Destroy All Cars (8 page)

ME:
Well, you heard wrong.

Or:

TASHA:
Do you think there's a difference between being in love and being in lust?

ME:
I hope so.

TASHA:
What's the difference?

ME:
Being in lust is just horniness.

TASHA:
But it's not, though. When you're in lust, it's still about that one person. It's like love but with your body.

ME:
Yeah, like you know so much about it.

TASHA:
I know a lot about it. More than you, from the sounds of it.

Or:

TASHA:
Did you ever get so passionate with your girlfriend you couldn't control yourself?

ME:
I can always control myself.

TASHA:
Is that really passion, though? Isn't passion when you totally lose yourself in the other person?

ME:
On TV maybe. I don't live on TV.

TASHA:
If I'm not
intoxicated
by a person, I won't waste my time. Why should I?

ME:
That's the kind of thing people say on TV.

Later, when it's time to go home, Tasha and I end up standing together on the steps in front of the lodge. We're waiting for my sister, who's inside looking for her coat. We stand for a moment surrounded by the snow and the
trees and the glowing moon. Suddenly, Tasha turns to me and gives me this dramatic look. It's like she thinks we're wildly in love and the whole night has been building up to this moment and now I'm supposed to take her into my arms and kiss her passionately.

I'm like, dude, you're
fourteen.

So we just stand there until my sister comes out. Later, I feel bad. I do like Tasha. She's fun to argue with. People are interesting sometimes. I forget that. They're interesting and complicated and sorta cute sometimes.

On Friday night, my dad wants to have a family activity. So we go ice-skating. It's me and my mom and my dad and my sister. It's like we're all together. It's like a beautiful dream. It's like the Disney Channel. Except that my dad and I hate each other. And my mom hates herself. And my sister is humiliated by the bunch of us. And I'm secretly waiting for the inevitable devastation of our entire civilization.

But except for that.

On our last night, there's an 80s Dance Party at the TeenZone. I go with Libby. I've never done so many social things with Libby, so it's been an interesting week in terms of that. We really are “being a family,” whatever that means. We arrange to meet Tasha. I'm looking forward to that, actually. Could I be falling for her? No. She's just entertaining.

But then Tasha shows up and she's dressed up all
sexy. I don't know what to make of that. I mean, she's got eye shadow and lip gloss and this low-cut dress on, like she's trying to show cleavage. But she doesn't have anything to show.

The music starts. “Girls on Film” is the first song. Tasha seems very focused on me. We dance a little. Then Libby goes off somewhere and leaves us alone, which is not good. Tasha and I end up dancing close and she gets a little touchy. So then I suggest we play video games, to hopefully keep things under control, but that's just as bad. She's bumping shoulders, bumping hips, I feel her hand graze my butt at one point. The hard part is, she smells good. And the top of her head seems to fit perfectly right under my chin. And there's only so many times a girl can touch you and lean against you and brush her fingertips across your arm before you start to respond…

So we kiss. It just sort of happens, just for a second, next to Intergalactic Commandos or whatever. Then, before I can say anything, she's pulled me into this little storage room. We really start making out then. It's pretty crazy. After a minute of this, she looks up at me with one of her dramatic expressions.

“There's something I haven't told you,” she says. “I have a boyfriend.”

“Good!” I say back.

That makes her mad. We go back to the dance and I try to act normal, but she keeps giving me these angry looks. It's all very awkward. Especially when Libby comes
back. The two of them go off and talk, and they both ignore me after that.

We drive home on Sunday. Libby and I sit in the back of the Pilot. We wear our seat belts and don't look at each other. She's probably not thrilled about the whole Tasha situation. It was pretty weird.

We leave Sun River and get back on the main highway. Instantly, the outside world changes from shiny SUVs, shiny people, shiny eighth grade girls to dirty trucks, broken-down cars, dull-faced people looking across at you. I think about Tasha, how she rested her hand on the small of my back during the video games. How she raised her face so slyly up toward mine for that first kiss. At one point she whispered,
“I like how you touch me.”
Or some crazy thing. She's in eighth grade!! Unbelievable.

Meanwhile, in the front seat, my dad is cursing the lack of radio reception. My mom is checking our home messages with her cell. There's a message for me, she says. That's a surprise. She hands me the cell phone and tells me to push 1.

I push it and listen:
“Hey, James, Sadie here. I want to talk to you about something. If you wouldn't mind. You're probably off somewhere on vacation but can you give me a call when you get this? Thanks. See you.”
I lower the phone from my ear.

Wow,
I think.

Wow.

James Hoff

Junior AP English

Mr. Cogweiller

EXTRA CREDIT ASSIGNMENT:
four-page paper on topic of your choice

Many people come up to me—well, no one has actually, but theoretically if someone came up to me—and asked, “James, what can I do to help stop the destruction of the planet and everything on it?” To these individuals I would say, “Fear not. There is hope.”

I can't believe Sadie called me.

First of all, consider Native Americans. They are a model of sustainability. They lived with nature. Not on top of it. Not beating it with a baseball bat. They integrated themselves into the natural order of things, and did so with respect for other species and humility toward the earth.

I wonder what Sadie wants. Don't think about it. She called. So call her back.

Other native cultures—the tribes of New Guinea, for instance—managed to thrive without any technological advancement. Did they somehow sense the suicidal nature of continuous development? Oddly enough, we think of these peoples' lack of ambition as a sign of their inferior culture. They aren't “driven.”
They don't “work hard/play hard” like we do. But the truth is, they are happy and healthy. They have established a harmonious existence on the earth.

I should have gotten some sun. And I have a new zit starting on my nose, which I can feel. I've gotta stop touching it.

Other cultures—the Greeks, for instance—were able to downshift from their dominant place as a center of trade and commerce. They were able to stop growing, stop conquering, and simply exist, content within themselves, not suffering from low self-esteem.

What could she want to talk about? What if it's something about Will? What if she wants to meet somewhere, to talk, and I end up alone with her. I'll kiss her. I totally will. No, I won't. That would totally freak her out.

In other places, like Oslo, there is a sense of planning. There is an overriding intelligence to everything people do. People in Oslo would
never
buy a vehicle that gets ten miles to the gallon. It doesn't make
sense.
Oslonians don't allow lumber companies to destroy their forests. Or car companies to sit on their asses and not develop more efficient vehicles. They
think
about the consequences of things before they do them. Our government is mainly concerned with keeping us buying stuff, the crappier the better. But our government is also somewhat fluid. Which means there
is
a chance for change.

The End
[Not handed in]

When we get home from Sun River, I bolt for the house and run straight for the phone. But then my dad yells at me and says I have to help unpack, so I run back out and empty the crap out of the car and drop it on Libby, who refuses to catch it. Most of it crashes on the pavement, and a few things roll down the driveway. Libby stands there with her arms crossed. She says, “Why don't you go call Sadie instead of trashing our stuff?”

She knows Sadie called because my stupid mom announced it to the car after I listened to the message. My mom was like: “So are you and Sadie friends now?” No, Mom. We're not friends. But we're still in love with each other and we never had sex. Not to mention that she believes in positivity and the goodness of the human spirit while I believe in nothingness and the conflicted nature of the soul. So the “getting back together” thing isn't going so great. But I'm trying.

Anyway, so I pick up the crap off the driveway and run inside, but now it's like 10:15 at night and I'm not sure I should call this late. On the other hand, if I don't call her, there's the danger that I'll see her at school and she might come up to me in the crowded hallway and say whatever she wants to say and then I won't get a chance to talk to her privately. So I bound up the stairs and call Gabe really quick to see what he thinks, but he doesn't answer. Then I call Jessica, who is perplexed by the problem.

“What do you think she wants?” she asks.

“I have no idea,” I answer.

So the “getting advice at the last minute” thing doesn't go anywhere. Which means it's up to me. I go to my room and flop on my bed and lie there for a second. I stare out the window at the trees outside. I still remember her home number by heart. I dial it and lie there. I put the phone to my ear. It rings. It answers.

“Hello?” says Sadie Kinnell.

It's the most natural thing in the world to talk to her. Even though the rest of me is shivering with nerves, my voice sounds calm and clear, totally normal, my best self, which she always seemed to bring out.

She asks about my vacation, where we went, how it was. I tell her, going heavy on the mountains and the snowboarding and leaving out the fourteen-year-old drama queen. I ask if she's ever read
Black Elk Speaks.
She has, of course. She says it broke her heart.

“Me, too,” I say back.

I continue along, conversing, asking questions. It is so great to talk to her, to actually discuss things, to not have to edit myself or pretend in any way.
Oh my god,
I think, I AM STILL SO TOTALLY IN LOVE WITH HER. I want to cry. But I don't. I keep my mouth shut and listen and she conveniently starts talking about the pond by Carl Haney's house and how they're draining all the swamp area nearby, which will destroy the habitats of the local ducks and frogs and stuff. “That sucks,” I
repeat several times. She says she talked to a woman who runs an organization that's trying to stop the development. It's called Save the Wetlands, and they're getting a petition going to get the zoning board to approach the city council, etc. etc. I don't really follow this part. The point is, this woman needs people to get signatures. Sadie is going to do it. Would I be interested? It would only be a couple days a week, after school…

I say yes. Of course I do. I say yes before she's even finished telling me what exactly we're doing. Yes yes yes. I will do it. Yes.

James Hoff

Junior AP English

Mr. Cogweiller

EXTRA CREDIT ASSIGNMENT:
four-page paper on topic of your choice

I went to Oslo with my dad when I was in seventh grade. He was going to a meeting there for work and he took me. We landed at the airport and went in a taxi to a big hotel in the city. At first, Oslo looked like any other city. But then I began to notice how organized it was. Like the lines on the road, the way the traffic lights worked, there was an advanced logic to things.

We went to the hotel and had lunch. My dad said the food in Oslo wasn't so great, but I liked it. There were lots of rolls. The cups and bowls were different. The plates were square. The forks were stubbier than American forks.

That afternoon, my dad went to a meeting and I stayed in the hotel. He said I could walk around if I wanted, but I was afraid, so I stayed in the room and read my Harry Potter book. After a while, though, I stopped reading and looked out the window. It was cold and misty and very gray outside. The cars were smaller than our cars. And the trucks seemed like toys somehow. I thought,
These poor people. They can't afford
real trucks. They have to do everything really small and puny because they're not Americans like us.

I went downstairs. I told the lady at the front desk that I was going for a walk. I stepped through the sliding glass doors and onto the street. It was very cold, but people were walking around. The Oslonians looked different from Americans. The actual shape of their faces was different. But they were very trim and well dressed. I was careful to stay out of their way. They looked busy.

I walked down the main street. Everyone had the latest cell phones and headsets. They had their odd minicars, and their Mercedes buses and their sleek, colorful streetcars. I went into a supermarket and everything was small and compact and computerized. It was like being in a science fiction movie, but only ten years in the future. Everything felt like it was designed very carefully. Everything was there for a reason. And it wasn't like they were walking around congratulating themselves about it. They just did it because that was the logical thing to do.

There were no strip malls in Oslo. There was no litter. There was a McDonald's, though, and I went there and the French fries tasted funny. I mean, it wasn't a perfect place. But it was different. That was the lesson. Things can be different. You don't have to keep doing things the exact same way. You can change. A lot of people do things differently and so can we.

The End

A– from Cogweiller. Barely made a mark on it. Wrote:
Interesting, good description of physical location
on the bottom.

At school today, Sadie came to my locker and gave me my clipboard and the petition sheets for Save the Wetlands. She told me that my days will be Tuesday and Thursday. Then she explained how you approach people and what you're supposed to say.

She had it all on a printout. While she showed me, she breathed on me and stood really close. Our forearms touched. She pointed out my location on the map: right in front of Powell's Bookstore downtown. She said it would be fun. She said I'd meet interesting people.

I was like, “Wait. Aren't you going to be there?”

She said no, her days are Monday and Wednesday. And she was at a different location, out by the airport.

I was like, “I thought we were doing this together?”

She said we were, but only in different places. And on different days.

So then I couldn't say anything more because that would be too embarrassing and would show that I don't really care so much about saving the ducks or the frogs or whatever. I mean, I do, but not enough to go stand on a street corner by myself, harassing people to sign a piece of paper—which won't really help anything anyway, not in the long run.

So I just grumbled and acted annoyed like I used to when we were going out and Sadie wanted me to do some weird thing I didn't want to do, but that, usually, I was glad I did, after I did it.

Had a talk with Mom last night. She asked me about college stuff. Had I been looking into it? Did I have any thoughts?

I knew that was coming. Of course my dad will want me to apply to Harvard or some god-awful place so he can brag to his friends.

I can't imagine where I would go. When I look around at the seniors who are going to top colleges, they seem like the biggest suck-ups imaginable. And the state colleges seem like continuous frat parties. I guess I could go to some freaky alternative college and grow my own hemp or whatever.

Another college conversation with Mom this morning.

“There's another thing about the college situation,” she said, as she poured coffee.

“What's that?”

“Your dad wants to buy you a car.”

That was a bit of a shock.

“I think his idea is,” said my mother calmly, “if you went to college here on the West Coast, you know, you'd be able to come home…”

A car,
I thought.
My own car. To feed and pet and clean up after…

“I sorta hate cars, though,” I said.

“I know. I tried to tell him that. He can't believe that anyone your age wouldn't want one. I think he's hoping a car would be that little nudge to get you interested in going to college.”

“So if I take the car, I gotta go to college.”

“Something like that.”

“Has Dad ever met me?”

“He's just remembering his own college days. That's all it is. He's just trying to help.”

James Hoff

Junior AP English

Mr. Cogweiller

ASSIGNMENT:
four-page paper on an activity you have participated in outside of school

Bums need stuff. This goes against what you'd think. You'd think they
don't
need anything. That's the whole fun of being a bum. Wrong. They need: spare change, beer, someone to talk to, a hug, fourteen cents, a bed, an operation for their dog, a bus transfer, any extra pizza you might have, a paper clip, food stamps, to kick your ass, $400, a sock, a bottle opener, help getting their friend out of jail, a cooking mitt, a screwdriver, bolt cutters, a massage, etc. etc. One man wanted me to pull a tooth for him. Another woman tried to bite me.

Business people can't talk to you right now. What? No. They can't talk. What? They're on their cell. What? No. Just a minute. What's that? Petition? Sign something? No. Sorry. Can't talk. Can't. Sorry. Can't.

Old people are old and in pain and they don't have time to listen to something they aren't going to understand anyway. They're grimacing with the pain in their back/neck/legs. They don't know where they are or what they're doing. They shuffle toward the bookstore entrance and turn their whole bodies to stare at you through the enormous lenses of their eyeglasses. They don't know why you're standing outside a bookstore with a clipboard, rattling on about swamps. But then they understand very little about the kids these days, what with their newfangled ringtones and their pants hanging halfway down their asses and their sex parties on the internet.

Soccer moms are very concerned. They are the most concerned people of all the people the petitioner encounters. They stop. They nod. They let their eyes rest on you. They are
very concerned.
And they are glad
for you,
that you are concerned and are doing something about it. But they don't like to sign things. Not until they read up on it more. And as soon as they do, they will sign. But they are concerned. They are very concerned. Being concerned is their job. You could never be as concerned as they are. Don't even try. Also, they're late to pick up their gifted child.

Aging hippies don't think you're doing it right. You're standing wrong, approaching people wrong, explaining things wrong. You obviously lack passion and true commitment. It's not the same now, not like in their day, when politics mattered and music meant something.

Tourists will sign. They come to the Pacific Northwest to think about nature and reconnect with the woods and the rivers and the streams. So if you explain to them it is a petition to save nature, they get excited. They sign. They can't wait to sign. Here's the weird thing: They make up fake names and addresses. It is not clear why they do this. Maybe they think the government is keeping a secret file: people who are against destroying the world. You wouldn't want to be identified as one of those.

People in their twenties with tattoos know about your cause. They have read about it or heard something on NPR. They are very informed. Sometimes they know more about it than you do. Also, they know about other terrible things that are happening that you don't know about. “Did you hear about the nuclear waste they're dumping in the playgrounds?” And then you end up listening to them.

TEENAGERS

Teenagers don't know what the hell you're talking about. They don't. They stare at you like you're insane. Why are you
downtown?
What are you? Homeless? Don't you have parents?

Every once in a while a teenager, usually a girl, comes by who
does
know what you're talking about. These are the more artsy types with messenger bags and old Vans and graphic novels under their arms. They listen to you. They sign. Sometimes they'll forge their parents' signatures for you. You kinda wish you knew them or could hang with them, but ultimately they're probably too cool or too weird. So you just smile at them and let them be on their way.

THE END

Cogs liked my petition paper. Gave me a B. I asked why not an A or at least a B+ since it was obviously hilarious (he read it to the class). He said it had no formal introduction or conclusion.

That's Cogweiller for you, always thinking outside the box.

He did write,
Glad to see you are involving yourself in your community in a positive way.

Yeah, I gave up my drug trafficking. What did he think I did with my time?

That gave me an idea, though. Since I had my petition stuff in my bag, I asked him for a signature after class. He got a little flustered and said he couldn't do that on school grounds, it was against district policy. I said, “So we'll do it off school grounds.”

This led to more awkwardness as I then had to meet Cogs after school and walk with him through the rain to his old Nissan hatchback. It was in the back parking lot, which is technically not on district property.

This was very weird. First of all, I'd never even
seen
Cogs outside of a classroom, not to mention with a ski hat on and little mittens. Also, his being elderly and all, I had to slow my pace somewhat as we walked. The other thing was: I was hoping to talk to him. I'd always been curious about the Cogman. Like what's he like on his own time? What's he into? What's his wife like? And his home life?

But walking out there, I found I couldn't start a conversation. Not at all. My role with him is: I'm the smart-ass and he's the teacher. There didn't seem to be any way to break out of that.

So I just followed along.

We got to his car. I got my petition stuff out and he signed it. I thanked him. He said nothing and got into his beater Nissan hatchback.

I watched him drive off. I felt bad we couldn't manage a conversation. But I also realized that's what's cool about him.

Cogs is a pro. No BS. No pretending we're buddies. I'm the smart-ass and he's the teacher.

You gotta respect that.

So I'm sitting in the lounge with Jessica and some other people, and Rich Herrington comes over and starts talking about this new guy and something he did in the cafeteria. I don't know what he's talking about, but he's very excited. So is everyone else. They've all heard about this new guy. Other people join in the conversation.
Did you hear what he did? Did you hear what he said? What's his name, anyway? Where's he from?
I've never seen people at my high school get like this.

People in my high school usually don't care about anything.

As it turns out, what this new guy does—drumroll, please—is stand by the garbage cans in the cafeteria and take food people are going to throw away. He takes it off their trays, apples, rolls, whatever they don't want, whatever's edible. He's very polite about it, but people still freak out. The first time he did it, one of the cafeteria ladies with the plastic bags on her head came out and yelled at him. Then a real teacher tried to make him stop and there was a big argument. He got sent to the principal's office. But then he did it again, in direct defiance of the principal.

Which is kind of impressive, I have to admit.

People are calling him the Garbage Eater. His real name is Jedediah Strock. “Jedediah” strikes me as a pretentious
name. Especially if you're not calling yourself Jed but going for the long version, which sounds like you're a pioneer homesteader or some dude out of the Bible. The garbage gathering is apparently a political statement. He's against waste. Big deal. Who isn't? Also, he has this straggly beard and long straggly hair that he pulls back with one of those girl scrunchy things. People say how intense he is. People talk about his piercing blue eyes. I'm not buying it. He sounds too obvious. Anybody can stand there eating garbage in front of the whole school.