“It doesn’t matter,” I say. “You never know.”
“Take a picture of me holding it like this.” Chester drops the clothes and extends his arms, putting the life of the lamp in the corner in serious jeopardy.
“We don’t have time to play around,” Taylor says, scooping up the clothes and tossing them in a black trash bag.
“I’ll just take one later and Instagram that shit. Oh, and remind me to change my name to TheSexGod1995. How should I hashtag the pic?”
Taylor laughs, “How about safety-last or dumbass-with-a-gun.”
Chester pats his pockets. “Wait, where’s my phone?”
“Probably slid out of your pocket like it always does when you sit down,” I say with irritation.
“Call it real quick for me.”
I hate it when Chester loses his phone, which he does regularly. And it’s always a pain to find. For reasons unknown,* he insists on keeping it on vibrate (except for the alarms). (That’s a lie again. Okay, so here’s another recap: there is actually a very real and pertinent reason Chester leaves his phone on perpetual vibrate. About seven months ago I scribbled on one of the university bathroom stalls: “For a good time, call Emily,” followed by Chester’s digits. His phone began blowing up almost hourly. This devious act backfired on me because we began to hear Chester’s ringtone, “Never Gonna Give You Up,” over and over. It was funny for a week, but he’s refused to change it. Eventually, Chester must’ve grown weary of the song because he silenced his phone for good. However, here’s where the plan double-backfired: I thought the random calls would enrage Chester, but he seems to find it more hilarious than anything. And thus, I regretted my immaturity for that gag almost immediately. Remember that phone conversation he had at the hockey game?)
Alright, continuing on. I look back at Chester. “We’ll find your phone in a minute. Check the car seats first.”
“Right, well should we take the gun with us?” Chester asks, stuffing it in the front of his pants.
“Watch out you don’t blow off your balls,” I say, but my mind is still pondering the reasons why we shouldn’t take the gun with us. My rationale ends with, ‘A gun is the great equalizer’. And if we eventually do have a squaring off with Kline, he’ll be armed as well. We may not know how to shoot for shit, but maybe if we get the drop on him, he’ll be less inclined to pull his own weapon out.
We pack up the gun so Chester’s prying and dangerous hands won’t screw around with it more than they already have.
26 Pit Stops
Taylor’s car is backed into the garage and we escort our prisoner toward the rear. I push the button on Taylor’s keys, popping the trunk open. I don’t want any of Sam’s neighbors to witness what we are about to do; it looks very similar to kidnapping. Actually, I think it is kidnapping, but never mind that. To have this act on full display could easily spur someone to call the cops and end our investigation before it gathers full momentum.
“Hop in, Sam,” I demand.
“Oh no – you gotta be kiddin’ me. I’m not gonna fit in there!” He shakes his head and his hands as he speaks.
“We’ll make it work,” Taylor says with confidence.
“Yeah, I’ll break something if I have too.” Chester cracks his knuckles, once again quick to resort to violence.
“Shut up, Chester,” I say. “Just get in, Sam. I don’t trust you, and the back seat is tighter than the trunk anyway. Take a nap if you have to; when you wake up we’ll be there.” Oh my God, I am becoming my parents. I just used the same line they used on me when I was a child. I make a quick note to not use my seat belt when I get in the car. Rebellion is just in my nature.
I grab one of the bags to move it aside so I can make room for Sam. “Holy crap. Dude, why is your bag so heavy?” I grimace and look at Taylor. “Are there weights inside?”
To my surprise, Taylor says, “Ummmm … yeah.”
“Why?” I ask. Does he really think there will be time during this trip for a workout session?
“So I can train. Whenever. Wherever,” he says. “I plan on being bigger than Stallone. I’ll put him to shame. He’ll be tiny next to me.”
“Isn’t he already? He’s a tiny man – like five foot six.” I can buy into Taylor’s argument though. He’s always been so competitive when it comes to bodybuilding.
“Rocky 2 and 4 are still awesome,” Chester says, adding but not really adding to the conversation, if you get my drift.
“You’re not helping, Chester. Besides, Taylor – he’s like ninety years old. Give him a break.” I heave harder and finally move what must have been 200 lbs of dumbbells.
“Ellis, I don’t need to give him a break. I’m sure at that age – and given his obvious osteoporosis – he’ll manage that shortly by himself.” Taylor crosses his arms like he usually does when he’s getting defensive.
Taylor tends to get very passionate regarding his fitness. This is apparently one of those times. Coming from a guy who has watched Pumping Iron more than 50 times, it seems acceptable to me. So I let it go.
With some struggle, Sam is stuffed into the small trunk like a can of Spam. Shortly afterward, we’re on the main road heading for the interstate.
If this were a movie, this would be the moment where a silly-ass driving montage would take place, overlaid with a song of the director’s choosing. You’d see us laughing in the car, a wide array of encircling panoramic shots, and pan ins and outs that feature beautiful sunsets, vistas and landscapes. But this ain’t a movie. It’s real life, so we will forge on.
Taylor and I are silent, but T is a man of few words anyway. Chester rambles on as usual, looking for a response, but I’m lost in thought and tune him out. I’m not sure what answers I’m going to get or how it’ll play out at the end of this journey. I’m still plenty worried about my life and the wellbeing of my friends. I’m –“Jesus, Chester!”
Chester laughs uncontrollably as half-chewed Cheetos fall from his mouth onto his jean shorts. He quickly puts the chunk of food back in his mouth without missing a beat.
Taylor is holding his nose with one hand and rolling down the window with the other. “Dude, that’s gnarly.”
Chester is nearly choking on his laughs when he stops instantly. “Hey guys, stop at that gas station. I need an energy drink.”
Exactly what we need – more gas.
I need to escape the confinement of this vehicle and the aroma within, so I exit the freeway. I turn off onto a side street behind the service station. One of us needs to stay with Sam in case he makes noise.
We open the trunk and the fat ball for a man is red-faced and sweaty. “You got’ damn son of a bitch, get me the fuck outta here! I don’t wanna freakin’ die in this sardine can.”
“Bro, this car is top of the line. Show some respect,” Chester says, slapping the side of the Lexus.
“Then don’t hit my car!” Taylor gives Chester the evil eye and Chester apologizes non-verbally.
For a moment I look at Sam. He does look pitiful. So Taylor and I help him out of the trunk. I don’t want him to die. Not that I care about his life; I just don’t want to be responsible for his death.
I still have some venom left for the guy, though, after all the trouble he’s gotten me into. “T, get a water for this piece of trash.”
“Guys, come on. Level with me here. I’m as dead as you are if we don’t get that money from Kline. Please don’t let me live my last days in that trunk. I know I don’t deserve it, but have some freakin’ humanity.”
He has a point. I’m not a mobster or a murderer. I’m no badass. I just want my life back.
I look at T, back at Sam, and back to T. Taylor just shrugs and nods in approval.
Chester gapes at us. “Whoa, are you kidding me? This fat piece of shit is gonna be sitting next to me? No, fuck that. I need to stretch my legs out like a dancer,” he says with a smug voice.
“Chester, shut up for like, twenty minutes. Just get your drink and let’s go.” I close the tru
nk.
“Ugh … fine!” Chester puffs out his cheeks and casts a sidelong glance at Sam. “But make him button his shirt; his chest hair looks like taco meat spilling out.”
I can’t help but laugh. Chester’s frustrating, but sometimes his comments catch me off guard and it lightens the mood.
“Guys, I swear I won’t be a problem – on my life!” Sam is practically bowing like he’s a Buddhist monk.
“Fuck it, lets go get some Slurpees,” I say, and we all round the corner, heading to the gas station.
I’ve barely crossed the threshold when, with uncanny speed, Chester and Sam are already near the far end of the store.
“Hey guys, they got Jihad dogs!” Chester yells.
“Keep it down,” I say, hoping the cashier didn’t hear him, and I pray if he has, that it hasn’t offended his religion. A quick glance tells me that both have happened, and I give the man a nod of apology.
After I receive a quick wave of understanding from the cashier, I head to the back as well and grab a blueberry Slurpee. I give it a taste. It’s no freckled lemonade, but it’ll get the job done.
I can clearly hear Sam talking to Chester. “Gimme two of dem polish dogs.”
“That’s un-American,” Chester replies. “I should call immigration and have you deported. I’m going to get three of the cheese dogs.”
“Three cheese dogs? Jesus, kid! I thought I had a problem,” Sam says.
“The only problem is that your dog don’t have cheese. Now where’s the damn chili machine?” Chester’s head whips around in his search.
I spy Taylor lost in a search of his own for protein bars, so I follow Sam and Chester to the condiment bar. Sam adds some sauerkraut and mustard while Chester completely smothers his dogs in nacho cheese and chili.
Sam’s eyes widen, nearly spinning in their sockets. “My God, kid, you’re gonna drown that thing! How do you even eat something like that?”
“With a spoon.” Chester flips his fingers, and as if by magic a spoon appears. I give the boy credit. That was pretty amazing.
“Looks like you’re gonna need a straw,” Taylor says as he comes up beside us. “Are you making soup? That’s not going in my car.”
“Don’t you worry, T-dog. I’ll be surprised if this masterpiece makes it to the register.”
“That’s no masterpiece,” Sam says. “It looks like the crap we scrape out from under the deli fridge at night. Now this … this is a masterpiece.” He holds up his polish dog for everyone to inspect. “Notice the placement of the sauerkraut, the finesse with the mustard, and the spoonful of onions evenly distributed. ‘Dis is a thing of beauty.”
I’m a little blown away. Sam’s artistry with food is impressive. He’s able to take a 49 cent hot dog and make it look like it came from a five star restaurant. It’s obvious he eats a lot. If only he put that much effort into the sandwiches he made at The Sub Shop.
We head back toward the Slurpee machines, and Chester begins shoveling his food into his mouth. Sam follows not far behind. He and Chester seem to be bonding at this point. Food: the great common denominator. It brings people together. Or people like them together, that is. Chester begins filling a Bigfoot-sized cup with every flavor while spouting some bullshit about needing variety in his life, and I have to walk away at this point.
As we file out of the store, Chester says he ‘volunteers as tribute’ and wants to sit up front with me as I drive. I allow it when I get a nod of permission from Taylor as he pulls out a fitness magazine he just purchased.
I crank up the Lexus, shift it into drive, and do a perfect U-turn. I’m almost back on the freeway when Chester takes a sip of his Slurpee creation. “Blah, this tastes like dried up dog shit!” He rolls down the window and chucks the whole cup outside.
I’m about to scream at him about littering and saving the planet, etc. But as I watch his drink sail through the air, I see it smash right into the face of a kid who can’t be more than ten.
I can’t stop or turn back; cars are screaming up behind me and I’m in the turn lane for the on ramp. “Geez, Chester, you just hit that kid!”
“He shouldn’t have been standing there,” Chester says with a shrug, as if it’s something he has no power to control or like it’s some weird circle of life thing.
What an asshat!
27 Interstate Hate and Love
If I had been driving my car at the speed I’m pushing Taylor’s, the tranny would have blown 20 miles back, at least one tire would have popped, and one of the car doors might have rattled loose. But right now I’m experiencing the smoothest ride … though not the quietest. I reach the point where I’ve had enough of Chester’s taste in music and shut it down.
“Hey, bro – turn it back on, man!” Chester wails. “It was getting to the good part.”
“There’s actually a good part to that song?” I laugh.
“Yeah, when the drum solo comes in and then the guitars are all Bwwwwwwaaaaaaaaaaaaa bwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, bwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, bwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!”
I fix Chester with a stare. Sometimes I feel he’s like my kid. But when I look at it that way, I realize I’m a shitty parent.
“You know, Ellis, you just don’t get it. Music. You see, music is life. Ya know? That’s why your heart has a beat.”
I’m stunned for a brief second. That’s deep for Chester. A little too deep. “Who did you steal that from?” I say, eyeing him again.
“A bumper sticker on a green Corolla three miles back.” He giggles with a snort of laughter, and even I can’t suppress my own chuckle.
“So anyway, Ellis – what’s the pli-zan when we find Kline?” Chester asks.
You know, that’s actually a puzzling question. In my mind I’ve only been thinking of catching Kline, but I haven’t put too much thought into what’ll happen if we do catch him. I guess I always figured Kline would make a clean getaway. “I don’t know,” I say, being completely honest.
“We should kill him after everything he’s done,” Chester offers.
“The Bible says, ‘Avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’” Sam quotes the verse as he looks out the window at the scenery, which is mostly flat, boring landscape at the moment.
“First Corinthians. Ah yes. I know it well,” Chester says.
“What? No, you idiot, it’s Romans 12:19.” Sam’s face twists in confusion as he looks at me. “What’s with ‘dis kid?”
Chester laughs. “Yeah, I don’t read the Bible.”
“Or anything for that matter,” Taylor says.
“You’re pretty religious for a guy who steals people’s identities and leaves them high and dry for the mob.” I glare at Sam and can almost swear hot venomous liquid is filling up my canines as I toss the salty barb in his direction.
Sam places his palms together as if praying, and in faux piety looks to the heavens. “I have learned the errors of my ways.”
“Suuuuuuuuure, you have,” I say.
“Listen, what’s done … is done, and I promise you I am really sorry about all this.”
This time I do pick up a touch of sincerity in his voice, and my thoughts and eyes turn back to the ro– WHOA! I change lanes just in time to miss hitting the rear bumper of a red 1987 Jeep Comanche. No one in the car notices it was my fault, but I play it off just in case. “Go the speed limit, asshole!” And I lay on the horn.
“So, Ellis, we gotta stop for food soon. I’m starving.”
“Dude, you just ate hot dogs!” I say, but don’t take my vision off the road this time.
“Man, that was 30 minutes ago. That’s practically hunger strike territory for me. Plus, I need something to wash that Slurpee from my mouth. That thing was as disgusting as your mom’s Sunday dinner ceviche casserole.”
“Dude, you’re so committed to your craft of being overweight, you’re going to end up in a wheelchair.”
“Don’t be a Jabroni, Ellis. I?
??m getting into Feast Mode.”
“I feel like you’re always in Feast Mode. And are we still using that word? Jabroni was at least a decade ago.”
“Maybe more,” says Taylor.
“I could really go for some Le Pasta Fiesta right ‘bout now.” Chester slaps his hands together and rubs them furiously.
That’s Chester’s go-to spot, and the thought of that place stirs my stomach in the wrong way. Each dish is equal parts French, Italian, and Mexican, but all 100% disgusting.
I’m done with the debate for now. “Fine, but if we have to stop again, you’re gonna have to do some of the driving.” I hope this empty threat might curb his appetite.
Chester huffs loudly. “Okay, let me go ahead and put my chunky-ass foot down. Chester doesn’t do that chauffery stuff. Remember what happened that one time?”
Yes. How could we ever forget?
“Now let’s all be reasonable adults about this,” he says. There’s a second of dead air, and then, “So, I just Yelped this place called Joe’s Cafe. Apparently, it’s all the rage and has the best reviews. So that must mean one thing and one thing only.”
“That it’s obviously good, and you want to gain more weight?” I fire back.
“No, and that’s two things,” Chester points out while staring at the map on his phone. “It means that’s where we will be stopping. Take the second exit coming up. I need vittles.”
Did he just say ‘vittles’?
I take the next exit anyway and enter Joe’s parking lot. It’s a mom-and-pop style restaurant that, luckily for Chester, serves breakfast all day.
“There’s a premier parking spot. Take that one!” Chester blurts out, his chubby finger pointing straight ahead.
“That’s a handicapped spot, you idiot,” Taylor says.
There’s an unzipping sound and I hope Chester isn’t shedding his pants, but then he says, “Whaaaaaaaa-pow!” In his hand is a placard resembling a handicapped hanger. “I stole this from my grandma before we left. We can park with immune deficiency, gentlemen.”
“It’s immunity, Chester – and no, we aren’t parking there,” I say.