The lobby of Macland’s Auto Repair reeked of stale popcorn and burnt coffee baking on a hot plate. Off to one side there was a giant Plexiglas window where customers could ostensibly stand and observe auto mechanics in their natural habitat. Lance and Dakota decided to keep a field journal of their social and dietary habits. This blue-suited tribe communicated with grunts and profanity. Hierarchy was determined by tool size. Grooming habits, nonexistent. They subsisted on beef sticks and cans of carbonated corn syrup.
The guy assigned to work on Lance’s car was chugging on a Moody’s. They weren’t sure of the flavor until he picked up a clipboard and, deep in thought, stuck out his tongue. Purple. Bright as a permanent marker.
“It’s over,” Dakota said. “Get out now.”
“Maybe he just likes grape soda.”
She shook her head. “Lance. A purple tongue is the sign of the beast.”
He and Dakota were laughing too hard to notice how long things were taking. When Lance finally pried his phone out of his jeans, it was six p.m. and Miriam had called twice.
“Go ahead and call,” Dakota said. “I’ll watch the Buick. I will be strong and vigilant.”
Lance stepped outside. The hard afternoon light had gone a soft orange, and the windshields of cars shone like burnished copper. He took a long, deep breath. After his time in Macland’s, the air tasted sweet.
He’d come out to call Miriam. He dialed Jonathan instead.
“Well, hello there,” Jonathan said.
Jonathan never answered his phone. Lance waited, making sure this wasn’t a clever voice mail prank.
“Lance? Are you breathing at me? Or is this his murderer? You’ll never get away with this.”
“It’s me, man. Couldn’t hear you for a second.”
“No. Wait. Is this the Lance Hendricks?”
“Yes.”
“I mean, the one true Lance Hendricks?”
“Okay, enough.”
“Lancelot. Dude. How are you not back?”
That’s right. He was Lancelot.
“The car’s not fixed.”
“Really?” Jonathan said. “Still? I can’t believe you missed The Party! Such a riot. And the things I found in my parents’ bedroom getting it ready for you. I can’t unsee those things, Lance. My parents are perverse people. I can no longer look my own father in the eye.”
Lance laughed. “Sorry, man.”
“Really, I don’t get it. What’s going on? Are you hooked on amphetamines?”
“No.”
“Did your dad get ahold of you?”
“No, Jonathan.”
For any other friend, that would’ve been the end of the phone call. But Jonathan had been there the afternoon at the creek, the day his father had gone. When Lance kept breaking off to examine river rocks, any reason to stand alone and look down, so he could cry and not be seen. And Jonathan had seen him. He had put a hand on Lance’s back and had said It’ll be okay and You’ll get through this, and he had never told anyone about that, not ever.
“Do people think I’m with my dad?” Lance asked.
“There are some pretty wild stories.”
“Like?”
“Whisky shots. A knife fight. Did you hear me, Lance? A knife fight.”
“I just pulled a knife. I didn’t fight with it.”
Miriam. She’d told them. How long had they all laughed about that? His stomach was folding over, contracting. And he suddenly knew why he’d called Jonathan. He’d wanted to talk to someone who knew him. Really talk. About the train, the cemetery, The Float, Dakota. These jeans, and how it felt to be called Wildman. How crazy it all was! But Jonathan couldn’t hear him either. Like Miriam and his mother. The wrong groove. The same empty hiss.
“I should really call Miriam,” Lance said.
He made his excuses and got off the phone. In his chest, a feeling that said this was a bad time to call Miriam, but there he was, making the call. She answered right away, on the second ring. He wasn’t ready. He could’ve used one more ring.
“Lance?”
“Yeah, hi.”
“Well,” she said.
“What?”
“What happened last night? Did you forget your charger?”
“Miriam, I—”
“Seriously, Lance. Should I be moving on? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“Moving on?” he said. “I’ve only been gone three days.”
“I haven’t heard from you in twenty-four hours.”
“We’ve been together two years!”
“Where are you now?”
“Another repair shop. The first one was a total disaster.”
“Yes,” Miriam said. “This has been a total disaster.”
“You know,” he said, “I don’t appreciate you telling all our friends I’m making up stories.” He inhaled. Exhaled. He needed to breathe.
“I didn’t say you were making them up,” she said. “I let the stories speak for themselves.”
“Well guess what? I got wasted and jumped on a moving train last night. What do you think of that?”
Silence.
“Is that true?”
“Who knows, Miriam? Who knows.”
“This is dumb,” she said.
“Yes.”
“It’s dumb that you’re choosing your car over us.”
“It’s not,” he said. “Don’t you want us to have a car next year? Don’t you want to take weekend trips?”
“Yeah, but we’re going to be busy, Lance. College isn’t like high school.”
“Yeah? College sounds boring.” The word boring, which he had not expected to say, crystallized the deep, impalpable dread he’d been feeling all year. More tests, more teachers, more deadlines. Oregon State University sounded boring. And yet, all these words he’d been tossing out like candy from a parade float:
I’m really looking forward to it.
It’s great. I can live at home a few years, so I don’t have any debt when I graduate.
My girlfriend is going to OSU, which is perfect.
“College sounds boring,” Miriam repeated.
“Yeah,” Lance said. “That’s right.” Silence. Across the street, a crow settled on a power line. There were five lines total, parallel and evenly spaced. One black dot of a crow. The bird ruffled its feathers and scolded him. A small flock landed. A dozen small bodies, staggered in a way that looked familiar.
“Are you having a midlife crisis?” Miriam asked.
“I’m eighteen.”
“I know. But you’ve always been advanced.” Beyond the crows, spires of evergreens, ferns on a hillside. There were people living behind those trees, down that road, beyond where he could see. Hundreds of thousands of lives tucked back in the bushes, in places he’d never even thought about.
“You’re scared,” she said. “You’re running away.”
“I’m not running,” Lance said.
“Yes, Lance. You are.”
“Miriam. Please.”
“It’s like something your dad would do.” Lance spiked his phone into the grass. Miriam had never met his father. She’d only heard stories. He walked to the nearest smallish tree. He grabbed it, throttled the trunk, kicked bark until it chipped. He was sweaty, breathless.
In the grass, his phone vibrated. He went back into Macland’s without it.
Dakota was standing, waiting for him.
“You okay?” she said.
“Yeah. Why?”
“That little tree must’ve said something.”
“Right,” Lance said. “Funny.”
“But I’ve got bad news.”
“What?”
“There are at least five more little trees out there. I think they just showed up.”
Lance looked outside. There were a lot of them.
“We’d better make a break for it,” Lance said.
“About that,” she said. “More bad news.”
“What?”
“Your car’s not ready.”
Back in the shop, beyond the Plexiglas, the lights were off. Mechanics, tucked somewhere out of sight.
“That figures,” Lance said.
They left and Macland’s door locked shut behind them. The sun had just vanished, and the air was already cooler.
“Hey.” She took a deep breath, looked up. “Does this mean we get one more night?”
“Yeah.” Lance smiled and looked at her. “One more night.”
“Okay. You get your phone. I’ll get my car. We’ll meet right here.” She pointed to the ground.
“Right here,” Lance said, pointing.
Lance picked up his phone from the grass. The tree’s bark, scuffed and chipped. He was no longer angry. He couldn’t even remember angry. Every poisonous, simmering thing in his blood had gone tingly, and waiting for Dakota felt like warming up in the orchestra pit on opening night. The tuning up of instruments. That awful, giddy flutter before a show.
Dakota’s engine fired and her headlights swung around. She was coming. Twenty minutes alone in a car with Dakota, about to happen. This rare gift of a moment. She was a silhouette when she parked. She popped open the passenger door and the dome light turned her three-dimensional. Eyes, electric. Hair, spilling down.
“Need a ride?” she asked.
One more night.