“How the hell would I know?” C.D.’s voice was muffled, distracted. The tap he was using to pierce the tank didn’t seem to be cooperating. “I was sitting in water up to my ass in some ditch on the other side of the world in ’69. All I seem to recall about—damn!” There was sharp clanking sound as his tools slipped, a pause, then more metallic fumbling as he resumed his work on the gas tank. “All I remember about ’69 is that an awful lot of guys in bamboo hats were doing their best to see to it I never saw an Oldsmobile 4-4-2 again. Hey, listen to this.” He thumped on the tank with his fist; the sound was dull and deep, not the hollow echo they had heard so much that afternoon. “I think we got us a full one here. Or nearly full, anyway. Hang on…” There was another moment of metal hitting metal, then, “Give me a hand down here, would you?”
“Coming.” A dozen plastic juice and milk jugs were scattered at Ed’s feet, one of which was half full of gas—the meager amount the result of several hours’ work. The rest, empty and nearly feather light, tumbled and rolled every which way as Ed got to his knees and joined C.D. beneath the car. His friend was filthy, his fatigue jacket smeared with grease, dirt and rust. Of course, for C.D., that was just the way he liked it best. His left sleeve was soaked well past the elbow, and the pungent reek of gasoline was everywhere. A slight trickle came from the tank at a spot where C.D. had his thumb pressed tightly. “I’m here,” he said once he was in position on his belly. “Right behind you.”
Not taking his eyes from the tank, C.D. passed the tools over his shoulder with his free hand. “Start giving me those jugs. One at a time.”
C.D. took the first jug and eased it up under the tank at the same time he pulled his thumb off, a veritable gush of dirty brown liquid spewing out. It took a moment to get the jug into a position where more of it actually went in the opening rather than down his arm, but once in place the jug filled steadily, the dark brown changing gradually to a lighter reddish amber as the rusty water trapped beneath the gas in the tank cleared the hole.
“Not bad,” Ed said as C.D. plugged the hole with his thumb and passed the filled jug to him. The brown rust water already separating from the lighter gasoline took up only the lower third of the jug—either the sealed tank of the late model vehicle had prevented a great deal of condensation or, better still, the tank had been topped off just before the car was junked. Not bothering to cap the jug yet, he set it firmly into the dirt and quickly handed over another empty one. This time only clear, pure gasoline flowed out of the hole.
Fifteen minutes later the two of them sat in the dirt, exhausted, their backs resting heavily against one of the rotted tires on the car they’d just tapped. Scattered in and around their extended legs was an odd assortment of containers, each filled to the top with gas. In all, they had managed to amass, to Ed’s best guess, maybe slightly more than twelve gallons of the precious fuel.
“I’m getting too old for this,” he said, wiping the back of a grimy hand across his forehead. His joints ached and his muscles protested—too much time crawling around on ground that never saw the sunshine. The stench of gasoline on his hands and clothes was almost overpowering.
“Hey, I’m two years older than you.” Ed could hear a slight wheeze in C.D.’s voice as he rose, brushing uselessly at his clothing. “Feels good, though, don’t it? When’s the last time you suppose Jason or Brandon did any real physical work? Something that didn’t require them to be plugged in or on-line with their invisible corporate whatevers, I mean.”
“Who knows,” he replied. “And who cares. Come on, Carol’s going to think we got lost out here.” All but one of the filled jugs had handles molded into them, and they set about gathering them into a straight line with the handles turned in such a way that when C.D. slipped a broken tie rod through them, it formed a serviceable carrying pole. Ed hefted the remaining jug himself, carrying it under his free arm.
“I used to regret that Tammy and I never had kids,” C.D. offered as they climbed the steep path leading out of the junkyard and back through the woods. “But in the last few years of living next to the Cypermuppets, I’ve looked at it almost as a blessing in disguise. I’m glad Paul turned out OK. You and Carol got lucky with him, you know that?”
“I know; you’re right.” Ed smiled proudly as he thought of his son, undoubtedly buried in work at the clinic in Old Saybrook. “Luck, good genes, the fact that Carol was the best mother he could ever have, or the simple grace of God—whatever it was, I’m glad for it. Thanks.”
They were up to the old railbed when Ed felt the fluttering in his chest. His head grew light and the edges of his vision closed in.
“Hey, are you all right?” C.D. asked.
“No, as a matter of fact. I need to sit down.” He stumbled to the ground and tried to catch his breath. He hated this. It made him feel angry and frustrated. Worse, he hated the sense that gnawed at the back of his head that this was a damn stupid place to die. Carol would be mad at him if he checked out here.
He fumbled in his pocket for his pills, pulled one out of the small tin, and chewed it dry. “These things taste terrible. But I need them to keep the pump running smooth. It helps with the rhythm.”
“Don’t scare me like that, man,” his friend said once he realized it wasn’t serious. He dropped to the ground beside him, then pulled the cigarette pack out of his pocket and drew out what looked like a thin white stick, lit the end, and inhaled deeply. “You don’t want any of this, do you?”
“Is that a joint? Geez, C.D., that would kill me in a minute.”
“That’s what 1 figured. God, getting old is a bitch.”
Ed leaned back against the embankment as the heart pill began to take effect, bringing the fluttering under control. “I don’t think of it as getting old,” he said. “Hell, I don’t feel old, just a little uncomfortable now and then.”
C.D. held the smoke in, then exhaled in a rush. “You know, I never thought we’d get old. Not like my grandparents, cranky and self-centered.”
“I know what you mean,” Ed replied, his breath returning to him. “I remember when I figured out what had happened to them. It wasn’t that they got cranky and self-centered in their old age… they were like that when they were young, too. We just figured it was their age. That’s why we don’t feel old. We haven’t changed. Not inside, where it counts.”
“That must be why all those cars back there looked new to me,” C.D. said.
“Did you notice that too? They weren’t old, just rusty.”
“Like you and me?”
Ed smiled. “Exactly.”
“I always figured that we’d get wise and mellow in our old age,” C.D. said, sniffing at the tendril of smoke coming from the end of his joint. “But lately I’ve come to realize that it isn’t going to happen.”
“That’s because we got wise and mellow in our youth.”
C.D. thought it over for a moment. “I guess you’re right. I mean, I got all the answers I ever needed about life, death, and the Universe when I was sitting in the jungle getting my sorry ass shot at. It was like the rest of my life was just an afterthought to one brilliant moment of great awakening.”
“I hope it’s been more than that.”
“Well, sure. It’s been a long, strange trip since then, too. But lately I’ve been missing those days. When we had nothing to lose, when every day was a new adventure, when every time you went around a corner, you found something new and exciting and wonderful. And now, just when we thought we were coming to the end, the Chinese put out the lights on the whole freaking East Coast. Who would’ve thought it, huh? And we’re lucky enough to have it happen when we’ve got nothing left to lose. You know, there is one thing I like about getting old—I’m as carefree and irresponsible as I was when I got home from Nam. Nothing to lose, no one to answer to, and nowhere I have to be.”