"Renegade"- Chapter 1
Chapter 1: Texaco
Led Zeppelin blares from the old, shitty speakers of my 1973 Toyota Hilux RN20. The song playing, “Stairway to Heaven”, has always been a favorite of mine. I always feel like I’m in a loop where time is irrelevant and my spirit is floating loosely in the wind, away from my body and my toxic mind. It roughly runs for about ten minutes, but those ten minutes, to me, almost feel like ten years. Like lost time.
I feel like I’ve travelled this road before. It’s likely, since I just exited off a highway me and my truck, Rita, have driven across many, many times. I named the truck Rita when I first got her when I was seventeen. The name holds no significance; I just think Rita sounds like the name of a lady with experience. And Rita’s had much experience since my granddad first bought her in 1973. However, one of the best stories about Rita took place On August 6th 1978. My mother and father were driving to the hospital. Why? Well, I decided to show up a month ahead of my due date. Rita broke down in the middle of one of the country roads leading to the highway. My father, according to my mother, threw a fit, kicking and cursing at Rita’s doors. And then my mother dropped a bombshell: she had quietly been in labor for quite some time, and it was only when she felt the urge to push that she told my father to drive to the hospital.
How’d he handle it? By making use of Rita.
He put my mother in the bed of the truck and helped deliver me there. I wailed on the side of the road as my mother held me in her raincoat as it started to pour rain. My father ran like a madman down the road, flagging down anyone he could to jump Rita. Instead of shouting “help!”, according to my mother, he shouted “it’s a boy!”. Eventually, someone stopped and helped my father jump the truck. He drove my mother and little newborn me to the hospital.
They named me…well, I don’t care what they named me. I don’t go by that name anymore.
Just call me Renny.
…
It’s August 2nd 2013, and I’m tired.
My eyes are tired from watching this damn road. My ass is tired from sitting in this damn seat. My fingers are tired from gripping this damn steering wheel. My complaints turn into prayers. Please let me find a job in this area. Please let me do anything so I can stop driving for a little while. I’m what you’d call a drifter. Basically, I live in my truck, do a little minimum wage work somewhere for a few months, collect my paychecks, and then I head off to the next location. Sometimes I’ll get lucky and get a music gig, but that’s rare. Speaking of rare, I’m really in the mood for some prime rib. Maybe I’ll-
And my truck stops.
Rita goes from sixty to zero in a few seconds. My sternum rams into her steering wheel, knocking the wind out of me. Gasping, I fumble for my seatbelt. I want to get out and find out why she died. Then, my eyes catch the fuel gage, which is broken, but the post-it note next to it tells me how many miles I have until she’s empty. I forgot to check it after I woke up this morning. I’d driven until three AM because my pulse, for some unknown reason, beat against my neck like a drum. The surge of energy cost me a few hours of a sleep, and has now put me in a shitty situation. Well, it could be worse. This could’ve happened on the main highway, and Rita and I would’ve been road kill because of a semi-truck by now. I see a blue sign ahead that designates a Texaco station is exactly one mile away. Pushing this truck one mile with no help? Let me die now.
I wait around for a minute or two before I get fed up.
“Screw this,” I huff, lightly kicking the dirty white door of the truck as I walk by her. I walk to the driver’s side, put her in neutral, and begin to push. The weather, at least a hundred degrees if not more, is enough to keep children inside and men taking shortcuts doing their yard work. I have to push a truck a whole mile by myself. I guess this is what I get for not listening. I can already hear my mother’s voice. She’d call me my real name, which I hate, and say, “Pay attention to the world around you. It is always changing. If you don’t notice change, you’re in danger.” Danger of what? I don’t even know. I ignore the voice. I can only handle one bitter noise a day, and today it’s going to be my painful sighs and moans as I sweat to death to push Rita to the Texaco station.
…
I make it, barely.
I push Rita into the empty station, begging and praying that it’s not closed or shut down. I’ve already had one of my prayers twisted today. Please let me do anything so I can stop driving for a little while. Whoever’s in charge of turning prayers into reality has a sick, and literal, sense of humor. And of course it’s the day I decide to wear a black t-shirt, my tightest pair of jeans, and my only pair of work boots with long socks underneath. I roll her next to station number one and pat her hood when I put her into park.
“Sorry I kicked you earlier. I was mad about…well, life.” My fingers, coated with a thin layer of grime after I pat her hood, indicate that she needs a carwash. I only have forty bucks left. Thirty to get gas and the rest for food. I inhale, looking around for any sign that the Texaco station is still running. The old man at the cashier catches my eye as I look around. Thank God. He limps outside and hollers from the door.
“Ya need her filled up?” he asks in a thick Texas drawl.
“Yeah,” I holler back, swinging the keys on my index finger as I walk towards the door. He holds it open for me. “Thanks.” His hand pats my shoulder, pulling it away with a perplexed look.
“Did ya go swimmin’ before ya got here, boy?”
I scoff, pulling out my slightly damp wallet from my back pocket. I genuinely hope it’s not lathered in butt sweat, but I know it is. Luckily, the dollar bills are crisp and dry. “I wish. I just had to push Rita, my truck, here from about a mile west.”
Ya named your truck?” He says, baffled, as he presses a few button on the cash register. I eye the display of candy bars to my right.
I nod my head. “Yup. That piece of junk, which I love and value more than anything, is basically my best friend.”
“You must be a lonely fella then.”
There are two ways I can reply to him: honestly, or happily.
“You have no idea.” I smack the thirty bucks on the counter with a scowl.
He punches more numbers, putting the bills away and hands me a receipt.
…
I walk outside to more bad news. My near-heat-stroke experience caused me to park her on the wrong side of the pump. I whimper, slamming my hands on the hood. When I’m done throwing my temper tantrum I slam my arms onto the hood, bury my head between my elbows, and groan. “Son of a-“
“Need help pushin’ her ‘round?” The old man hobbles beside me as I lift my head up from my arms.
“Nah, just give me a minute.”
“I can get my boys to push her around.” He laughs, leaning up beside the pump. “Boy, you took one look at me and knew I couldn’t push this damn thing by myself.” His voice cracks as he is engulfed deeper and deeper in his laughing fit. He even runs his index finger under his eye to clean up a stray tear.
“Hell, I barely could.” His laughter is contagious, so I chuckle despite the acidic ache in my bones and the overall shittiness of this day thus far.
“That’s alright, son. I’ll go holler at my boys to move her and fill her up for ya. You come inside and rehydrate, ya hear?”
The way he calls me “son” makes me feel like a kid again. It doesn’t make me feel small, like he’s being condescending, but relieved. I haven’t been a son to anyone for eighteen years. Since I’ve moved out I’ve barely said the words “mom” or dad” or “family”, except in songs. But songs are different. When you’re singing, you’re not really you. Some singers are biographical. They sing songs about things they’ve actually seen or felt. I’ve written songs about love and happiness, yet they’re not biographical in the slightest. That being said, it’s arguable that someone can have an opinion and have knowledge on a subject they have no connection to.
I feel myself put the keys back in the ignition and roll the driver window down, but I don’t feel my feet start to move. It’s only when my forehead hits the glass door that I even realize I’ve been walking. The old man cackles behind me.
“Careful,” he warns. Now he’s being condescending. I try sneering, but it manifests into a mix between a smirk and a grin. The old man pulls the stool from behind the counter over to an open area near the hot dog station, pulls a gallon of water from the fridge out, and hands me a Hershey bar.
“That’s to have after your hot dog,” he says in a voice only a father would use.
“Those your sons outside?” I ask as I watch two guys that couldn’t be older than twenty effortlessly push Rita around until she’s sitting at the same pump as before.
“Do I look like a spring chicken to you, boy? Those are my grandsons, Cain and Abel.” My body stifles at the Biblical names, but the old man cackles again. He sure loves to laugh. “Just kiddin’. Spencer and Marty. They work here to help pay for college, or at least that’s what their mother tells them. Marlene, their mother and my daughter, want to instill a good work ethic in them. Plus, it kinda balances it all out. They work at this shitty place, they’ll apply themselves in school so they can get degrees to get less shitty jobs. I’m gonna tell you this, just as I’ve told my children and grandchildren. I’ve chattered their ears off with advice like this, and I’m gonna chatter your ear off too. After all, I’m givin’ ya free water, free food and free air conditioning while your truck gets filled. Least ya can do is humor me a bit. There aren’t perfect people. There are just less shitty people. There aren’t perfect jobs. There are just less shitty jobs. If somethin’ is too good to be true, it probably is…” He trails off and looks over his shoulder to the wall. A cluster of photos are attached with pushpins. I search for the one his eyes are glued to, but there are just too many.
“Except?” I say.
“Love,” he finishes. “Ya love your job, you never work a day in your life. Ya love someone, and they love you back, ya never have to force yourself to say ‘I love you’ a day in your life. It’s a simple motto, kid.”
My brain automatically formulates the old man’s words into song lyrics.
Baby, they say it’s too good to be true
But it isn’t
It’s lovin’ you
And I do
I chug nearly half of the gallon of water in one sitting before I ask, “Why…are you being so nice to me, man?”
“‘Cause, dawg, I figure it this way: I don’t expect you to pay me back, but I do expect you to do a random act of kindness for someone else, and then ask that person to do a random act of kindness for someone else. The chain lengthens until the world has changed for the better. Because of my kindness to you, and your kindness towards someone else, and their kindness towards someone else, and so on, I live in a better world. And the ten bucks it’d cost for that jug of water and some food can’t give me that.”
I nod. “That makes sense.”
He hands me a pain hotdog. “Ketchup? Mustard? Relish?”
“Just relish,” I say.
He hands me a bottle of squeezable relish on his way outside. He walks up towards his grandsons and they have a brief conversation. He quickly hobbles to the door, poking his head in and yells to me, “You mind if they take Rita through the carwash? It’s on the house.”
“Thanks.” I feel myself smile. It didn’t take a genius to see I’ve been having a shitty day, but it takes a few kind strangers to wash all of that away. I hand my keys to Spencer and Marty after our introductions. After I shake their hands I hand the keys to Spencer. Before I let them drive away I account for how much gas was put into her, calculate how many miles I have left until I need to fill her up again, and put the post-it back beside the fuel gage.
“Hey, I never got your name,” I say, wagging my index finger at the old man as Rita drives away towards the carwash, the sound of her engine running sounding like music to my ears.
“Curt,” he replies, crossing his arms. “Full name’s Curtis, but no one calls me that ‘cept my wife. She’s dead now, but ever when she called me Curtis I hated it. But she hated calling me Curt, so I let her call me Curtis.”
“I’m sorry she’s dead,” I say idiotically. I don’t know why I’m apologizing for his wife being dead. It’s not like I murdered her or anything. I hope he ignores my idiotic apology.
And he does from the looks of it. Like a calm volcano, he slowly erupts into laughter again. “You know, I used to have a homemade nametag here that said ‘Curt’. When my wife wrote my name it looked like it said ‘Cunt’.” He pauses to catch his breath, wheezing as he finishes his story, his voice high pitched and his words spaced out with laughter filling between. “And…and every mornin’ she…she’d come in…and say…’morning, Cunt, how are you today?’ I swear…that woman…” he dials down his laugh a little, coming back to only a chuckle every now and again that makes him look like he has hiccups.
I laugh with him. “That’s a funny story,” I say with a grin.
“She was a funny gal.” Suddenly, he switches to a more serious as we enter the store again. I finish my hotdog and Hershey bar and hold the half gallon of water I have left under my arm. “Where ya headed?”
“Don’t know,” I say.
“Ya got a map but no destination? Son, that’s all sorts of backwards.”
“I know.”
“Ya lookin’ for work.”
Oh God. I seriously hope he doesn’t offer me a job here.
“Spence and Marty know this gal, Katie, whose father is lookin’ for another stable hand. Think there’s housing included too. Ya interested? His name is Michael Pank.”
I shrug, nodding. “Definitely. I’m running low on cash.”
“He pays real good. You tell him Curt told ya ‘bout the job, okay? When Spence and Marty come back with Rita I’ll have them tell ya how to get to his place. Ain’t that far from here.” The screech of Rita’s tires attracts our eyes outside. The sun shines brightly on Rita. She’s so shiny and new-looking. My mouth drops.
“Curt, she’s beautiful.”
“Ya really love that car, don’t ya?”
“I do,” I laugh.
“I can see it. She’s got some stories I’m sure.”
“You have no idea.”
I step out to thank Spencer and Marty.
“Thanks, guys. She looks perfect.
“Anytime, man,” Spender says, flashing a crooked smile. He and his brother both look like nice, smart kids.
“Your grandfather was tellin’ me that a guy around here is looking to hire a stable hand? Michael, Pank, I think his name is?”
“Yeah,” Marty nods. “Pank’s Polo Farm.”
“You think he’s pretty enough?”
“Oh yeah. Mr. Pank will love him.” Marty turns to me to fill in the blanks. “Mr. Pank is also looking for a suitor for his daughter. He’s a little old fashion in that way. Just a warning.”
I laugh. “Well…I don’t do too well with fathers, so we’ll see how that works out.
Questions harbor in their young minds, but I see both of them keep them at bay as Spencer changes the subject. “Turn right to get out of here and there’s a road that’s kinda hidden between a patch of trees about five miles away called Bergwerk Lane. It’s kind of a roundabout. Carefully take it to Eden Street, turn left, go down another mile, turn left again onto Pank Drive. You can’t miss it. It’s a big blue barn and it runs for about a hundred acres. Plus the street name is kind of a giveaway.”
My eyebrows raise. “Whoa. They named a street after this dude?”
“After he invented some fancy camera lens that revolutionized the film industry or something. He made a lot of money off of it and bought a polo farm to pursue his dream of being a professional polo player. He’s…kind of successful. A little cocky, but always really nice to his workers. Would’ve taken the job myself, but family loyalties.” Spencer nods his head towards the door as his grandfather hobbles beside him.
“I heard that, you little shit. Did you tell him to go on Bergwerk Lane?”
“Yeah,” Marty says.
“Don’t go that way. Wait until McFly Lane.”
“But that’s an extra ten miles out of the way,” Spencer replies.
“Better to have wasted a little time than all of it.” He turns towards me since I get the feeling Spencer and Marty already know what he’s going to say. “Bergwerk Lane has a nickname: Dead man’s curve. The trees block the view of the traffic. Ya never know who’s comin’. And they never see ya leavin’. More folks have died on that damn curve this year than on the damn highway.” He pauses, closing his eyes and then opening them again when he exhales. “It’s Sunday, so it should be clearer than any other day, but it’s still dangerous. If you’re gonna go that way then turn your music off, roll your windows down, look both ways at least three times, then floor it when you’re sure the coast is clear. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” I reply with a nod.
…
Insistently, Curt sends me off with a full jug of cold water and a small bag of chips. I take them, shake his hand, and wave to Spencer and Marty who are stocking shelves. Rita roars to life as I start her engine, and we begin down the road again. My butt, not feeling quite as numb anymore, forms to the driver’s seat comfortably. I flip on the radio again. A Pink Floyd song, “Time”, vibrates through the car. I turn to it just in time to hear my favorite lyric:
And then one day you find
Ten years have got behind you
No one told you when to run
You missed the starting gun
I’ve thought about this lyric a lot since I turned thirty. I’m thirty five now. Maybe if I had just been more understanding, I wouldn’t be here. Of course, that’s just it, isn’t it? The “if” factor of it all. IF I would’ve just listened to what they had to say. IF I had just understood that Jordan’s death was inescapable. But the one thing I will never understand is why they never mourned. And here I am, almost twenty years later, and I’m still mourning for that kid. Maybe if instead of mourning I had stuck with high school and actually graduated, I would be somewhere that isn’t here. Maybe I’d actually have that less shitty job. Maybe I’d have a wife and some kids. But there are too many factors things I love that wouldn’t settle well with that life.
I love to drink. I love to sing. I love to make out with strangers.
That’s all juvenile habit.
Perhaps, hearing that starting gun would’ve led me down a better path. Personally, I think the only gun I would’ve heard was the sound of my own as I pressed it against my temple, and pulled the trigger myself. I wish I had a long, long time ago. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so damn guilty.
Rita’s balding tires trail on for the five miles. I slow down and make a sharp turn onto Bergwerk Lane. There’s a stop sign at the end of its curve that’s nearly covered up by the trees. Perhaps that’s why a lot of people die, because they don’t see the sign. I flip off the new song that’s been playing for a few minutes, roll down the windows and look both ways a few times. A semi comes barreling through, but other than that the coast is clear. Still, I floor it, just in case.