Under the Bridge (8 page)

I decided playing dumb was the best thing, even though I’d never seen my dad drink four beers before three in the afternoon. “Cut loose from work early, huh?”

“Yes.”

“You okay?” I said.

“Yes.”

“Indy around?”

“No.”

“Out skating?” I looked around. Then I saw it. Indy’s board. Snapped in half and lying on the carpet. The war had already been waged. “Holy shit,” I blurted out. “What happened?”

“Watch your mouth,” he growled.

I took a breath. “Yessir. Sorry.”

A moment passed, and he cleared his throat. “Your brother is not living here anymore.”

Silence. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

“We decided it would be in his best interests if he left.”

“Where’d he go?”

“That’s not my concern. He chose not to abide by my rules, and he’ll pay the consequences.”

“Where’s Mom?”

“Out.”

I sighed. “She’s pissed at you?”

He swiveled his head to me. “Not your business, Tate.”

“God, Dad, what happened?”

He furrowed his brow, his thick neck flushed from the booze and his eyes fierce. “Let it go if you’re smart.”

The tone in his voice told me everything I needed to know. “Sure. You need anything?”

“Another beer.”

I went to the fridge and grabbed a beer for him, not wanting to, but not wanting to have my head ripped from my neck, either. I handed it to him.

Silence.

I grabbed my board, heading toward the door. I turned back, looking at him. “Hey, Dad?”

He didn’t look at me. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry.”

He slowly nodded. “So am I, son.”

I left then, heading out to find Indy. The first place I went was Under the Bridge, but he wasn’t there, so I headed to the Hole in the Wall, where Badger sat behind his counter eating Tootsie Rolls. He popped one in his mouth. “He said you’d come skulking around here.”

“Where is he?”

He shrugged. “Don’t know. He said if he told me, he’d have to have you kill me.”

“Come on, Badge.”

“Totally serious. He came in, asked if he could stay in the back; I told him I wasn’t running a youth hostel and that it might look like I was boffing a teenager; he bought a new board and then left. But he made me promise on the rocker oath that I wouldn’t tell.”

“A new board?”

“Yeah. Nicest one I’ve built in a long time. Birdhouse trucks, fine deck, the whole shot. He paid my Visa bill this month.”

I shook my head. I knew he didn’t have money for it. At least honest money. “Who was he with?”

“Nobody.”

My mind reeled through everybody he knew. Piper and Sid would be a decent bet, but he’d know I’d come looking.
Maybe that guy Will. My heart sank at the thought of that. Then there was Porkchop, a guy he knew well enough but who I’d never met. Before he quit smoking, Indy got his stuff from him. I didn’t know exactly where he lived, though. “You know a guy named Will?”

“No. Never heard of him.”

“What about Porkchop?”

He nodded. “Porkchop Jones. Went to school with him back when, and he gets me my smoke. Dope dealer.”

“Where does he live.”

He shook his head. “I don’t answer questions that get me involved in family issues, dude. Sorry. I’m like Sweden and Guatemala. Neutral.”

I stared at him. “It wasn’t a question.”

He held his hands up. “Whoa. No need to beat the crap out of me. I’m just a fat dude eating candy, man. Calm down.”

“He’s my brother, Badger. Tell me.”

He looked at me and knew I was serious. “Cascade Creek Trailer Park. Taylor Avenue. Space twenty-seven. And if you don’t mind me elaborating a tad bit, I would offer that you might have a slight issue with visiting violence on people for reasons not usually condoned as worthy. That and killing small animals sometimes precipitate becoming a serial killer. Does your mother know you are a pre–serial killer?”

“Thanks.”

“You didn’t hear it from me, man. Just don’t sneak in my room one night and jab my eyeballs out with an ice pick.”

“No sweat.” I turned to the door.

“Hey, Tate?” Badger called.

“Yeah?”

“Porkchop is … odd.”

I looked at him for a moment, then nodded. I’d start with Porkchop, because I knew that Indy, after what had happened at home, would be looking for weed. “Thanks.”

Peeled paint and a crooked sign reading
CASCADE CREEK TRAILER PARK
let me know I had the right place, and from the look of the trailers as I skated down the lane, a dealer named Porkchop would fit right in. This wasn’t Grandma and Grandpa’s peaceful retirement community where they bought their double-wide and strolled down to the community center for a good game of rummy. This was the back hills of Alabama on crack
.

I counted three pit bulls and two Rottweilers chained outside rickety trailers by the time I found the slot, and I stood in the road for a minute studying the place. Three bald tires lay stacked next to a chewed-up garden hose; rust-colored water stains streamed down the sides of the dirty white trailer where the rain gutters were broken; three fifty-five-gallon oil drums filled with broken appliances, car parts, trash, and beer cans stood sentry in front of a broken-down shed at the rear of the parking place; and an old Ford Escort with a coat hanger stuck in the antenna hole sat on
the gravel parking pad, like a half-dead dog with open sores covering its hide.

I walked up the way and knocked on the door. Nobody answered, so I knocked again.

“Who’s there?” The yell came from inside, muffled, frenetic, high-pitched, and irritated.

I knocked harder, and a second later, the window curtain next to the door flashed open and I saw half a gaunt and hard-living face peek out. The door flew open, and a guy in his early thirties, dressed in dirty jeans and a ripped flannel shirt and with long straggly hair, craned his neck out at me. His eyes bulged from his ruddy face. “You got the wrong place, buddy.” Then the door slammed shut.

I knocked again. The door flew open, and the guy craned his neck at me again, his tendons straining. “I don’t buy Avon, don’t know how to read, don’t wear cologne, don’t want no insurance, and sure as hell ain’t going to buy nothing from you, so you might as well just turn your ass around and go knockin’ somewhere else.”

I looked him up and down, noticing the butt of a pistol stuck in his waistband. “Are you Porkchop?”

He narrowed his eyes at me. One of the bloodshot orbs wandered just a little bit. He jutted his chin out. “What are you staring at?”

I looked at his regular eye. “I’m looking for my brother. Indy.”

He narrowed his eyes even more, barely slits. “You a cop?”

There is nothing more dangerous in this world than a
really dumb guy with a gun, and I wasn’t about to get shot. “Is he here?”

He looked over his shoulder. “Hey, Indy, there’s a guy out here says he’s your brother, but he looks like a cop. You here?”

Indy came to the door. His eyes were glazed. “Hey, bro.”

Porkchop smiled at me. “Hell, boy, you shoulda told me you was his brother. Come on in. We can get high.” He stepped back, opening a space for me.

I stayed on the porch. “Come home, Indy.”

He was so high he was floating. “I’m fine right here, Taterbaby.”

I looked at Porkchop, then glanced at the pistol again. “Would you mind giving us a minute, sir?”

He nodded, gesticulating wildly. “Shit yeah, man. I got me some Spam cookin’ anyway. Nothin’ worse than burning your damn Spam, huh?” Then he disappeared into the trailer, cackling about burned Spam.

I looked at Indy. His lip was swollen. “Did Dad do that?”

He smirked. “Yeah. He broke my board, so I shoved him. Did you know Dad doesn’t like being shoved?”

I knew Dad hadn’t hit him with a closed fist. If he had, Indy’s head would have been half caved in. “Pretty bad situation?”

He smiled. “He’s tired of Indy not being like Tate.”

I ignored it. “Are you suspended?”

He nodded. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not going back.”

“Come home.”

“Dad kicked me out until I learn how to be a good little boy.”

“He said you left.”

He shrugged.

“You’re staying here?”

He laughed. “It’s actually quite palatial. Would you like to join us for dinner? Spam. I think the wine selection this evening is Mad Dog 20/20. Fine by any dining standard.”

“If I talk to Dad, will you come home?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s an asshole.”

“Indy …”

“Hey, man, I went to school. I did what he said.”

I clenched my teeth. “Now who’s being the asshole? You know exactly what you did.” I looked at him. “He’s not against you, Indy. He’s not. Neither is the school. LC might have a few bad teachers, but it’s the coolest school in the city.”

“Are you done yet?”

“You shouldn’t stay here. You know that.”

He laughed. “Why not? This is my future, right? This is what they all see when they look at me, right? Fuck ’em, Tate, I don’t care. I’ll give ’em all what they want.”

“He doesn’t see that. The school might and other people might, but Dad doesn’t. I don’t.”

He smiled, the glaze in his eyes still heavy. “You’ve always been the favorite, Tate. Always, man. Ever since we were little, you were always the one.” He paused, looking away. “You’re the one.”

“Please, man. Come home. You know what this is, right?”

“What? My crappy life?”

“No. Things are totally out of control. And if it goes any further, neither of you will be able to make things better. It’ll be the end.”

He spit. “It was the end a long time ago. You just didn’t see it.”

I stared at my feet. “He just doesn’t understand you, Indy. You’re different than him, you know? And you go out of your way to prove it all the time. It’s like you live for it.”

He rolled his eyes. “I am soooo tired of hearing that shit. From you and Mom and everybody else besides him. Nothing but shit from him. That’s what I get. I can’t even wipe my ass without him telling me I did it wrong.”

My pissed-off meter was rising, and I didn’t want to get into it with him. “You’re not coming home?”

“No. And I’m done with school.”

“Fine. Fuck you, then.”

He shrugged. “Oh well.” Then he shut the door, and I stood alone on the stairs as the sun set and the dogs barked.

We sat at the dinner table, the three of us, and we might as well have been deaf-mutes. Dad rested his forearms on either side of his plate as he chewed, his fork clutched in his fist as he stared at his plate like some rain forest King Kong gorilla man. He’d stopped drinking, which was good, but the tension in the air made me think he was on the verge of exploding
.

There was one person in the world who controlled my dad, and it was my mom. She knew how to talk to him and when to talk to him and when not to talk to him, and now she was silent. I couldn’t be silent. I pictured Indy lying on Porkchop’s couch, baked out of his mind and hating the world, and I couldn’t stand it. It made me mad. “Can Indy come home?”

Dad the gorilla man kept his eyes on his plate. Mom looked at me and shook her head. “Not now, honey. Let’s just eat our dinner.”

My neck flushed. “No.”

Dad’s eyes rose from his plate. I swear to God his ears laid back and his neck swelled. He stared white-hot rivets into me. “Your mother asked that we not talk about this now.”

“Dad, I just—”

His voice came low and dangerous. “Shut your mouth, Tate.”

“I’m sorry.” I paused. “I just don’t think—”

Mom cut in. “Tate, please. We’re all upset, and I think a little bit of time would do everybody some good.”

I clenched my teeth. “Does that include Indy?”

Dad dropped his fork on his plate, leaned back, and ran his fingers through his hair. “What are you saying?”

I took a breath, then looked at my dad. “We can’t talk about it because you’ll get pissed, and since everything revolves around you, I’m supposed to shut up,” I said. I sat at the table, feeling like my words were coming from somebody else’s mouth. Part of me screamed to shut up because this didn’t happen in our house. We didn’t talk like this to each other. Nobody did. But he didn’t get it, and Indy was in trouble because of it.