Pulp! 2

Chapter 6

It takes only about fifteen minutes for our Uber driver to show up. He’s a young man with tattoos on both his arms, a ring through his nose, and so many earrings in his ears that the lobes look zippered on. He’s also sporting a tall Mohawk that’s dyed fire engine red.

He’s driving an old, rust colored Jeep Wrangler with the top off. There’s a winch on the front and a custom stainless steel fender in the back. Directly below the rear fender, in the spot where a trailer hitch should be, are a pair of balls. Human male genitalia fashioned from brass, to be more specific.

“You know how to pick ‘em, Baker,” Edge says, not without a snort.

“Could be worse,” I say. “Dude could have pulled up with a horse and buggy.”

Mohawk Man smiles, revealing a silver upper front tooth.

“Hope you like Jeeps, dudes,” he says, his voice and tone more Los Angeles surfer stoner than upstate New York.

“Who are you?” Edge says, “Jeff Spicoli?”

Of course, Edge is referring to the infamous stoner played so convincingly by Hollywood icon, Sean Penn, in the early 1980s comedy film, Fast Times at Ridgemont High.

Fast Times at Ridgemont High“I love Jeeps,” Sarah says, climbing into the back. “This is going to be a hell of a lot more fun than SuspenseFest.”

Edge and his whiskey bottle climb into the back and he presses himself up against Sarah before I get the chance. Rats. I climb into the front. Looks like I have no choice but to cuddle up with Mohawked Jeff Spicoli.

I hold out my hand. He takes it in his. He’s wearing about three pounds’ worth of metal bracelets and rings with skulls on them.

“Whad’you say your name was?” I query Mohawk.

“Rob,” he says. “Rob Paley. Please to be your acquaintance.”

I introduce myself, along with the two in back.

“Oh, hey dude,” he says, “where you off too?”

I tell him. Then I ask him how much?

“Quite the fare, man,” he says. He looks up at the cloudless blue sky like he’s trying to figure out a number in his head. After a time, he glances my way, says, “Five hundred.”

“You making that up off the top of your head?” I ask. “Excuse me, top of your Mohawk?”

“Math was never my strong point,” he says. “I play battle ax in a grunge metal band. That’s my forte, dude. Uber’s just the day gig.”

“Deal,” Edge agrees from the back. “I’ll pay it. I’m made of money. Let’s just get this thing on the road.”

“Okay,” I say. “You heard the man.”

“You pay for gas too,” Mohawk Rob says.

“Yeah, yeah,” Edge says. “Just step on it already. I wanna see how the wind blows through Sarah’s hair with the road runnin’ under our wheels.”

I turn, glance at her over my shoulder. She offers me a wink and a grin.

I turn back toward the road.

Mohawk Rob turns on the radio and blares death metal.

“Rob!” I shout.

“Oh,” he giggles, turning it way down. “Force of habit. Like donuts first thing in the morning after the first brain bud bong hit, you know?”

He pulls out onto the road, begins heading out of town. The cool Catskill Mountain air slaps our faces. I can’t help but notice when I once again glance over my shoulder at Sarah that, like Edge predicted, when it blows through her hair it makes her look even more stunning.

But that’s when I also see something else out the corner of my eye. Two men standing on a freshly cut lawn outside an old wood building with a wraparound porch. A wood sign nailed to one of the posts says Phoenicia Free Library. Two men, one older and the other younger, wearing matching track suits. The young one has a thick strip of white surgical tape holding his swelled nose together.

Sergey Senior and Sergey Junior.

They’re eyeballing us through their dark sunglasses while we motor past.

You’d better find yourself a g*n, Chase man . . . Something tells me they’re going to find a way to tail you . . .

You’d better find yourself a g*n, Chase man . . . Something tells me they’re going to find a way to tail you . . .I think about saying something about their sudden presence, but Edge pulls himself up into the center of the front bucket seats using the roll bar.

“Oh, hey Rob,” he says, “I’ll toss an extra ten with the tip if you stop for beer.”

“Right on, dude,” Rob says. “You’re old as f**k but super cool.”

“Old?” Edge says. “I’m younger than Mr. Bush Jacket there.”

“Oh yeah,” Rob says, glancing up and down at me while he motors the Jeep onto a narrow, tree-lined road. “I see what you mean.”

Sarah giggles.

It’s gonna be a long trip to Albany.