The last ticket Pickford received was for driving forty in a school zone. The way he drove now, one would think the entire concept of tickets and speed limits did not exist in his town. The Pontiac tore through neighborhood roads without care. Pickford kept one hand on the wheel and the other on his freshly-lit joint. He passed it back to Mitch.
Mitch held the joint unsurely, watching as Pink and Don shared one of their own. He put the little piece of rolled paper up to his lips and breathed in through his mouth. He had never so much as tried a cigarette before and the sensation of smoke inside his throat and chest surprised him. He erupted into a coughing fit and passed the joint back to Pickford. His eyes watered and he wondered how the others could take such long drags without blinking twice.
"Pull over to that trashcan!" Don leaned out the passenger's side window, pointing at a metal trashcan on the curb.
Pickford cruised a little closer to the curb without slowing down. Don snatched the trashcan by its handle, heaving it into the air. The lid flew off and garbage blew out in a trail. Don managed to get control of the can just long enough to launch it at the next house's mailbox. The trashcan hit its mark and there was an awful racket as the mailbox snapped off its post.
"Shit, yeah!" Pink shouted. He handed his joint to Don and leaned out his window. "Pull over to that one there."
Just like Don before him, Pink grabbed a trashcan right off its place on the side of the road and lifted it high in the air. The Pontiac shot by a mailbox painted red, white, and blue. Pink smashed the trashcan into the patriotic box and tore it from its post, sending splinters flying.
Pickford increased the car's speed in case anyone on this street was awake. All they would see was a blur of orange as the boys charged onward into the night.
Don turned around in his seat and pointed at the bowling ball under Mitch's feet. "Bowling ball," he said, both drunk and high. "Throw the bowling ball!"
"Yeah!" Pink agreed.
Mitch hesitated. "Think I should?"
"Yeah, throw it! Throw it!" Don insisted.
Mitch picked up the bowling ball and held it in both hands. He could barely see in the dark car, but it was at least a ten-pounder.
"Throw it!" Pink said. "C'mon, you're playing with the big boys now, man."
Maybe it was the weed taking effect, or maybe Mitch only convinced himself the weed was taking effect—how much could one hit really do to a guy, anyway? Nevertheless, he found himself rolling down his window.
"Do it!" Don was rambling now. "Throw it! Faggot-sissy-pussy freshman, throw it!"
Mitch saw a mailbox coming up. There was a little buzz in the back of his head. He reasoned the car was going too fast for anyone to catch them. As incomprehensible as it was, there would truly be no consequences for what he was about to do, and he liked that. He also liked these senior guys, and wanted them to like him and not kick him out of the car.
He chucked the bowling ball out the window, but he had waited a split-second too long and missed his mark. Instead of the mailbox, the bowling ball crashed into a car parked along the curb next to some poor bastard's house. The back windshield shattered and the bowling ball came to rest on the car's floor in a similar spot to where it had rested in Pickford's.
For a moment, all was quiet as the reality of Mitch's mistake sunk into the boys' minds.
Then Don broke into giggles. "Fuck 'em!"
"That bowling ball said 'Oof!' to that damn windshield!" Pickford cried. He reached behind his seat with an open palm for Mitch to clap. "You're nuts, Junior! You're nuts!"
Mitch sheepishly shook Pickford's hand. No consequences, he repeated to himself. No consequences.
"Hey man," Don said. "We're outta beer, we gotta make a grab-and-go stop." Pickford slowed down and pulled into the nearest gas station. Don made a big ordeal out of checking all his pockets. "I don't have any money. Who's got money?" He looked at each of his companions in turn. "Where's your money?" Everyone came up short. Don shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Alright, pull in heading out that way."
Pickford did as he was directed and parked the Pontiac crookedly in the small gas station lot with the engine idling. The car's nose was aimed at the road, so it could shoot off into the night at a moment's notice.
"What're you gonna do, man, hoist it?" Pickford asked.
"Yeah, that's all I ever do," Don said casually. "I just need the freshman as a lookout."
Pickford looked unsure, a rarity. "I don't wanna get in trouble, do you, Randall Pink?"
"I don't know about this, Don," Pink said.
But Don was already exiting the car and the other boys were too stoned to do much about it. Pickford moved his seat up so Mitch could climb out from the back. The older boy jabbed his finger into the younger's shoulder. "Better be careful, Junior." To Don, he said, "Sunflower seeds."
Don repeated the order. Pink added, "Zig-Zags," and Don repeated that, too.
No consequences, no consequences, Mitch kept saying to himself, but this seemed a lot different and more dangerous than throwing a bowling ball out a car window. Jodi would kill him if she ever found out.
"Hey, man…" He stopped short. "I'm not too sure about this."
Don shushed him. If not for the car ride over, one would think he was under the influence of nothing at all. "I'm really gonna pay for it, I'm just messing around with 'em, okay?" He mussed Mitch's hair reassuringly. "Okay? Good."
Mitch smirked and let Don walk inside. He watched from the window as Don selected a six-pack and the requested snacks, marched up to the counter, and made conversation with the clerk. Mitch glanced at the Pontiac. Neither Pickford nor Pink were paying attention, but even if they were, the car had been parked too far from the storefront for them to have a clear view.
Don sure came running out like he stole the beer, a dumb grin on his face. "Run! Go!" he said, and Mitch went along with the act.
"We gotta get outta here, man!" Don said as they jumped back in the car.
"Oh my God!" Pickford laughed.
There was the unmistakable click of a revolver's hammer going back, and the smiles vanished from all four boys' faces. A middle-aged man with wild gray hair stood at the driver's side. His pistol's barrel hovered mere inches from Pickford's face. The man wore only a loosely-tied bathrobe over a wifebeater and boxers.
"Alright, don't try anything, or I'll shoot the shit outta ya!" he growled.
Pickford turned to Don. "Give the beer back, man."
"I paid for the beer, man," Don whispered, his eyes on the gunman.
Pickford frowned and mouthed, The fuck? If not the beer, then what was the stranger so upset about?
"You busted my mailbox, didn't you? Look me in the eye, punk!"
Oh. Oh, shit. Pickford felt the barrel of the gun come under his chin and guide his head back to the left. He locked eyes with the furious homeowner. He correctly guessed this was the owner of the red, white, and blue mailbox Pink had destroyed. How the old man managed to see them and catch up with them was beyond Pickford. The crazy bastard must have been sitting out on his porch just waiting for trouble to pass by. He probably did so every night, knowing one day his patience would pay off, and now it had.
Call it instinct or habit, but Pickford started to do what he always did when things went sideways and tried to buy time, looking for some unforeseen moment wherein the universe or God or whatever would have pity on him and redirect the situation in his favor. "I don't know what you're talking about, sir," he stammered. "But I suggest that you—"
"You busted it, didn't ya?!" The gunman fixed the other boys with sour, unforgiving eyes. "Tampering with mailboxes is a felony offense. Now, I done called the police." He pushed his revolver's hammer back into place and slipped the gun into his robe's pocket. "I think you boys oughta get outta the car. Nice and slow."
Pink saw the gun go into the man's pocket and hissed, "Just go, man."
Pickford's eyes flicked over to the gearshift. The gunman was starting to open the driver's side door. Pickford wondered how fast a draw this vigilante was. Would his pistol be back out and primed by the time Pickford threw the car into gear and took off?
While Pickford tried to calculate his odds of survival, Don made the choice for him.
"GOGOGO!" he shouted, pulling back the gearshift himself. Pickford's foot slammed on the gas and the Pontiac flew out of the lot, sending the gunman sprawling on his back. Pickford shut his door back and managed to grab the steering wheel just before the car drove all the way across the road into someone else's yard.
Mitch and Pink looked back to see the gunman stagger to his feet, one hand fishing the revolver out of his robe.
"Get down!" Pink said, shoving Mitch's head into the car seat.
Dizzy from his fall, the gunman fired two shots blindly after the car, missing both times.
"He's actually shooting at us!" Pickford yelled. "Holy shit!"
The Pontiac drove even faster than before, leaving behind the gas station, the angry would-be hero, and the ravaged neighborhood.
"Fucking shit!" Pink gasped. He lifted Mitch's head back up. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Mitch said quietly. "You're not gonna tell Jodi about this, are you?"
Pink had to laugh, mostly from nerves but a little because they were both on the same page. "Shit man. If you don't, I won't."
"Let's never tell anyone. Ever," Pickford said.
The other boys solemnly agreed.
The first thing Pickford did upon their return to the Emporium was gather together Wooderson, Michelle, Slater, and Kyle to recount the story. He shouted the tale over the sound of Rick Derringer's "Rock and Roll, Hoochie Koo" coming from the jukebox. Pink, Mitch, and Don supplemented with details whenever they saw necessary.
"I was inches away from getting my head blown off!" Pickford said. "And Evil Knievel here…" he indicated Don, "…just throws the car in gear and I floor it!"
"What?" Don grinned. "Did you get shot? Did we have to wait around for the cops to bust us? No."
"But it was me who he had the gun on, not you! It was me who was going to get his brains splattered!"
"Oh, my poor baby," Michelle said, wrapping her arms around him from behind. "Don't ever do anything like that again!"
Pickford kissed her cheek and promised he would not. He would, however, decide later that night—technically, early that morning—that the chances the gunman got a good look at the Pontiac, maybe even the license plate, were high. Since the last thing he wanted was to get picked up by the cops, and he was grounded anyway, Pickford opted to leave town for a while. Michelle would agree to accompany him and they would end up in Las Vegas on a whim, happily married. Said marriage would last only a few short months when upon their return, Mrs. Burroughs would have the marriage annulled because Michelle was only sixteen.
Don puffed up his chest. "Don't worry. If that asshole had pulled the trigger, he would have had us to deal with."
"That's right," Pink said, leaning against Don. "What are you complaining about?"
Mitch remained mostly quiet, still trying to take in the fact that he had had what qualified in his eyes as a near-death experience. He had been shot at, for God's sake. Surely not every weekend was like this for Pink and the other seniors?
"Say, man." Melvin appeared next to him, a pool cue and several crumpled bills in hand. He handed the bills to Mitch. "Why don't you run over to the Centennial over there and pick me up a sixer of Schlitz. Think you can do that?"
"Uh—" Mitch said.
"Thanks, man." Melvin returned to his game.
Mitch blinked at the cash in his hand. He looked at his companions for any reaction.
"Good luck," Don said simply.
Pink nodded. "Don't worry about it, man. Worst they can do is say no and kick you out."
As long as they don't shoot at me, Mitch thought. But in the end, it was this that convinced him to go ahead and try. If he could survive being shot at, why not try and buy beer?
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