The Boys from Santa Cruz

5

I suppose if I bothered to put myself in Teddy’s place now, I could work up some sorry. Back then, I was too busy putting out the fire to be anything but glad she’d killed herself instead of me. My eyebrows were singed and my face was starting to sting, so first I hosed myself off and then I dragged the hose out from behind the trailer as far as it would reach. I was still about fifteen yards short, but by aiming high I was able to arc a stream of water down onto the trunk.

And onto Teddy, of course, who was still on her knees, but jackknifed over the trunk with her head and arms inside and her big ass sticking out. The fire hissed and steamed and bubbled, the smoke billowed out black, then white. I put the hose down and went over to take a closer look. Lucky for me I’m not squeamish, because not only was the smell completely toe-curling, but all that melted plastic and celluloid in the bottom of the trunk was hardening as it cooled. If they wanted to bury Teddy they were going to have to either cut off her head, or dig a T-shaped hole and bury the trunk with her.

So now I’m soaking wet, slightly singed, and newly orphaned. I suppose I must have been in shock, too, because despite Big Luke’s warning, I still didn’t haul ass. Instead I hiked back up to my bus, toweled off, smeared Neosporin on some minor burns, took a couple aspirin, pulled on a pair of cutoffs and a T-shirt with WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LOOKING AT? hand-stenciled on the back, and rolled a fatty. Then I put a Bob Marley record on the turntable, switched on the outside speakers, cranked up the volume, then climbed up onto the roof of the bus and sat down on my lawn chair to get stoned and think things over.

I didn’t get much thinking done, though. When I saw the turkey vulture circling low in the sky over my dad’s trailer, I could feel the anger boiling up inside me. Big Luke hated vultures. Sometimes he’d take me up into the hills and we’d use them for target practice. So I scrambled down the ladder, grabbed my thirty-ought-six and a box of shells, and crept down the path, barefooted and quiet as an Indian, with Bob Marley covering what little noise I did make.

As it turned out, I could have driven down there in a tank and the vulture perched on the edge of the trunk probably wouldn’t have noticed. Hissing and grunting, its bald red head stabbing up and down, it tore off chunk after chunk of Teddy’s ass with its curved ivory beak, leaving deep red gouges in the charred flesh.

I took cover behind the shed, then leaned out, took careful aim, and knocked the nasty old scavenger off the trunk with a single shot. Reloaded. Waited. Ten minutes, fifteen minutes…and here came another one. Gliding effortlessly, silhouetted black against the sky, it was an easy target. I led it a few inches, dropped it out of the sky. Reloaded. Waited. Half an hour later, a third vulture came soaring in from the north, but something, maybe the corpses of its buddies, alerted it, and it drifted away without ever coming into range.

And now I was alone again, except for what was left of Teddy, and I was feeling so empty I almost missed the vultures. But then I had to laugh. Because in the distance, up the hill, I could hear Bob Marley singing about how he was gonna chase dem dirty baldheads out of de town.

My next move was to drag a tarp out of the shed, drape it over Teddy and the trunk, then weigh the edges down with stones, not so much because I gave a shit about Teddy’s corpse, but because I just didn’t want to give the vultures the satisfaction. Then I searched the trailer. I didn’t find what Big Luke and Teddy called the inventory, but their personal stash was impressive. Close to two thousand bucks in cash, a couple ounces of weed, and a few grams of ice. (If you don’t know what ice is, that’s crank in a smokable form. If you don’t know what crank is, that’s meth. If you don’t know what meth is, consider yourself lucky.) I also found a bottle of Percodan in the medicine cabinet, along with all Teddy’s hormones and whatever. Swantzer, Theodora: take one every six to eight hours as needed for pain.

I took the cash, the weed, and the pain pills, but left everything else. And now I had a hard decision to make. In the words of the Clash song, should I stay or should I go? I hadn’t done anything wrong, but when you’re fifteen, that doesn’t matter. If I stayed, there’s no way the cops would have just taken my statement and cut me loose. Instead they’d probably have put me in Juvie while they got things sorted out, then shipped me down to Santa Cruz in custody of my grandparents, Fred and Evelyn, who’d tell me what to eat, when to sleep, what to wear, and how to cut my hair.

Either that, or they’d ship me off to some kind of foster care, probably a group home, where they would also tell me what to eat, when to sleep, what to wear, and how to cut my hair. Either place they’d make me go to school until I was eighteen.

Of course, I could always just run away, but then I’d be homeless. Homeless with enough money and dope to make me the king of the runaways for a while, true, but then what?

In the end, I decided to give Fred and Evelyn one more chance to do right by me, but on three conditions. One, I would get down there on my own, rather than waiting around for the cops to arrive and possibly spending several nights in Juvie while they got the custody issues straightened out. Two, I would arrive with cash and stash sufficient to see myself through the next few months. Three, I would not call first. If my grandparents didn’t want me, I decided, let them tell me to my face.