Mister X

45

Holifield, Ohio, 1996

Summer and Saturday night at Holi-Burger. It was the place to cruise. The restaurant itself was a glass and brick box of a building, mostly glass, brightly lighted inside. It was as if it had been set up as a display case to show the workers in their yellow T-shirts buzzing about like bees behind the counter, and the two lines of customers waiting patiently to pick up or place their orders.

The restaurant was set in the center of a large blacktop lot. Parking spaces were marked with yellow lines along the lot's perimeter, leaving room to drive in a circle about the building without going out onto the county roads or the street of small commercial buildings that bordered the north side of the lot. Always there was a trickle of show-off vehicle traffic at Holi-Burger, but especially on Friday and Saturday nights.

Holi-Burger was neither a drive-in nor a drive-through. Though there were a few tables inside, most of the food served there was carryout, and people usually ate it sitting in their parked cars. Those who wanted to watch the cruisers would back their cars into parking spots.

The vehicles that were actually owned by teenagers were usually customized. Cars were chopped to create lower roof-lines or raked forward on jacked-up suspensions. Pickup trucks sported oversized knobby tires that looked as if they belonged on a tractor. The family cars borrowed for the night were generally less interesting, the newer ones looking as if they'd just been driven home from the dealers.

Jerry Grantland sat parked in his mother's eight-year-old green Chevy Impala, definitely not cruiser material. It was scraped and dented along one side from when it had been sideswiped two years ago. Jerry's mother, Miriam, had chosen to keep the insurance payment and leave the car unrepaired. It ran just as well with its exterior damage, and she needed the money.

Idly chewing on a cheeseburger and sipping a large fountain Coke from a soggy waxed cup, Jerry watched the slow and proud parade of vehicles. As a vintage red Mustang went past, its driver, a fat kid with a military buzz cut, glanced over and gave Jerry the finger. The gesture of disdain was for no reason Jerry could figure out. Most of the other drivers stared straight ahead, imperious in their art projects on wheels.

A jacked-up Ford pickup cruised past, deep maroon and gleaming in the sodium lights rimming Holi-Burger's lot. Adam Clement was behind the steering wheel. He was a year older than Jerry, tall and painfully skinny, with scruffy blond hair and thick glasses with oversized frames.

Jerry paused in his chewing and sat forward. Someone was in the truck's high cab with Adam. As it rolled past, Jerry caught a glimpse of the passenger. A girl. He could tell that much by her size and hair. And she looked like Chrissie Keller.

Chrissie had been hanging out with Adam and his group lately, so maybe the two of them were going together.

Jerry didn't see what Chrissie saw in an awkward beanpole like Adam. And it wasn't as if he was a genius. Adam was always getting special help, and he spent more than his share of time in detention. So what was the appeal? Jerry didn't think it was Adam's truck that Chrissie liked. But then with girls, women, who could tell?

Jerry waited patiently for the maroon truck to come around again. The Chevy's windows were down, and he could hear revving engines, voices, a cacophony of music from radios. Someone had the Indians' ballgame on the radio, the announcer's voice somehow finding its way through the muted riot of sound. A huge summer moth lit on Jerry's left elbow. He flicked it away and drew in the arm he'd had propped out the window.

He got a better look at the maroon truck this time around and was pretty sure Chrissie was in there with Adam.

In fact, absolutely sure.

But he was wrong, and he found out immediately.

A gray Voyager minivan bounced over the concrete lip of the driveway and rolled to an open parking space about fifty feet from Jerry's. Chrissie got out, waited for a break in cruise traffic, and strode quickly and purposefully toward the restaurant. She was wearing a white tank top, cut-off jeans, and what looked like floppy rubber thongs, the kind with the little strip of rubber that went between the toes. Her brown hair bounced as she walked. The way the jeans were cut so short, it made her tanned legs look incredibly long.

Jerry was one of the few people who could tell the twins apart within seconds rather than minutes. He'd spent plenty of time observing-studying-them. Chrissie walked gracefully but with a slight forward lean and her elbows tucked in farther than Tiffany's.

Jerry had been so sure, even though he hadn't gotten a clear look. But he had no doubt now that it was Tiffany in the truck with Adam.

He watched Chrissie enter the restaurant and join the line at the counter where orders were placed.

Jerry took a deep breath, climbed out of the Chevy, and jogged across the lot toward the restaurant.

He was able to be next in line, right behind Chrissie, standing so close he could smell her perfume or shampoo. Better than that was the faint heat and scent of her perspiration.

She pretended she hadn't seen him, but when it was impossible to ignore him any longer she glanced at him, nodded, and turned away again.

He didn't know what to say, so said simply, "Chrissie."

She turned back to look at him. "Hi, Jerry."

His throat was tight, and he had nothing to say. "Got the minivan, I see," was all that squeaked out.

She didn't bother answering his inane question.

"There's a, uh, dance next Saturday," Jerry managed to say.

Golden legs moved at the bottom of his vision as she shifted her body to look at him. "No, Jerry."

"Why not?" he asked. "Really, why not?"

"Why not what?"

"Why won't you go out with me?"

"I don't want to."

"But-"

"Drop it, Jerry."

"I mean, really?"

Jerry's face was warm. God! What a conversation! His throat always constricted and made it difficult to talk to Chrissie.

"You two wanna order?" the middle-aged guy behind the counter asked. He had a puffy face and obviously dyed black hair combed forward in bangs to conceal a receding hairline.

"We're not together," Chrissie said.

She ordered a double hamburger, fries, and a diet Coke, then laid out the bills and exact change on the stainless-steel counter.

"You're number one-ten," the counterman said. He scooped the money from the counter and placed it where it belonged in the cash register.

Chrissie got her receipt and moved well to the side. Jerry followed. They were near a window and far enough away from the order line and tables that they wouldn't be overheard if they kept their voices low.

"I mean, really," Jerry said again.

"We both know you're a sicko, Jerry. A voyeur. That's somebody who watches people while they do it."

A hot coal of embarrassment began to burn in his stomach.

He felt like turning and walking away, but he didn't.

He glared at Chrissie. "You watch what happens to Tiffany and don't do anything to stop it. Then you get your bare ass whipped and like it, and you call me a sicko?"

Oh, he could talk to her now. His anger made it possible.

And it felt good.

Chrissie looked astounded. "Like it? You actually think I like it? And you obviously like to watch it. That just shows what a sicko you are."

"But you know I'm watching."

"What's that supposed to mean? We always leave the window raised a little so there's air circulation. It'd look funny if we closed it all the way."

"Chrissie-"

"One ten!" proclaimed a voice behind the counter.

Chrissie moved away from Jerry, picked up a white paper sack and plastic-lidded cup from the counter, and stalked from the restaurant.

Jerry stood fuming. The guy behind the counter grinned at him and shrugged, as if to say, "Women."

Jerry burst from the restaurant.

Women!

Women! Women!

By the time he reached his mother's car, Chrissie was already driving the gray minivan from the lot. Its tires squealed as she made a right turn on the county road.

Jerry stood and watched the boxy vehicle speed away.

Fine! Does she think I might follow her?

He lowered himself into the Chevy and started the engine. As he looked up he saw the maroon pickup truck cruise past again. The girl in the cab with Adam was plainly visible this time, and didn't look anything like either Tiffany or Chrissie.

Jerry wondered if he'd been expecting to see one of the twins in the truck with Adam, expecting it to be Chrissie. Was his mind playing tricks? Was he nuts? A sicko, like Chrissie said?

The glowing coal in his gut burst into flame. He almost bent the ignition key starting the car's engine. Women! He slammed the shift lever into drive and floored the accelerator, burning rubber as the big car squealed from its parking space. Jerry barely missed hitting a blue and cream Chrysler, gleaming like an Easter egg. Horns blared at him as he turned left on the street bordering the parking lot.

He ran a stop sign, his foot still mashing down on the accelerator. Wind swirled in the car, ruffling his hair and cooling his perspiring face, promising freedom. Speed was an intoxicant. If he could drive fast enough, far enough, he might outrun his troubles.

A lineup of low buildings, then Munger's Hardware and the gas station, flashed past, and he was out of the business area.

The road leveled out before his headlight beams, inviting speed. Jerry accepted the invitation, feeling the car sway as he steered it through a series of gentle curves.

There was a jolt as the right front wheel jumped the pavement and sank into the soft shoulder, causing the steering wheel to spin and almost break Jerry's thumb. He tried to stamp on the brake pedal, but he was bouncing around so much in his seat that he missed it and the car picked up speed.

The right fender scraped a tree with a harsh metallic sound, slowing the car not at all. Jerry's foot found the brake pedal, and he mashed down on it so hard that he pushed himself back into the upholstery. There was a series of hard jolts, and a tire must have gone flat. Jerry could hear rubber beating and flapping around like crazy in the wheel well. The car fishtailed and nosed down sharply as it lost speed. The steering wheel was like a trapped thing trying to slip from his grasp, fighting him as he tried to control it.

Then it stopped fighting.

Everything stopped.

Remained still.

The car's right front was lodged in the ditch running parallel to the street. The engine was dead. Jerry could hear crickets ratcheting nearby.

He got the door open even though it stuck for a few seconds and made a loud metallic ponk! Pushing hard on the door, he climbed out into the suddenly motionless world. His thoughts were still speeding, still a jumble. He stood dizzily and was afraid he might fall, so he extended his left arm and his hand found the car's smooth metal roof. He leaned on it, not hard, just enough to steady himself.

Jerry looked back and saw that the tree he'd thought he scraped was actually a metal mailbox on a wooden post. Post and mailbox lay on the grass.

Someone's lawn…

It was beginning to sink in to Jerry that he was in real trouble.

The porch light came on at the nearest house. A dog, off in the distance, began a high, insistent barking.

A man with a flashlight came out of the house with the porch light and walked toward Jerry.

In the opposite direction, down the street, a car rounded the corner and came toward the accident scene. Red and blue lights on its roof began to flash.

Jerry felt his heart rise to his throat and expand.

The man with the flashlight was close now. He walked gingerly, as if his feet hurt, and was wearing wrinkled pants, a baby blue pajama top buttoned crookedly, and blue corduroy slippers. He was old and had a gray buzz cut.

He looked at Jerry and didn't seem mad. In fact, he seemed to sympathize with Jerry.

"You got somebody you can call?" he asked.

"I guess my mother."

"A boy's best friend," the man said.

"Goddamn you, Jerry!"

The leather belt cut through the air and bit into his bare buttocks. His mother grunted like an animal with the effort of swinging her arm. She was so furious she was almost sobbing.

"Goddamn you! You know I need that car for work! Goddamn you!"

The belt whirred through the air again and raised a welt on the back of his right thigh. He looked back and saw tears tracking down his mother's face. "What did you think you were doing? Goddamn you!" Another half grunt, half sob. He could smell the gin sweet on her breath.

He heard the swish of the belt again.

Jerry gritted his teeth and endured the pain. He tried to move away from it inside his mind, letting it happen to someone else. He wished he could be a different Jerry standing way off to the side and observing. It wasn't that his mother didn't love him. She was angry and had every right to be, and she'd been drinking.

This was his fault. Whatever punishment he got, he deserved.

He'd read someplace how somebody who'd been in a POW camp had learned to survive the beatings administered by his captors by being able to accept the pain. Almost to welcome it. Then to like it.

"Goddamn you, Jerry!"