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Chapter 13
It’d been a few days since Charles had called. Timothy figured he could just keep waiting, or he could pick up the phone himself. He no longer needed Charles’ calling card, he’d memorized the number.
“Lambeau residence,” Charles said, when he answered the phone.
“Lambeau? It’s Thunderbird.”
“Oh, hey Thunderbird, what’s up?”
“What’s your 10-20?” Timothy asked.
He thought Charles would be impressed he’d learned the code for location in cop talk.
“My 10-20? I’m in my house. Where did you think I was, you just called me here.”
“Okay, just checking.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, uh...did you call that kid about the quarry?”
“I sure did, we’re on for Thursday, I meant to call and tell you.”
Today was only Tuesday, so Thursday was, like, forever from now.
“Why Thursday?”
“He said that’s the day the truck comes.”
“What truck?”
“I don’t know, I just know what he told me. Thursday cool with you?”
“Yeah, Thursday’s cool.”
“Okay, catch you then.”
“Okay, catch you then. Over and out.”
“Uh, Timothy?” Charles said.
“Yes?”
“This is a telephone, not a CB, you can just say goodbye.”
“Okay, goodbye Lambeau.”
“Later, Thunderbird.”
Well, Thursday might be two whole days away, but at least it was on the calendar. Meanwhile, what was he supposed to do, keep working on his report for school?
Luckily, a knock came on the front door a few minutes later and saved him from that particular fate. Parting the curtain to look out the window, he saw Crazy Carl and Mark standing awkwardly on his front porch.
“Oh, hey guys,” Timothy said, coming out onto the porch to meet them.
Carl was looking all around the porch, at the peace flag, at the beat-up couch, anywhere but at Timothy.
“Say it,” Mark said to Carl, stepping on his foot.
“Alright, alright,” Carl said to Mark, then looked at the buttons halfway up Timothy’s shirt.
“Sorry,” Carl said, “you’re not a queer.”
Somewhere in the back of Timothy’s ten-year-old brain, Carl’s logic fell slightly short. Like, “So, if I was a queer, then it’d be okay if you and your piece of shit brother beat me up?” But he was glad enough to hear Carl’s apology. It seemed to release at least some of the pressure inside him.
“It’s okay,” Timothy said. “Sorry I called you a mother fucker.”
“It’s okay,” Carl said, and smiled a little, like maybe Timothy’s apology helped release some pressure inside of him too.
The two boys shook on it.
“So, will you come play whiffle ball now?” Mark said to Timothy with some exasperation. “We never have enough people.”
“Yeah,” said Timothy, “I’ll come play.”
The three of them walked down the street to the field behind the Green Apartment Building, where the two or three other kids who were just waiting there killing time said:
“Yay, Timothy’s back!”
The game resumed. Since the loss of Robbie’s super pinky, the neighborhood kids had gone back to using a regular whiffle ball. Being a hollow piece of white plastic, it never flew much further than the infield, even if you got a solid piece of it. But at least no one would hit it out into the weeds again and bring the game to a screeching halt.
Timothy scored two runs in the first inning, so he felt fairly confident that his presence was valued as something more than just a live body.
After about three innings, some loud yelling was heard coming out of the Green Apartment Building. It was a warmish day and the window was wide open.
Timothy knew it was the prostitute’s window, and that it was the same guy that he’d heard yelling on the other side of her closed door the day he was in the hallway with Ken. The same guy he saw walking down the street with the prostitute sometimes.
All the kids in the field froze in place looking up at the open window to see what would happen.
When the guy looked outside and realized a field full of kids were watching him, he put his hands on the sill like he was going to spring out the window and hollered:
“What are you little fuckers looking at?”
He then slammed the window shut and continued yelling.
The kids remained momentarily frozen in place, somewhat terrified that this scary guy just yelled at them. Then Robbie started laughing, so the rest of the kids started laughing too.
Except for Timothy.
He was still trying to figure out why this guy yelling was so deeply upsetting to him, and why was it so strangely familiar?
And then it dawned on him:
It reminded him of his father.
# # #
Thursday afternoon, Timothy and Charles rendezvoused at the Stewart’s on Route 32.
“I hear the coffee’s good here,” Charles said.
“That’s okay,” Timothy said, opting for a Charleston Chew, which he ate enthusiastically to bolster his strength for the coming ride.
Route 32 south was no place for a leisurely side-by-side cruise. Charles led the way, cranking it up to tenth, forgetting that Timothy’s banana saddle only had one gear.
“Wait up!” Timothy called, barely loud enough to be heard above the passing traffic.
“Sorry partner,” Charles said. He kept it in fifth the rest of the journey. Timothy still had to pedal furiously, but managed to keep up while watching out for passing buses.
They rode just a bit further than Timothy had gone on his own. A few hundred yards past the locked main gate of the quarry, Charles pulled off the road when they reached an old boarded-up garage.
“I thought we were meeting this guy at his house,” Timothy said.
“We are, he lives back here.”
“He does?”
Back behind the garage they found, not a house, but a beat-up old trailer. It felt like they were in Appalachia or something, Timothy didn’t know parts of Kingston like this existed.
What the kid’s family lacked in house, they made up for with vehicular assets.
There were trucks, cars, pieces of trucks and cars, and more dirt bikes and go-kart type things than Timothy could count.
“Check it out!” Charles mouthed to Timothy, pointing to an old T-Bird on cinderblocks.
The trailer’s screen door slammed open and stayed open because the spring meant to pull it back was dangling in the breeze. Out came an older kid, with a look on his face that would’ve gone perfectly well with a pitchfork if he’d had one in his hands.
“That you Charles?”
“Hey Dwayne!” Charles called out.
Dwayne approached warily. He had a smudge of motor oil on his face, and was even taller than Charles.
“Who’s this kid?” he asked.
“This is my friend who I told you about. His name’s Timothy, but you can call him Thunderbird.”
“Thunderbird?”
“Don’t let the mild-mannered exterior fool you, he’s a stone cold killer.”
“That so?”
Out of nowhere, Dwayne faked a punch to Timothy’s face to see if he would flinch.
Timothy threw his hands up quickly, lightly connecting with Dwayne’s fist as he was already pulling it back.
Dwayne searched Timothy’s face to see if the faked punch had rattled him or not, then broke into a wide grin.
“Aw, I’m just messing with you, any friend of Charles Lambeau is a friend of mine!”
He put out his big greasy paw and gave Timothy a proper handshake, which Timothy was relieved to accept.
“C’mon, let’s go ridin,” Dwayne said.
He led Charles and Timothy over to his dirt bike collection.
“I’m gonna take my Yammy,” he said, patting his Yamaha 175. “Charles, you can ride the Kawi 100... Thunderbird, how ‘bout you take this sweet little Honda 50?”
The 50 was the smallest of the three, just Timothy’s size.
“You ever ride one of these before?” Dwayne asked.
Timothy had to admit that he hadn’t.
“No problem, I’m gonna give you a quick lesson...”
Hopping on his Yamaha 175, Dwayne went through the process of starting it up while explaining it to Timothy in real time.
A whole litany of new terminology was spilling out of Dwayne’s mouth. Gas line, ignition, clutch, neutral, gearshift... the list went on and on, culminating with Dwayne executing a single deft hop, kickstarting the 175 on the first try. It was instantly so loud that Timothy could barely hear a thing.
“You think you got it?” Dwayne yelled over the noise of the Yamaha.
“Uh, I think so,” Timothy called out. He dared not ask for a repeat but, in fact, he didn’t understand a thing.
“Okay, hop on.”
Timothy mounted the 50. Dwayne left his Yamaha running so he could walk Timothy through it.
“Okay, start by opening up your gas line.”
“Gas what?”
“That switch there below your seat...that’s right...now turn the key to start...yep...now put it into neutral...”
Timothy was totally lost.
“That little lever there by your left foot, it’s in first now, kick it down to neutral...no, squeeze your clutch first, with your left hand, squeeze your clutch...”
Timothy did exactly what Dwayne was telling him and, even though it made no sense to him, the process was moving along.
“Okay, now you’re ready to kick start it, do it...”
With all his weight, Timothy tried the kick starter several times, but just couldn’t get it to turn over.
“That’s okay, it’s probably cold, I’ll get it started for you.”
Dwayne took Timothy’s place, got the Honda started on the first try, then hopped off so Timothy could get back on.
Charles, meanwhile, had had no trouble starting the Kawasaki 100 and was already riding in concentric circles around the dirt patch that functioned as Dwayne’s front lawn.
“Okay, squeeze the clutch,” Dwayne said to Timothy, resuming the instruction. “Put it in first, yeah, now ease off the clutch and give her just a little bit of gas...”
Still not understanding how this thing worked in the slightest, Timothy popped the clutch, immediately causing the Honda to pop a wheelie and spring forward so quickly he didn’t have time to think about steering.
Two seconds later, Timothy slammed into the side of Dwayne’s trailer, at which point the Honda stalled out and fell over with Timothy still on it, pinning his right leg underneath.
“I said let it out slowly, Jeeeesus,” Dwayne said, “you ruined our trailer!”
True, Timothy had just put a dent in the side of the trailer, but Dwayne was cracking up, because the trailer already had more dents than a half-price can of SpaghettiOs.
“Don’t worry, Thunderbird,” Dwayne said, helping to lift the bike off Timothy’s leg. “I did the same thing first time I got on a bike. C’mon, let’s try again.”
In a most brotherly fashion, Dwayne proceeded to walk Timothy through the entire process yet again. This time, Timothy managed not to pop the clutch and, before he knew it, he was chugging around the dirt patch just like Charles.
The smell of oil and gasoline coming off the three dirt bikes filled the air as Dwayne commenced to lead Charles and Timothy back toward the quarry, where they skirted the outer edge of the chainlink fence. It was brambly in places, but there was a clear dirt trail that Dwayne and his pals had obviously been keeping well-worn for years.
Dwayne had told Timothy not to “ride the clutch,” which is exactly what Timothy was more-or-less doing, constantly, but he figured this was better than stalling out again.
They came to a stop at a place where the fence had obviously been reinforced recently.
“Hah,” Dwayne said, pointing at the patch in the fence. “They keep trying to keep me out, I keep cutting my way back in.”
Using the bolt cutters he had bungeed to his mud flap, Dwayne cut a slit into the chain link and peeled it back just enough to squeeze through on his Yamaha. Charles and Timothy exchanged one last cautious glance, then followed Dwayne through the opening and onto private property.
Coming out of the trees atop a sheer rock ledge, the quarry opened up before them. It was a lot bigger than Timothy had even imagined. Part of the terrain down below was flat, open, and dry. The other half was entirely covered in still water, like a giant reflecting pool.
They continued slowly along the top of the ledge until coming to a steep ramp that led down to the quarry floor.
Suddenly letting out a crazy “Wheeooooooo!” Dwayne went full throttle down the ramp then out across the dry half of the quarry floor, leaving a trail of dust in his wake. He rode like a wild man.
“C’mon, let’s have some fun,” Charles said, then followed suit, likewise taking off like a jackrabbit.
Easing off the clutch, Timothy cautiously made his way down the ramp. He’d heard Dwayne and Charles getting their bikes up to third or maybe even fourth, that’s how they were able to race around at such impressive speeds.
Timothy considered trying to shift up to second, but was nervous about attempting anything beyond what had worked so far, so instead he just kept it in first and cranked the throttle.
The Honda 50 complained mightily, begging for Timothy to either shift or ease up on the throttle, but Timothy just kept at it, now on level ground and achieving a high speed of approximately 18 mph, nowhere near what the little speedometer indicated the Honda was capable of, but certainly faster than he was used to going on his banana saddle.
After further displaying his mastery by doing a few donuts and riding a wheelie for a good 50 yards or so, Dwayne rode his Yammy to the water’s edge, where he stopped and waved for Charles and Timothy to join him, which they did.
Timothy carefully put the Honda back in neutral, so he was able to let go of the clutch without it stalling out.
“What’d they used to mine here anyway?” Charles asked Dwayne, over the noise of the idling motorbikes.
“Bluestone,” Dwayne said. “My pop used to work here. His pop too. Fucking Portland cement, nobody wants bluestone anymore.”
This, Timothy thought, began to explain how a place of such epic proportions with so much rock left in it could be left abandoned like this. He looked up at the steep and impressive shale cliffs that seemed such a force of nature. He tried to imagine generations of men, strong as the stone itself, chiseling away, year after year.
“Get a look at this,” Dwayne said, pointing into the water.
At first, Timothy saw nothing in the water but the beautiful reflection of a spring afternoon sky. Then, refocusing his eyes, he saw a single barrel floating just under the surface. And then a second barrel, then a third, and then he lost count.
Everywhere he looked, there were submerged barrels as far as the eye could see. The entire quarry was filled with them.
“Holy shit,” Charles said, “IPM put these here?”
“They’re using it as a freaking dump,” Dwayne said.
“Timothy, you getting pictures of this?” Charles asked.
“You want some real pictures?” Dwayne said. “Follow me.”
Getting back on the dirt bikes, they rode along the water’s edge until they came to where it flooded out into the woods at the northern edge of the property. Here the barrels were even more crammed together, and a green ooze could be seen seeping out of them and making its way directly into the brook.
“This is disgusting,” Charles said. Dwayne nodded his head in agreement.
Dismounting carefully, Timothy had to get his shoes wet, stepping into the marsh to get close enough, but he made sure to get clear snapshots of where the gunk was coming from and where it was going.
Flashing back to that first day they saw that wispy bit of green foam in the stream, he almost couldn’t believe he was actually here seeing this up close.
Dwayne, who was cranking his head around the whole time keeping watch said:
“Oh shit, they’re here early...they usually don’t come till 4:30.”
In the distance, a truck was pulling into the quarry.
“They catch us over here they’ll call the cops for sure,” Dwayne said, “my old man’ll have my ass, come on.”
Jumping on the bikes, Dwayne and Charles took off immediately and, in no time, were speeding back across the quarry.
Timothy, worried that in a panic he’d stall the Honda and be stuck here, went extra slowly easing it into first just to get it rolling. As before, he red-lined the bike in first gear, the little engine screaming at him, but it just wasn’t fast enough.
Up ahead, Dwayne and Charles were on their way up the ramp and in moments would be out of sight. Timothy was going to be out here alone. He’d be the only one to get caught.
“Shit, okay, just do this,” he said to himself.
When he squeezed the clutch, the Honda started coasting and losing speed while Timothy summoned the courage to use his left foot to kick it up one. He tenuously let loose the clutch again and, as it shifted into second, the bike beneath him took off, and suddenly he began covering some ground.
Daring to repeat the process, he managed to get it into 3rd and was now really moving. The wind was making his eyes tear, but he squinted and just kept going.
Reaching the bottom of the ramp, he started ascending at a good clip. Then, halfway up the steep incline, the Honda started struggling, wanting him to downshift, but Timothy just kept it in third, beginning to slow substantially but, finally, making it safely behind the cover of trees, just in time to avoid being seen.
Squeezing the clutch and braking simultaneously, he barely managed to stop before bumping into Dwayne and Charles, who were there waiting for him.
“Nice one,” Charles said.
Dwayne looked down and saw Timothy’s foot was shaking.
“Okay, just kick it down into neutral...there you go, now you can let go that clutch...alright, good job little buddy.”
Dwayne gave Timothy’s cheek a clap in a brotherly kind of way.
Leaving the bikes for the moment, they went to the edge of the trees where they could peak out and watch as the otherwise innocuous-looking delivery truck pulled up to the water’s edge.
The truck was clearly marked IPM.
“Take some pictures,” Charles said.
Timothy took his Instamatic back out and tried pointing it. When Charles looked at him, he realized that Timothy’s hands, like his feet, were still shaking from having been holding on to the rattling motor bike for dear life.
“Here, let me get these,” Charles said, taking the camera.
Charles crept a little closer and, with a steady hand, took several shots as two guys in coveralls used dollies to unload several barrels, which they rolled straight into the water. They took poles from their truck and poked at the barrels in a well-practiced way until they were completely submerged.
“Damn, will you look at that,” Charles said in disbelief. “They been doing that every week?”
“Yep,” Dwayne said, “s’why I usually don’t even bother coming over here on Thursdays, but for you gentlemen I made an exception.”
They continued watching as the men got casually back into their truck like they’d just been delivering bread. They turned it around and drove back toward the gate.
Dwayne spat on the ground and shook his head at the sorrowful sight they’d just witnessed.
“So, Charles,” he said, “you guys think you’re gonna be able to do something to get’m to clean up that mess?”
“We aim to try,” Charles said.
Dwayne wiped his face with the back of his hand.
“That’d be a good thing,” he said.
Getting back on the dirt bikes, they angled them out through the slit in the fence Dwayne had cut, then made their way the short distance back to his trailer where they said their fond farewells.
Having tasted speed, Timothy now knew in his bones he’d make it back into Kingston a lot quicker on a Honda 50.
But on the whole, he was relieved to climb back onto his banana saddle.
[click here to continue to Chapter 14]
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Exceptionally vivid action sequence, with a great Honda set-up paying off at the end. Fear is the best riding teacher. I speak from my own 50cc experience. Still have a scar to prove it...
Go Thunderbird!