Joyride

Joyride

  by Rik Hunik

  Copyright 2013 by Rik Hunik

  A slightly shorter version of this story originally appeared in "Tales Of The Talisman",

  Volume 1, Issue 2, Sep. 2005

  Chapter 1

  The skinny youth with the fake-blond hair pressed the button on the remote control unit and watched in the rear view mirror as the overhead garage door descended. He tossed the unit out the driver's-side window into the long grass near the end of the driveway and unintentionally chirped the tires as he drove away; this muscle car from the seventies had far more power than he was used to.

  "Thank you Eddy", he said as he turned right onto Lewis Drive and headed down the hill. He was alone in the car. "You sucker."

  Darien Fume, pronounced "Foomay" by his parents, had dropped that fag French crap when he ran away from home, at age fourteen, right after his parents separated four years ago. He loved fast cars but couldn't afford one, and he didn't get anywhere near as many chances to drive one as he would have liked, and thought he deserved. Sure he stole a couple of cars a month, but nothing like this, a monster from a lost era.

  He wasn't even supposed to be the guy stealing this car; he'd scooped this job from his friend, and sometimes partner-in-crime, Fast Eddy.

  Eddy had run into him that morning in the bar at the Cariboo Hotel, and he couldn't help bragging about his next job. "It's perfect, a dream car with zero risk."

  Darien had played it cool, a mixture of naive and envious, while he plied Eddy with beer and pumped him for information until he got what he needed.

  "It's a mint condition, 1977, black and gold Special Edition Trans Am, with a 6.6 liter engine, a T-roof, and a big firebird decal on the hood. It's just like the car in that old movie, 'Smokey And The Bandit'. You know it, don't you?"

  "The movie or the car?"

  Eddy gave him a pained look. "The car."

  Darien shook his head. He knew it well, but he didn't let on that the only car like that in Quesnel actually belonged to his uncle Bill, who had never let him drive it.

  Eddy dug a slip of paper out of the pocket of his denim jacket and showed Darien two lines of numbers. "I don't know how he did it, but Jimmy Grease sent me the combination for the electronic lock on the front door and the code to deactivate the burglar alarm. The car keys are hanging in the garage." Eddy leaned close. "And here's the best part. The owner is on vacation for two weeks to Haiti, or some place like that, so nobody will even know the car is gone until he gets home." He leaned back and laughed.

  Darien laughed with him and ordered more beer. When Eddy went to the can, leaving his jacket draped over the back of his chair, Darien removed the paper, borrowed a pencil from a passing waitress, copied the numbers onto a coaster, pocketed the coaster and returned the slip of paper.

  When Eddy returned he revealed that he planned to steal the car early tomorrow morning while it was till dark. Darien had one last beer with Eddy, declared that he was broke, then split.

  # # #

  Shortly before midnight Darien crossed the footbridge to the West Side and hiked in a light rain up Lewis Drive all the way to Dawson Street. He didn't know the house number but he recognized the house. Armed with the stolen codes he had no problem walking in and driving out. Even sticking to the speed limit he would be in Kamloops, where Jimmy Grease was expecting it, before Eddy even realized the car was gone.

  Sure the car was twenty-six years old, and maybe it didn't start well, but with a bit of polish it would be ready to put in a show, and what did Jimmy care who was driving? He knew Darien and would hand over a couple of thousand bucks at least.

  The car handled like a dream, the wide tires gripping the wet pavement even around the sudden reverse curves at the bottom of the hill. His headlights picked up a moving blotch on the road that resolved into a little, black poodle. His mother used to have one of those damn things. It was always licking its balls or eating shit, then trying to lick him.

  He hated them all and he didn't even think about braking. "Little puppy, you better move your furry, black ass if you intend to grow up." The poodle, supremely confident or just plain stupid, looked into the lights but didn't hurry. Fatal mistake. There was only a slight bump as the right front tire ran over the dog's hind end. Darien checked the rear view mirror but it was so dark he saw nothing. "Stupid mutt won't do that again."

  He crossed the bridges over Baker Creek, the Fraser River and the Quesnel River, then pushed the pedal to the metal. The 6.6 liter engine responded with a satisfying growl and he was pressed into the plush, black seat as the car shot up Dragon Lake Hill, accelerating rapidly to a speed of nearly a hundred miles per hour before he realized that the old car's speedometer read in miles per hour, with kilometers per hour in smaller numbers underneath. He reminded himself that those were the numbers to pay attention to. As he crested the hill he eased up on the gas pedal and slowed the car to the speed limit of eighty kilometers per hour. He had to be professional about this. Speeding was way too easy to do in this beauty and it wouldn't do him any good to be caught speeding in a stolen car.

  He turned on the radio to the heavy riffs of ZZ Top's "I'm Bad, I'm Nationwide."

  "I'm bad," he sang along, then laughed. That was the number on the license plate, 660-BAD. "B-a-d, that's me." He laughed again. It was true. He had only a handful of scruples, fewer morals, and just enough principles that he hadn't been killed yet by the people he associated with.

  A few minutes later he reached the hundred kilometer per hour speed zone just south of Quesnel city limits, where there were no more lights. The steering felt funny and the car started pulling to the right. He parked on the shoulder and got out. The right front tire was flat. "Damn. How can running over a poodle give me a flat tire?"

  He shut everything off, dug out his trusty penlight and went to the trunk. As he inserted the key he noticed that the license plate read 662-BAD. He must have misread it earlier. He dug out the jack and spare, glad to see it was a real tire, identical to the others, not one of those porta-potty spares that looked like it belonged on a wheelbarrow.

  He spotted some blood on the wheel and the fender but he wiped them clean with some rags from the trunk and tossed them into the ditch. It took him only a few minutes to change the tire but when he let down the jack he was dismayed to discover that the spare was flat too. Not completely flat, like the one he'd just removed; there might be enough pressure to drive several, miles if he didn't go very fast, or maybe not enough to keep the tire on the rim if he drove at all.

  To calm his growing rage and frustration he sat in the car to roll himself a joint. He found a two-year-old issue of Swank magazine under the seat and cut up a bud on it. As he was licking the paper headlights approached behind him but didn't pass by; a big truck was pulling up right behind the Trans Am. Darien hastily stuffed the bag into his jacket pocket, put the joint in the ashtray and closed it, then shoved the magazine back under the seat.

  He got out of the car as the truck driver descended from the cab of his empty logging truck. He looked to be in his late twenties but was already developing a prominent paunch. He eyed Darien as he approached.

  "That's a real nice car, don't see many of them around anymore. Look's like you're in a spot of trouble."

  "Yeah, I got a flat tire, and when I changed it I found out the spare didn't have any air in it." He circled the car and showed the driver the deflated rubber.

  "Ain't that a bitch. You're lucky I happened along. I have an air compressor on my truck so I can fill that tire in a jiffy." He went to get the hose.

  Darien trailed along. "Oh man, thanks a lot. I didn't know what I was gonna do."

  "Hey, no problem. A stranger did the same thing for me last fall. You can pay me back by passing on the favor."


  "Yeah, I'll do that." At the moment he almost meant it.

  A few minutes later the tire was inflated and appeared to be holding pressure. Darien reiterated his thanks and the driver put away his equipment.

  "Well, if you really want to thank me that bad, you can blow that joint with me. You know, the one you were rolling when I pulled up."

  Darien laughed nervously. "Yeah, sure thing." He lit the joint and they smoked it without much conversation. He learned that the driver's name was Joe. He automatically lied and said his name was Dave and that he was headed to Vancouver for his mother's funeral. They parted on friendly terms and Darien took off down the highway.

  Chapter 2

  He was south of Kersley when a vehicle came around a corner far ahead and shone its high beams into his eyes. He clicked his lights down. The other driver didn't. He flicked his high beams on, then off again. No response. He squinted against the increasing brightness and flicked his on again for a second. Now the opposing lights dimmed for him but he was already pissed off.

  As the gap between the vehicles rapidly diminished he turned on his own high beams and edged over the centerline. The other car pulled over to give him room, right to the edge of the paved shoulder. When they were abreast he gave a long blast on his horn and twitched his steering wheel and saw the other car swerve in reaction. Red brake lights flared in his rearview mirror.

  "That'll teach the bugger," Darien muttered with satisfaction.

  A blue sign told him a rest area was coming up. That shared joint hadn't been enough for him and this rest area was a perfect spot to roll another one. He pulled in, parked out of sight of the highway and shut off the engine, but left the radio on. He got his bag, dug out the magazine and rolled himself a fat joint. A commercial came on so he shut off the radio. While he smoked the joint he checked out a few of the spreads, then became engrossed in the joke page. By the time he put out the roach it was getting hard to read.

  Good pot, he thought.

  He tucked the magazine back under the seat, tromped on the gas and turned the ignition key. The big motor caught, sputtered and died. He tried again but all he got was that dreaded rhur-rhur-rhur sound. He pumped the gas. This couldn't be happening. It had to start this time. He turned the key. Click.

  Click click click.

  "Damn." He pounded the steering wheel and shut everything off, dug out his penlight, popped the hood and got out to take a look. Just as he suspected, the battery cables were badly corroded with flaky white acid built up around them.

  With a small crescent wrench from the glove box and his switchblade pocket knife he cleaned the terminals and replaced them. It was no big deal, this sort of thing often happened to cars left too long in storage, it was just that getting stranded in the middle of the night was not part of his plan. He crossed his fingers and tried the ignition again.

  Click. Too late, the battery was dead.

  Darien scratched at his eyebrow where he had tried to get it pierced last year. Maybe another joint would calm him down. If he ran out he could afford to get another bag in Kamloops.

  Right now he had to relieve himself. He went into the bushes and as soon as he unzipped headlights shone on the trees around him as a car pulled into the rest area. While it cruised slowly down the length of parking spaces he hastily finished his business, zipped up and ran out of the bushes.

  The car stopped beside the Trans Am. A huge, pale head floated in the passenger window. No, it was an old woman with a halo of soft, white hair. She rolled down her window and asked, all politeness and concern, "Do you need some help?"

  Do I look that desperate? He wondered. He turned on his own politeness, nodded, and said, "Yes Ma'am, I do. My battery died and I need a jump start."

  The old man in the driver's seat said, "No problem, I have some jumper cables in the trunk." He drove the car around so it was nose to nose with the Trans Am, with the headlights shone right on the license plate.

  "663-CBD?" Darien muttered. That couldn't be right.

  "Here." The old guy interrupted Darien's thoughts and handed him one end of the cables. Darien clipped the little jaws onto the battery while the old guy connected his end. "Nice car. What year is it."

  "'77."

  The old man nodded approvingly. "They don't make them like this anymore." He pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his nose. A little square packet fell to the pavement and Darien recognized it as a condom. The old man retrieved it with a wink to Darien.

  Darien got into the car. He tromped on the gas, turned the key and the engine started with a roar, then settled to a throaty idle. The old man disconnected the cables. While the woman put them back in the trunk the man closed both hoods. "Thanks a lot," Darien called out through his open window. "I really gotta get going now." They waved to him as he backed up, swung around, and headed for the exit. The old couple had stopped here to make out and that thought gave him the creeps, but when he thought about it he realized he didn't intend to ever give up sex either.

  He set the transmission in drive and headed south. A car like this with a damned automatic transmission. He couldn't fucking believe it, but it was just like his big-talking, lame-dick uncle.

  Chapter 3

  About half an hour later he saw something else he couldn't believe either, a hitchhiker, at two o'clock in the morning, and female at that, wearing blue jeans and a denim jacket. She was a bit heavy but nicely shaped. He slowed down and stopped right beside her.

  She opened the door and dropped into the seat. "Hi," she said, with a big, white smile on her brown face. He smelled beer on her breath.

  "Hi." He smiled back. A native girl with decent teeth, he thought. This is my lucky night. He shifted into drive and brought the car up to the speed limit. "Where are you headed?"

  "Just to the Deep Creek Reserve, about ten kilometers from here." She buckled up her seat belt. "And you?"

  "I'm heading to Hope to visit my sister," he lied. "What are you doing out here at this time of night?"

  "My boyfriend wanted to go to his brother's house and keep partying. I wanted to go home and get laid, so he booted me out of his truck and went to get drunker." She settled comfortably into the bucket seat. "Thanks a lot for the lift."

  Darien heard opportunity knocking. He glanced over at her, appreciating the tight jeans. She unbuttoned her jacket and he saw the swelling of her large breasts through her t-shirt. "It's nothing," he said, glancing at her again, taking in her long, dark hair and her profile. She wasn't very pretty but he certainly wouldn't need a paper bag.

  He twitched his foot on the gas pedal and the car jerked a bit. "Oh oh."

  "What's wrong?"

  "The motor is acting up. I think it might be out of gas."

  She pointed at the gas gauge, "It shows nearly full."

  "Yeah, I know, but the dam thing sticks sometimes. I should know better but it still catches me. I better pull over."

  He parked on the shoulder and shut off the engine, waited several seconds, than turned the ignition key. The motor turned over a few times but it didn't fire. He tried again with the same result. He knew that it probably wouldn't unless he stepped down on the gas pedal again. "Better save the battery," he said as he shut everything off. "There's nothing left but fumes." He turned to her. "It looks like we're stranded together."

  "I can walk from here." He couldn't see her very well in the dark but he could hear the tension in her voice.

  "No, stay and keep me company." He grabbed her left hand with his right, slipped his left hand into her jacket and squeezed her boob. She gasped and struggled but he held on. "Come on, baby, I can make you happy."

  "Back off, you jerk." Her free hand came up, he heard a "sssssst" and his eyes burst into flame and melted out of their sockets. At least that's how it felt when the spray perfume hit them.

  "You bitch," he yelled, rubbing at his eyes with one hand and trying to grab her with the other, but she already had the door open and he felt the car lift as she scrambled out.
>
  "Asshole," she yelled back and slammed the door.

  He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket, then dug blindly though his pockets until he found the little plastic bottle of artificial tears he used to combat bloodshot eyes when he was stoned. By the time his eyes quit burning and watering enough that he could see to drive he had almost emptied the bottle, but he didn't care, he could buy lots more after he delivered the car, and he didn't need that squaw, he could buy himself a first-class hooker in Kamloops.

  He started the car and left it running while he rolled and smoked a joint, then he took a piss in the ditch and hit the highway again. He was running late but he was the only one who cared, and after that last joint he didn't care very much.

  # # #

  He was just starting down the hill outside of Williams Lake when the motor missed, then died. He coasted to a stop on the shoulder. When he tried to restart the car the motor turned over and over without firing. It was futile. He quit cranking on the starter to save the juice in the battery.

  He slammed his fist on the dash. The gas gauge quivered, then slid down to E. "Damn it. How do you like that? Out of gas. I don't fucking believe it." The irony was not lost on him but he failed to appreciate it.

  Stranded on the highway in a stolen car was not a good place to be. Fortunately nobody knew it was stolen yet; even Eddy wouldn't know for another four hours. Darien figured he was only a few miles from the next gas station. He could hitch a ride, buy a gas can, fill it and take a cab back. It might strain his budget but he was only hours away from a big payoff.

  Half an hour later his plan no longer seemed so good. There wasn't much traffic, none of it even slowed down, and he was getting cold. A pick-up truck zoomed by. He kicked a tire on the car, swore in three languages (the extent of his abilities) and kicked the tire again.

  A big motor home labored up the hill and stopped across the highway from him. Texas plates showed it was a long way from home. The window rolled down and the middle-aged driver in the big cowboy hat drawled, "Looks like you got yourself a spot of trouble. Anything I can do to help?"

  Darien ran his fingers through his hair and tried to calm himself. "I ran out of gas and I need a ride into town so I can buy some, but I see you're heading the wrong way."