They stopped for gas at a convenience store on the edge of town. Someone called Tony’s name, and a friend named Garth walked over as he left the store. Tony was pumping gas and Theo couldn’t hear all of their conversation, but he did hear Garth say, “Let’s go cruising. Got some beer and a tank full of gas.”
Garth drove a muscled-up green Mustang with wide wheels and loud mufflers, and he was known to speed around town. He wasn’t a bad kid, in fact he was quite popular and dated one of the cutest girls Woody had ever seen. But there was something about Garth that Woody didn’t like. He had the look of a guy who might break bad at any minute and do something stupid. He was eighteen, a year older than Tony but still too young to buy beer, and the fact that he had some was a bad sign. Tony finished pumping and parked the truck beside the store.
“You going with us?” he asked Woody.
“What am I supposed to do? Walk home?”
“Let’s go. We’ll just cruise around for a while and get home before Mom.”
The smart voice in Woody’s head said no. Do not get in the car with Garth and Tony and cruise around the college while drinking beer. Nothing good could happen. And the not-so-smart voice said, Oh, go ahead. It’s harmless fun. How many thirteen-year-olds get to hang out with the older guys?
“Are you coming with us?” Tony snapped at him, but it was more than a question. It was a challenge. What Tony was really asking was: Are you gonna chicken out and go home and wait for Mommy?
Woody didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. “I’m coming,” he said, and shrugged as if he could run with the big dudes any night of the week. He crawled into the back seat of the Mustang as Garth gunned the engine. The car roared and fishtailed out of the parking lot.
“Gimme a beer,” Garth said over his shoulder as he darted through traffic. Woody saw a six-pack of cans on the seat next to him. He pulled off two and handed them to Tony, who said, “You can have one.”
It was another challenge. Garth was watching in the rearview mirror and asked, “How old are you, Woody?”
“Thirteen.”
“Ever had a beer?”
“Sure.”
“We’ve had a few together,” Tony said. “Sneak them from the fridge when no one’s home.”
There was one massive, gigantic problem in the car with them. Woody could feel it, almost touch it as if it were seated next to him, and he came very close to simply blurting it out just to clear his conscience. Tony was on probation. Four months earlier he had been arrested for possession of pot, which was bad enough, but he had also been charged with intent to sell. He got an incredibly lucky break when the two narcotics officers who nailed him collapsed. One was fired for stealing drugs. The other fled town and had not been seen. The evidence disappeared along with the policemen, and for a few weeks Tony was the luckiest kid in Strattenburg. He agreed to plead guilty to a lesser charge of underage possession and got off light with six months’ probation. He spent only one night in jail and considered the entire episode a joke. It did not faze him, and he continued slipping through the cracks at school.
If he got caught with beer, it would be a violation of his probation and he would likely spend a few nights in the slammer. But Tony wasn’t worried about anything these days. He was seventeen, going to school when he pleased and enjoying the life of a future high school dropout.
“I had my first beer when I was ten years old,” Garth said proudly. “My crazy uncle gave it to me. He’s in prison, you know? Go ahead, Woody, help yourself.”
The truth was, Woody had tasted beer a few times, always in an effort to be cool in front of Tony, but he couldn’t stand the taste of it. After years of watching beer commercials in which young and beautiful and athletic people lived the good life with a cold beer in hand, he was shocked at how awful it tasted. He had mentioned this to Tony who promised him that with enough practice he would grow to enjoy it.
Garth, still glancing back, said, “Come on, kid, pop a top.”
Woody pulled off a beer, popped it, took a sip, and tried to look as if he really enjoyed it, but wanted to spit it out. He managed to choke it down without a frown, then gritted his teeth and took another swallow. Then another. The taste did not improve.
“I think he likes it,” Garth said between gulps.
If you only knew, Woody said to himself. Tony and Garth enjoyed their drinks far more than Woody and within minutes were tossing back their empties and demanding more. Woody handed them their seconds and took another sip. He began to get light-headed and this helped with the bad taste. He finally finished his first can and popped the top to his second.
“Attaboy,” Garth said without turning around. They turned into a parking lot around a large mall and circled it until they approached a Cineplex.
“There’s his car,” Tony said, as if he really didn’t want to meet whoever owned the car. It was parked with several others, all jacked-up muscle cars, all with tough guys leaning on the fenders and smoking cigarettes. Garth parked close by and turned off his ignition. “Let’s get it over with.”
“Stay here,” Tony said to Woody as he got out.
No problem, Woody thought. He watched Garth and Tony approach the other guys, say hello, shake hands in a variety of ways, and light up their own cigarettes. Nobody was holding a beer or a drink. A police car eased by not far away. The boys waved. The cops waved back. Everybody was behaving.
Woody kept low in the back seat, barely peeking through the window. The boys laughed and bantered back and forth, then the conversation grew serious. Both Garth and Tony reached into their pockets, took out money, and handed it over to a bearded guy who looked a few years older. He gave them nothing in return. Woody doubted that neither his brother nor Garth would be stupid enough to buy pot in such an open area that was patrolled by the police. There were probably cameras everywhere. Still, the transaction, whatever it was, had the look of something shady.
When they returned to the car, Woody asked, “Who was that guy with the beard?”
Garth started the car and began to ease away. Tony said nothing. Woody asked again, “Who was that guy with the beard?”
Tony said, “An old friend.” But it was obvious the guy was not an old friend, and Tony just wanted his little brother to shut up. No one spoke for a few minutes as Garth drove along Main Street, going nowhere in particular. Finally, he said, “I need some more beer.”
The six-pack was gone. Each had consumed two cans.
“I’m broke. You got any cash left?” Garth asked Tony.
“No. Gave it all to him.”
“What?” Woody asked. “How can you be broke? You had over twenty bucks a while ago.”
Tony turned around and glared at his little brother. “That guy back there is a friend of ours. He’s a bookie at the college, handles bets on football games. We owed him some money. No big deal. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. How about loaning me that five bucks I just gave you?”
“I don’t think so.” Woody wanted to say something about the gambling, which, of course, was also against the law and would be another violation of Tony’s probation.
“Forget it,” Garth said. “We’re not taking money from a kid.”
He braked hard and pulled into a shopping center. All the stores were closed but a well-lit ATM machine was waiting. Garth parked, left the engine running, walked to the machine, looked around nervously as if robbing a bank, and began punching numbers. He punched and punched without success. He stomped away, returned to the car, said, “I guess my mom’s frozen my account again. I really want a beer.”
They sped away with the Mustang burning rubber.