When Everything Is Blue(41)

Crack Really Puts Things in Perspective


IT TAKES forever to get to the DMV, and then there’s a line. A loooong line, and the people who work here are slow as hell and don’t seem to mind stretching out the process. I guess they get paid either way. First there’s paperwork. Then the written test. More paperwork. Then it’s another hour of waiting for the driving test, and I’m jacked up on soda and candy from the vending machine, my only source of nutrition, when the woman behind the counter finally calls my name.

“You can pull your car around back,” she says.

“My what?”

“Your car. You need to have a car in order to take your driving test.”

“I thought you guys provided the car.”

She sighs like I’m the world’s biggest idiot. “No, sweetheart, we don’t provide the car. You have to bring your own.” She glances down at her clipboard and then, perhaps noticing I’m on the verge of tears, shows a sliver of humanity. “I’ll file your paperwork. Come back next week with your own car and we’ll finish it then.”

“Are you open tomorrow?” I whine. It’s nearing closing time, so even if I managed to get my mom’s car, by the time I got back, it’ll be too late.

“Monday through Friday, 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. Make an appointment next time and it will go faster.”

I moan, still trying to keep it together, then exit the DMV in a huff. I’m sticky from the ride and grimy from sitting on my ass in the DMV all day. My emotions are running amok when I imagine all the people who must have by now seen my mug performing fellatio on Asshole Dave and the last thing I want to do is go home and face my raging sister making this all about her again. And Chris. I don’t want to have to explain that picture to him.

Knowing Chris, he’s probably got our apartment cased, waiting to ambush me. Or maybe it’s the opposite and he never wants to talk to me again after today. Even though he won’t admit it, some part of Chris likes being a cool kid, and this was definitely not cool. The thought of him abandoning me is too depressing to even contemplate.

I hop on my board and head for the beach, thinking it’s the last place I can run and hide.

When I get there an hour or so later, the sun is at my back and there’s a damp chill in the air. There are a few guys out surfing, but I’m not in the mood to beg for a board.

My stomach growls because all I’ve eaten today is cake, a candy bar, and chips. I recognize one of the beach bums, Lieutenant Sean Knox, picking through the trashcans that line the beach access. Sean’s one of the guys who will reliably buy us beer if we give him a cut, and I decide to spend the last of my birthday money from my mom on getting totally shit-faced. Seems like the only way to end this awful day.

I offer up my plan to Sean with the option that he keep the difference in cash. He suggests we split the case of beer instead, and I tell him I’m game. He asks me what kind I want, and I tell him to pick since it’s all the same to me. He comes back from the convenience store with a case of Miller Light under his arm. I figured we’d just split it there on the sidewalk, but he tells me to follow him down to the beach.

Once there, he ducks under the pier and climbs up to where the sand meets the pilings and creates a secluded kind of cave. Not a bad place to camp out for the night, which makes me wonder if Sean does that on the regular. He plops down and motions for me to join him, cracks open a beer, and tosses me one. I thought I’d be drinking alone, but I suppose it’s just as well to drink with a friend. I pop the top and it foams up a bit. I slurp it up, thinking it tastes only a little bit better than it smells.

By this time the sun is starting to set and the surfers are all going out for their last few rides. I get to thinking about my surf trips with Chris, how I’ve usually punked out by this time and I’m just sitting on the beach wrapped in a towel watching him surf. If I make my eyes go wide and fuzzy, I can almost see him out there on the waves right now, and it fills me with a sense of calm and contentment that also feels dangerous, and I know I’ve really screwed things up this time.

While we drink, Sean tells me about his time in the army and where he spent his tours. I’ve heard it before, but I listen again to be polite. Then he starts telling me about this city in Afghanistan, this one particular battle, which apparently has been made into a movie and stars an ex-marine who was there.

“He was the only one of his platoon to survive. I mean, what are the chances?” Sean says with a bitter edge to his voice, and I’m not sure I understand the significance except to think that he is one lucky bastard.

“Know what I think?” Sean leans in like we’re two gangsters planning our next bank robbery.

“What?” I’m light-headed and at ease. I could listen to Sean all night long. Just two buds, kicking back a few beers, telling war stories.

“I think that fucker was hiding. I think he abandoned his boys. Because the shit he was able to remember.” Sean shakes his head. His upper lip curls into a snarl. “I mean, I was in some shit, man, and I can’t remember anything.”

“It happens so fast,” I say. In the blink of an eye, everything turns upside down and you’re dumped on your ass.

“Hell yeah. It was over like that.” He snaps his fingers for emphasis. “And this fucker is coming up with all these details about what guns were fired—the mortars and shells, who was hit and where. Bullshit, man. He wasn’t there. Maybe he was part of the cleanup crew, but he sure as shit wasn’t there.”