The winter of Frankie Machine

61

They say your life flashes in front of you?

Sort of-Frank hears a song.

The Surfaris doing “Wipeout.”

“Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-a…wipeout!”

That insane, sarcastic laugh, then the famous drum solo, then the guitar riff, followed by the drum again.

He hears it all the way down.

Wipeout.

Actually, surfers have about a gazillion expressions for going over the edge of a big wave:

Wipeout, certainly.

Off the lip.

Over the falls.

In the washing machine.

Frank’s been there before.

Tumbling over and over and over, wondering if it’s ever going to stop, if you’re ever going to come to the surface, if you can hold your breath long enough to see the sweet sky again.

Only that waswater -this is earth. And trees, and rocks, and brush, and the horrible sounds of metal being crushed against all of the above-then the sound of a gunshot, which at first Frank thinks is the coup de grace, but is the gunpowder of the air bag going off. The bag smacks him in the face, then along the sides, and the world is this tumbling pillow, this unfun ride as the car plunges down the side of the canyon, scraping against everything in its way.

It’s the scraping that saves his life.

The car scrapes against a tree limb, which slows it down, then against the side of a boulder, then tilts over the edge of a narrow ravine, slides over, and finally comes to a stop against an old post oak.

The guitar riff fades out.

Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-a…

Wipeout.