Rocket Car

Chapter 2

Rocket Car

It's late and a weekday, so by the time we're seated at the bar there's only a handful of people there. When we were kids, our little town had one bar. Now, there's several dozen and most are crowded on Friday nights. Our little farming community of several thousand is now happily dubbed by local politicians and city workers as "The fastest growing area in the United States!" Gross. Why say that with such pride? Have these people ever been to a big city? It's full of parasites and garbage. There are no rolling hills of grapevines, endless horizons of pasture, wheat fields for miles, or empty lots of kids to play baseball.

The thought takes me back to our childhood. As we take our seats at a small table in the back corner of the bar I ask, "Do you remember when you drilled me in the face with my broken bat?"

It takes a moment for his mind to conjure up the memory. When it hits him he laughs. I can't help but smile. No matter how many years have passed his laugh remains the same. It puts me at ease. Despite any apprehensive feelings I had minutes ago I'm very content. What was I worried about, anyway? It doesn't matter how long it's been since we've seen each other or how much we've changed. At the end of the day, he's still Davis and I'm still Kristy.

"Yeah, that was the best throw I ever made as a pitcher," he jokes.

Conversation is broken up as a young waitress takes our orders. He asks for tangerine ale, local brew. I make my usual request of a whiskey and coke. We drift in silence as she walks away. Our ears are beaten by the loud rock music coming from the jukebox and the sports highlights from the TV next to us. We can't help but look up to see what happened in the majors. Our favorite team lost – again. They never win.

"So," he starts hesitantly. I'm sure there are a million questions he wants to ask but has no idea how. Just like me. "Um, how have things been? What have you been up to?"

"Good. Got a new job here. Security. You?" I answer. Jeez, that was lame. I wasn't even fully honest. Things are going alright not good. There's a massive difference between those two terms. If things were "good" I'd know what the flying crap I'm doing with my life.

"Security, huh? That fits," he says. It sounded sincere enough. "Well, you know what I do. One of my jobs at least. I also load trucks at the winery near The Butte."

"The Butte?" I question. That place and the vineyards that surrounded it were a place we must have spent thousands of hours around. Hearing the name forces a wave of nostalgia to crash over me. Davis seems to understand that I said it out loud merely to clarify for myself, so he simply nods.

Our drinks arrive and we say out thanks. Left alone again, conversation is a must. He starts it again when he asks, "Tell me about your date. You know, the guy that was at the game with you?"

I'm embarrassed again so before I answer I take a sip of my drink. My skin was already heated from my uneasiness and the alcohol doesn't help. I rub my earlobe where a healed piercing hole acts as distraction. "There's nothing to say. It was our first time out. I don't think it's going to work."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"How's Alexa?"

All of the color in his face drains. Bad idea to ask about her, apparently. Obviously, it's been longer since I've last chatted with Davis than I remember. Nervous, he downs about half of his glass of ale. I almost laugh at his antics – and I certainly would've if I was a few years younger – but I almost feel sorry for the guy. Davis and Alexa had been dating on and off for years. Last I heard, they'd finally figured it out and were engaged.

I watch as his fingertips rub his glass as he finds a way to answer. "Um, well… uh, she tried to kill me."

"What?!"

Red returned to his pale face at the sound of my shocked yelp. He takes another long drink before going, "Don't worry about it. It's no big deal. She tried to run me over and… it's over now. To being single?"

I smile at the sight of his raised glass, even if it is almost empty. We make a toast to our freedom. By the time his glass it back on the table, the waitress has already brought another one. I'll have to remember how great the service is here.

"Have you talked to anyone else since you got back? Dee? Michael? I'm sure you still talk to Jeep," he says. I watch as he takes a sip of his newly acquired ale, intently following the liquid as it leaves the chilled glass, passing his lips, and disappears behind the walls of his mouth. The movement of his throat as he swallows catches my eye next. I can tell by how focused his eyes are that he's well aware I'm not going to say a damn thing. He inquires, "You guys aren't talking anymore?"

I hesitate. Juan Puig – or "Jeep" as we called him, from his initials of J.P. – was quite simply put half of the duo that made "us." We did everything together. From the moment we became friends in seventh grade until three days before I turned twenty-four, we were inseparable. Entire lifetimes were planned between us. Friendship is for life… yeah, my ass it is.

I sigh, "You know his wife?"

"I know of her, but I don't know her," he admits. I'm surprised, and he must see it in my expression because he shrugs. "He's not talking to me, either. Didn't get invited to the wedding. Whatever, it's no real loss. He was a douchebag. Anyway… what about her?"

I don't comment on his odd rant about Jeep and try to get back to my explanation. "I'm the one that got them together. I was a mutual friend and thought they'd be great together. He'd just had to deal with Jasmine, remember her?"

"Yeah, cheating w***e," he mutters before finish his second beer.

I try not to show that his biting insults are unusual to hear from him. Davis never had a bad word to say about anybody. Yet I can't stop myself from changing the subject and asking, "Are you drunk after only two beers?"

"What? No. I've been drinking since the first inning," he admits. Before I can comment, he says, "Hey! Remember the first time we got drunk? That was hilarious!"

"No it wasn't. I stayed up all night making sure you didn't drown in your own puke," I say with disgust.

"And you succeeded!"

July 15th, 2006

They were about to enter their senior year of high school. Next year they would scatter across the globe as they moved toward achieving their dreams. It was also someone's birthday. There was simply no better reason than that to dive into alcohol for the first time.

With a two-story farmhouse theirs alone for the night, the group of friends had a fairly simple plan laid out. First, they'd do some target practicing with Michael's new shotgun. As the sun set, they'd start up the bonfire and roast on the open fire. Afterward, they'd retreat back into the house for some old school cartoons as they drifted off to sleep. It was a typical summer's evening for them. Alcohol hadn't even crossed anyone's mind until Jeep ran into some in the cabinet.

Jeep stood on countertops as he whipped every door open and peaked inside for the spices. They were ready to toast the roast and chow down by as an aspiring amateur cook, he would not allow it on the fire without a special blend. Unfortunately, it wasn't his house they were staying at, so he had no idea where anything was.

Why he decided to look in the cabinet above the fridge no one will ever know. When he finally managed to get it open he found himself staring at a bottle of Jose Cuervo, two bottles of Bacardi rum, and some Kettle One vodka. Curious, he grabbed all of them and dashed outside.

"Hey guys, look at what Michael's family left for us!" he shouted.

The four bottles were dropped into the dirt when he reached the fire. No one knew how to react at first. Davis was the first one to speak up when he said, "Um, no? We're not drinking that."

"f**k off, we totally are. It'll do my dad some good to not have that s**t around anyway," Michael said.

Kristy was quietly protesting. First of all, she knew without a doubt none of the idiots around the fire had ever seriously ingested alcohol. Secondly, there was still a shotgun with plenty of ammo in easy reach. Lastly, they had a raging fire that needed to be tended to. If all of them got drunk, someone was probably going to end up in the hospital. Hell, people ended up in the hospital sober with that group.

"I'll pass," she said.

"Of course! Because your parents would be so upset if they found out you'd be drinking!" Jeep teased.

Yeah, they would. So what, asshole? she thought but never vocalized. It was fairly common for the group to give her grief for how much of a "straight-edge" kid she was. Better if she made sure no one burned themselves to death or got shot when drunk, she figured.

Michael and Jeep were of course the first to give it a go. Jeep took the tequila, Michael took the vodka. Twisting off the caps and chugging it like it was water, they weren't prepared for the burn. Michael was the first to cough. He muttered something about how gross it was before handing the bottle off. Dee grabbed it; she was able to handle it a bit better than he.

Davis and Kristy watched silently as Lorie took the bottle next. After a small swig she made it clear it was not tasty at all. It was shoved into Davis's hands next. Uninterested, he set the bottle down in the dirt. Jeep saw this and called him out. "Don't be a p***y Davis. Drink!"

"I don't want to," he said, his voice brimming with that famous Davis tension.

"Faggot," Jeep mumbled.

That did it. Davis grabbed the vodka and swallowed not just one, but four large gulps. Instantly his cheeks were turning red. It was at that point that Kristy knew she was on her own.

Not long passed before Lorie and Dee were passed out in Michael's sister's bedroom. Jeep and Michael were still going strong, but Davis had seated himself in the family room and hadn't moved. He tried to slur out that he wasn't feeling well as he tried to disappear into the leather recliner. Kristy made sure to place the shotgun on the top shelf of the closet inside Michael's parent's room. Several suitcases were placed in front of it and clothes thrown on top. They weren't going to find it.

Michael and Jeep were hyper drunks. It started with them throwing darts at each other. Then they tried to use the pool table as a wrestling pad. Someone found bike helmets; Michael put one on and Jeep found some tennis rackets. For a few minutes all they did was hit each other in the head with the rackets while wearing helmets.

Then Michael got out his skateboard.

"Dude. Dude. Dude! Twenty bucks. To… to ride down the stairs," Michael dared.

"Fuhck bro, I fuckin' do it for free!"

Kristy almost didn't make it in time. She caught Jeep by the waist just as he was about to descend into the basement on a beat up skateboard. The board slipped out from under his feet. Panicked, she tugged Jeep backwards, sending them both crashing into the wall as the board flew down the stairs.

It took a second for her to regain her senses. Someone was way too close for comfort… It's Jeep, and he's taken the frantic grab to save him as a move for something else. It started just with a drunken nuzzle on her neck before he was full-blown biting her. Between nibbles his voice reached her ears. "Frisky… let's do it."

"What? Get off! Stop!"

She barely had the chance to push him before a fist hit Jeep square in the temple. She watched as he tumbled down the stairs she just tried to save him from. Shocked, she didn't say a word. Even Michael, who was just bouncing off the walls, was dead silent. The man that had just clobbered Jeep opened his mouth to say something, but no words get out. Instead, he vomited.

"Jesus, Davis! Are you alright?!" Kristy yelled. Jeep was long forgotten as Davis hunched over again and spewed forth another round of alcohol-induced upchuck.

They spend the rest of the night in the bathroom together – the three of them, Michael, Davis, and Kristy. Michael placed himself in the bathtub naked and turned the shower on. Cool water helped chill his body and bring his head back around. Eventually, he fell asleep and Kristy made sure to turn the water off and dry him, somehow completely unaware of the fact he was completely exposed.

The rest of her time was spent massaging the back of a heaving Davis. In between violent vomit dragon moments he laid his head on the toilet seat. The sound of farm equipment seeped through the old farmhouse walls by the time he's passed out, the last bits of drool and barf dripping from his lips. It was close to five in the morning. Carefully she wiped his mouth clean and then moved him to lay on the floor.

Worried he might throw up in his sleep she decided to stay next to him until he woke up. Gently she petted his dark hair, hoping it comforted him in his sleep. He shifted slightly; she moved assuming he was awake. Faintly, he muttered, "I love you, Kristy."

Ten years later, and she never once told him about that confession.