On Wednesdays of junior year, I caught a ride to high school with a scrappy teen from my neighborhood named Chuck. We had been classmates since first grade, though never actual friends, but I could use the lift, and he could use the five bucks to fuel his rustbucket Chevy Impala, which barely seemed reliable enough to make it across town.
Not the actual car, alas. Possibly better than the actual car.
Once, on Highway 41, a guy in a Cadillac tailgaited us for a few miles then followed us into a left turn lane, stopping inches from our back bumper. Chuck shut off the engine, waited until the left turn arrow changed to green, then got out — achingly slowly — and opened the Impala’s hood.
The guy behind us was trapped by heavy passing traffic and couldn’t pull out to get by. I stayed in the car, staring straight ahead and listening to Dark Side of the Moon. Chuck kept up the car-trouble pantomime for three complete cycles of the light. Finally, he closed the hood, started the car and continued to school. All of this without a word.
A few Wednesday mornings later I stood by my front door, waiting. Pickup time came and went with no sign of Chuck. After I had missed homeroom, still waiting, I called his house. Chuck’s mother asked, was I crazy? He took his books and left to get you an hour ago.
When I finally got to school there was no sign of him, and in fact I never saw or spoke to him again. Months later I heard he had driven the Impala to Arizona to live with his equally scrappy brother, and that his mom never stopped believing I had somehow been involved in the plot.
I picture him throwing textbooks out the window as he crosses the plains, lightening his load and hoping to reach the next gas station.