Shot Dunyun: That Student Driver Night, I'm riding shotgun, with Rant covering the backseat. The field looks pretty thin. With my window rolled down, I'm spitting outside, telling Rant, "Even if you give me rabies, I'm not your butt boy." I spit and say, "Especially if you give me rabies."
Normally, Rant smells like a glass of clean water, but not tonight. Every place he touched me, I smell gasoline. "What's that stink?" I ask him.
And Rant goes, "Dimethylcyclopropanecarboxylic acid." He's turned around, watching our five o'clock, out the rear window. Rant says, "Supposed to kill spiders."
From DRVR Radio Graphic Traffic Reports: This just in from the 213: Further treatment of the driver reveals a lateral compression fracture of his right femur, resulting in lateral fractures of the pelvic rami, disruption of the sacroiliac joints with impaction, and fractures of the acetabulum. For those of you on the North Side, the northbound exit from the 614 to the eastbound Helmsberg Freeway is slow, due to a Student Driver stalled on the right shoulder. For Graphic Traffic, this is Tina Something.
Shot Dunyun: Green's lurking us behind a student driver, trailing, weaving through traffic for a better angle, hoping to split the target onto a side street where a solid tag won't soak up too much attention. Maybe police attention. Green's keeping a van, a taxi, a bus—anything big and bright—between us, so the target won't see our flag flying.
Watching for Sharks, I ask Rant if he's looking for a boyfriend.
And Rant goes, "Nah." He'd screw a German shepherd, Rant says, if it would make his folks love him less. Save them from pain.
"Part of my strategying," Rant goes, his head turning to cover two quadrants, our three to nine o'clock. "The worse my folks think of me," he says, "the less they'll hurt about me being gone."
The bus driving next to us, it brakes, drops back for a stop. We're exposed for the time it takes Green to say, "Gentlemen, brace yourselves," and the Left B-Pillar Lookout in our target is staring back, straight at our flag.
The target dives around the next right turn, down a dark lane of parked cars, and Green throws us past the bus in pursuit. Two student drivers, leaving rubber and smoke.
From DRVR Radio Graphic Traffic Reports: This update just in from the meat wagon, en route with our earlier 213 rollover: We won't know for sure until the autopsy, but it looks like another minor laceration of the proximal jejunum with communication with the peritoneal cavity. Inside word is, just two thousand milliliters of purulent material leaks into your peritoneal cavity and the ambulance driver shuts off those sirens and fancy lights. Somethingelse to keep in mind as you hurry through your commute today.
Shot Dunyun: Our target's cruising slow, too close to parked cars for us to make our tag without costly collateral damage. Putting a dent in a game car is fair, but denting an innocent bystander, you have to fess up. Pay for repairs. Our target banks on this fact and tucks close beside parked cars, staying safe until he can lose us around a quick exit. An alley. Ora cop.
Keeping an eye on my game quadrant, I ask Rant if he's queer or not.
That's the night Green Taylor Simms started calling him Huckleberry Fagg.
And Rant goes, "Truth is, I won't never be a doctor. Don't even ask me to do long division." He goes, "I can't do much to make my folks proud…" And he leans forward, reaching into the front seat to turn up the radio. Tina's yakking. Her taking calls from paramedics and traffic cops and pasting together her rubberneck deal.
"But," Rant goes, "if I get my folks' expectations low, and pester them with the worry they messed me up, then just the simple miracle of me getting a girl in trouble—that will bust them open with joy and relief."
From DRVR Radio Graphic Traffic Reports: One last report from the boys in the meat wagon, regarding the fatality rollover on the 213: The song they died hearing was "My Sharona" by The Knack. And that makes Brian Lambson our newest Death Song winner. Brian, if you're listening, call in the next hour to accept your prize. This has been Tina Something for Graphic Traffic: We Know Why You Rubberneck…
Shot Dunyun: As Rant reaches into the front seat, to fiddle with the radio controls, written on the back of his hand in blue ballpoint pen it says: P295/30 R22…P285/30 R22…425/65 R22.5. Obviously tire sizes. Big tires.
Nodding at the blue numbers, I ask him, "Been car-shopping?"
And Rant goes, "How good do you know Echo?" He sits back.
Good enough, I tell him. Pretty good.
Green Taylor Simms feathers the gas pedal, patient. The target car almost touching-close. Almost brushing the line of parked cars. Our two cars moving first-gear slow. The smell of insecticide. The flavor of rabies.
And Rant goes, "Figured maybe I'd get her a present…"
Echo is off, working, tonight. Doing some bullshit I don't want to explain here. Complicated shit.
Rant goes, "Really truly with her whole entire heart, does Echo hate somebody?"
I go, doesn't Rant mean "love"?
And Rant shrugs and says, "Ain't it the same thing?"
20–Junkyards
From the Field Notes of Green Taylor Simms (Historian): For sheer spectacle, the peak of Party Crash culture had to be Tree Nights. The idea, as always, was to choose a flag that the unaware public could dismiss as ordinary, normal—or, at worst, an accident.
Among the accident type of flags were coffee cups and sack lunches. Crash teams utilized these flags on Ooops Nights: For example, during an Ooops «Coffee» game, participants indicated they were in the game by bolting or gluing a large travel mug to the roof of their vehicle. The actual coffee was optional. In the event of an Ooops "Brown Bag" game, teams glued a brown-bag «lunch» to their roof. To the general public, these flags occurred as silly accidents, and unaware drivers might pull alongside laughing and pointing, attempting to get the driver's attention and help resolve the misplaced item.
The "Baby on Board" events used another type of mishap flag. Understandably, public reaction was somewhat less jolly at the sight of a speeding car weaving through traffic with an infant carrier and baby seemingly forgotten on the roof.
Shot Dunyun (Party Crasher): The auctioneer starts the bidding at fifty dollars, saying, "Do I hear fifty? Who wants to give me an opening bid of fifty dollars for Lot Number One?"
This is Sammy's Towing, so this must be Tuesday night. The Wednesday police impound auction is at Radio Retrieval. How organized is this? On Fridays, we'd be at Patrol Towing to preview the cars. Police crime impounds. Abandoned cars. Cars seized in drug busts or for unpaid parking tickets. Cars towed out of pay lots and never claimed, they all go for chump change to the highest bidder.
To find a car you can drive for a few days, paint and glue shit all over, and ram into another junker car, here's your market. Marked with neon-bright grease pencil, yellow or orange, in the windows of some cars you can read "Brken Tming Blt." Or "Eng Mnts crakd." In one big four-door, still messy with "Just Married" toothpaste and hanging tin cans, Auction Lot 42, written on the windshield it says, "Cam lobs scord."
The car up for bid right now, dented and crumpled, you'll find dried blood and hair still caked on the dashboard.