual slow, deep breaths, clenching and unclenching my hands as I always do, shaking my fingers, rocking back and forth a few times, trying to get loose, free up my leg. The leg wasn’t cooperating; it was as tight as a steel rod, and it hurt badly.

Only one thought was going through my mind: if you finish, you get in. If you finish you will come here, you will be a midshipman at the United States Naval Academy, one of the long blue line. And if you don’t, you won’t come here. You’ll be what you’ve been your whole life until now—nothing.

If you want to be in the Navy you have to learn to live with pain. I counted backwards from a hundred, then from fifty, then from ten.

Then I started running.

It hurt like hell. Every time I came down on my wounded leg I could feel the pain shooting up, all the way through my body. I did the best I could to concentrate on the first obstacle in front of me. That was all—one step, then another, then up and over.

The pain was like a fire in my body. I collapsed to the ground, unable to stop tears from forming at the corners of my eyes.

“Get up, asshole.”

I looked around for the voice. There was no one in the area, only me.

I limped towards the next obstacle. One step at a time, one foot in front of the other. Up and over and down, landing on one leg this time, my good leg, hopping a few steps on it until I felt I could put weight on my bum leg again, almost collapsing when I did, but managing to go on. Another obstacle—a rope-climb, no wrapping legs around this time for momentum, all arms. Lifting slowly, up, higher, feeling the rope starting to burn my hands. One hand over the other, finally reaching the top, swinging over, dropping down twelve feet, landing on both legs this time, the pain so intense I had to scream, I couldn’t help it.