Driving a dump truck turns out to be a hell of a lot different than driving my car. First, you fill up the wholefreaking road. Second, it handles like a tank, or at least like what I suppose a tank would handle like if youdidn’t have to join an army full of uptight2, power-crazy assholes to drive one. Third—and least palatable—people see you coming. When I roll up to the underpass where Duracell Dan makes his cardboard home, hecowers behind his line of thirty-three-gallon drums. “Hey,” I say, swinging out of the cab of the truck. “It’sjust me.”
It still takes Dan a minute to peek3 between his hands, make sure I’m telling him the truth. “Like my rig?” Iask.
He gets up gingerly and touches the streaked4 side of the truck. Then he laughs. “Your Jeep been takingsteroids, boy.”
I load up the rear of the cab with the materials I need. How cool would it be if I just backed the truck up to awindow, dumped in several bottles of my Arsonist’s Special, and drove away with the place bursting intoflames? Dan stands by the driver’s-side door. Wash Me, he writes across the grit5.
“Hey,” I say, and for no reason except the fact that I’ve never done it before, I ask him if he wants to come.
“For real?”
“Yeah. But there’s a rule. Whatever you see and whatever we do, you can’t tell anyone about it.”
He pretends to lock up his lips and toss the key. Five minutes later, we’re on our way to an old shed that usedto be a boathouse for one of the colleges. Dan fiddles6 with the controls, raising and lowering the truck bedwhile we’re tooling along. I tell myself that I’ve invited him along to add to the thrill—one more person whoknows only makes it more exciting. But it’s really because there are some nights when you just want to knowthere’s someone else besides you in this wide world.
When I was eleven years old I got a skateboard. I never asked for one; it was a guilt7 gift. Over the years I gotquite a few of these big ticket items, usually in conjunction with one of Kate’s episodes. My parents wouldshower her with all kinds of cool shit whenever she had to have something done to her; and since Anna wasusually involved, she got some amazing presents, too, and then a week later my parents would feel bad aboutthe inequality and would buy me some toy to make sure I didn’t feel left out.
Anyway, I cannot even begin to tell you how amazing that skateboard was. It had a skull8 on the bottom thatglowed in the dark, and from the teeth dripped green blood. The wheels were neon yellow and the grittysurface, when you stepped on it in your sneakers, made the sound of a rock star clearing his throat. Iskimmed it up and down the driveway, around the sidewalks, learning how to pop wheelies and kickflips andollies. There was only one rule: I wasn’t supposed to take it into the street, because cars could come around atany minute; kids could get hit in an instant.
Well, I don’t need to tell you that eleven-year-old budding derelicts and house rules are like oil and water. Bythe end of my first week with this board I thought I’d rather slide down a razor blade into alcohol than toolup and down the sidewalk yet one more time with all the toddlers on their Big Wheels.
I begged my father to take me to the Kmart parking lot, or the school basketball court, or anywhere, really,where I could play around a little. He promised me that on Friday, after Kate had a routine bone marrowaspiration, we could all go out to the school. I could bring my skateboard, Anna could bring her bike, and ifKate felt up to it, she could Rollerblade.
God, was I looking forward to that. I greased the wheels and polished up the bottom of the skateboard andpracticed a double helix on the driveway ramp9 I’d made of old scrap10 plywood and a fat log. The minute I sawthe car—my mom and Kate returning from the hematologist—I ran out to the porch so we wouldn’t wasteany time.
My mother, it turned out, was in a huge hurry, too. Because the door to the van slid open and there was Kate,covered with blood. “Get your father,” my mother ordered, holding a wad of tissues up to Kate’s face.
It wasn’t like she hadn’t had nosebleeds before. And my mom was always telling me, when it freaked me out,that the bleeding looked way worse than it actually was. But I got my father, and the two of them hustledKate into the bathroom and tried to keep her from crying, because it only made everything harder.
“Dad,” I said. “When are we going?”
But he was busy wadding up toilet paper, bunching it up under Kate’s nose.
“Dad?” I repeated.
My father looked right at me, but he didn’t answer. And his eyes were dazed and staring through me, like Iwas made out of smoke.
That was the first time I thought that maybe I was.
spaceThe thing about flame is that it’s insidious—it sneaks11, it licks, it looks over its shoulder and laughs. And fuck,it’s beautiful. Like a sunset eating everything in its path. For the first time, I have someone to admire myhandiwork. Beside me, Dan makes a small sound at the back of his throat—respect, no doubt. But when Ilook at him, proud, I see that he’s got his head ducked into the greasy12 collar of his army-surplus coat. He’sgot tears running down his face.
“Dan, man, what’s going on?” Granted, the guy is nuts, but still. I put my hand on his shoulder and you’dthink, from his reaction, that a scorpion13 just landed there. “You scared of the fire, Danny? You don’t have tobe. We’re far enough away. We’re safe.” I give him what I hope is an encouraging smile. What if he freaksout and starts screaming, calls down some wandering cop?
“That shed,” Dan says.
“Yeah. No one’s gonna miss it.”
“That’s where the rat lives.”
“Not anymore,” I answer.
“But the rat…”
“Animals make their own way out of a fire. I’m telling you. The rat will be totally cool. Chill.”
“But what about the newspapers? He has one with President Kennedy’s assassination…”
It occurs to me that the rat is most likely not a rodent14, but another homeless guy. One using this shed as ashelter. “Dan, are you saying someone lives in there?”
He looks at the crowning flames and his eyes fill. Then he repeats my own words. “Not anymore,” he says.
Like I said, I was eleven, so even to this day I can’t tell you how I made my way from our house in UpperDarby to the middle of downtown Providence15. I suppose it took me a few hours; I suppose I believed thatwith my new superhero’s cloak of invisibility, maybe I could just disappear and reappear somewhere elseentirely.
I tested myself. I walked through the business district, and sure enough, people passed right by me, their eyeson the cracks of the pavement or staring straight ahead like corporate16 zombies. I walked by a long wall ofmirrored glass on the side of a building, where I could see myself. But no matter how many faces I made, nomatter how long I stood there, none of the people funneling17 around me had anything to say.
I wound up that day at the middle of an intersection18, smack19 under the traffic light, with taxis honking20 and acar swerving21 off to the left and a pair of cops running to keep me from getting killed. At the police station,when my dad came to get me, he asked what the hell I’d been thinking.
I hadn’t been thinking, actually. I was just trying to get to a place where I’d be noticed.
First I take off my shirt and dunk it into a puddle22 on the side of the road; then wrap it around my head andface. The smoke is already billowing, angry black clouds. In the hollow of my ear is the sound of sirens. ButI have made a promise to Dan.
What hits me first is the heat, a wall that’s way more solid than it looks. The frame of the shed stands out, anorange X ray. Inside, I can’t see a foot in front of me.
“Rat,” I yell out, already regretting the smoke that leaves me raw-throated and hoarse23. “Rat!”
No answer. But the shed isn’t all that big. I get down on my hands and knees and begin to feel my wayaround.
I only have one really bad moment, when I put my hand down by accident on something that was made ofmetal before it became a searing brand. My skin sticks to it, blisters24 immediately. By the time I fall over abooted foot I’m sobbing25, sure I will never get out. I feel my way up Rat, haul his limp body over myshoulder, stagger back the way I came.
Through some little joke of God, we make it outside. By now, the engines are pulling up, charging their lines.
Maybe my father is even here. I stay under the screen of smoke; I dump Rat on the ground. With my heartracing, I run in the other direction; leaving the rest of this rescue to people who actually want to be heroes.
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1
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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uptight
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| adj.焦虑不安的，紧张的 | |
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peek
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| vi.偷看，窥视；n.偷偷的一看，一瞥 | |
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streaked
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| adj.有条斑纹的，不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 )；使布满条纹 | |
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grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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fiddles
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| n.小提琴( fiddle的名词复数 )；欺诈；（需要运用手指功夫的）细巧活动；当第二把手v.伪造( fiddle的第三人称单数 )；篡改；骗取；修理或稍作改动 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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ramp
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| n.暴怒，斜坡，坡道；vi.作恐吓姿势，暴怒，加速；vt.加速 | |
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10
scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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sneaks
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| abbr.sneakers (tennis shoes) 胶底运动鞋（网球鞋）v.潜行( sneak的第三人称单数 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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scorpion
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| n.蝎子，心黑的人，蝎子鞭 | |
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rodent
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| n.啮齿动物；adj.啮齿目的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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corporate
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| adj.共同的，全体的；公司的，企业的 | |
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funneling
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| [医]成漏斗形：描述膀胱底及膀胱尿道交接区 | |
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intersection
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| n.交集，十字路口，交叉点；[计算机] 交集 | |
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smack
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| vt.拍，打，掴；咂嘴；vi.含有…意味；n.拍 | |
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honking
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| v.（使）发出雁叫似的声音，鸣（喇叭），按（喇叭）( honk的现在分词 ) | |
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swerving
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| v.（使）改变方向，改变目的( swerve的现在分词 ) | |
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puddle
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| n.(雨)水坑，泥潭 | |
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hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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24
blisters
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| n.水疱( blister的名词复数 )；水肿；气泡 | |
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sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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