Road Trip (4 page)

“Yup. You done thrown a rod.”

“That sounds bad.”

“Well, it ain’t good, mister. This here truck is in terrible shape.”

I glance at Dad from the other side of the open hood. We’re all staring down at the engine. We’ve barely left home and we’re already standing in a garage with a busted truck, which makes me feel hopeful that the universe has stepped in and put an end to Ben’s Quality Time with Dad.

“To call you three candybutts would be an insult to stupid folks,” the mechanic says like we’ve gone and ruined
his
truck. “Dummies like you drive their trucks into the ground. Hopeless. I seen a lotta nimrods like you. Always come when it’s too late and then whine and
complain about how much it’s gonna cost. If you’da took care a your vehicle, you wouldn’t a wound up with your bottoms in a sling like this, but you can’t tell anyone anything these days.”

Theo and I exchange a look and then he slides between me and the mechanic. Does he think the guy is going to take a swing at me or Dad for not taking care of the truck and that he needs to protect me? He might have a sixth sense about upcoming fights. And he probably knows I’m not really good with, um, conflict. Unless it’s on the ice. Then I’m fierce. Not so much without a stick and all that padding.

“You sure it’s that serious?” Dad asks, not seeming to notice that the guy’s called him an idiot ten different ways.

“Of course I’m sure. I’ve had my head inside engines since I was old enough to stand on a wooden crate and look under the hood, and I been running this here garage since dirt was a fresh idea. I know everything there is to know about engines and a few things ain’t been invented yet. When I say you done thrown a rod, you can take it to the bank: you done thrown a rod.”

“We were making such good time.” Dad shakes his head.

“Yeah,” I say in my most sarcastic voice. “Nearly twenty miles before the truck broke down.”

The mechanic—the patch on his shirt reads
Gus—
glares at Dad. “You know you ain’t gonna go no further than that twenny miles for a right long time, don’tcha?”

“I got the feeling we were in for a delay when the truck started sounding like someone was hitting an empty aluminum garbage can with a hammer.”

“How long will it take to repair?” I hold my breath.

“It’s not a repair. I gotta rebuild the whole engine.”

This is just like what Dad said about his flipping business. No one can
fix
anything anymore; they’re all about
completely redoing
.

Gus keeps talking: “This ain’t no tune-up. I’m gonna hafta put in new crankshafts and rod bearings, maybe pistons. Lots of times the whole thing has to be rebored. We’re talking new rings, at least. Gonna have to order the parts first, which might take as long as a few weeks. Can’t keep everything I might ever need on hand, ya know.”

“Weeks?” I try not to look as happy as I feel. We can have the dog shipped to us, since Dad and I won’t be bonding on the road. And maybe I can go stay at Theo’s or Todd’s until Mom and Dad settle things. Or until school starts next fall. Whichever comes first.

“Sucky news. We’re going to pick up a border collie and I was kind of looking forward to meeting the little dude,” Theo tells Gus.

“One a them black an’ white dogs that herd sheep?”

Theo nods and jerks his head toward Atticus in the cab, looking out the window, pretending we’re not here.

“Is that dog ignoring us?” Gus looks surprised.

“Probably. He’s annoyed. I don’t think he was too happy with the noise the truck made,” I answer.

Gus chuckles. “He’s embarrassed by what a fool yer dad is with vehicles.” He snorts. “Smart critter. Why’d ya want another one if ya already got that one?”

“We’re on a border collie rescue list. When one’s been abandoned or needs a home, there’s a bunch of us on a national email list who’ll take them in. Atticus, in the truck, was a rescue dog once.”

Atticus, as if knowing we’re talking about him, turns his head and pretends to notice the mechanic for the first time.

“That there dog is sizin’ me up, ain’t he?”

I nod.

“Looks like he’s barin’ his teeth, but I know what a smile looks like. I like to see a smile now and again. Even if it does come from a dog. Nice fella.”

“Once you get to know him.”

“What happens to those dogs if you rescue people don’t step in?”

“At most places, dogs only have so long to find a home or they’re put down.”

“Don’t like the sound a that. I never had a dog myself, but that’s not right.”

“Our family fosters border collies; we keep them for a while till they find homes. This one, though—we’re keeping him. He’s mine.”

Gus nods and starts to say something, but he’s cut off by an awful noise.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep. BEEEEEEEEEEEP
. Someone’s punching a car horn. We jump in surprise. I look next to me: no Dad. He’d gone poking around Gus’s lot while we were talking. He’s nosy; I should have expected he’d wander off and explore. I sigh and follow Gus and Theo as they head around to the back of the garage. Atticus climbs out of the truck and ambles alongside me. His head is down; like me, he’s not looking forward to seeing what Dad’s gotten into.

Dad is sitting behind the wheel of an old school bus. He stops honking when he sees us and waves.

“Took that bus in trade a while back. Didn’t know what I was gonna do with it besides start a mighty fine rust collection, but who can pass up havin’ their own personal bus?” Gus tells Theo and me.

“Very cool.” Theo and I speak at the same time.

“I made it hum like it was brand-new.”

“Did you need to get a special driver’s license?” Theo asks.

“Yeah, never drove it, though. Where’m I gonna drive a bus?”

“Too bad,” Theo says. “I bet it’s a sweet ride.”

“Always meant to take it out, never got round to it.”

Dad comes bouncing out of the bus, grinning from ear to ear.

“I get the feelin’ I’m gonna hafta keep an eye on yer old man,” Gus tells me. “Worse than a bull in a china shop. Not the kind of guy ya wanna trust with too much rope, because sooner than later you’re gonna feel it tripping
you
up.”

“Yeah, pretty much.” How did he manage to understand so much about Dad so quick?

“I’m a good judge of people, if I do say so. Got to be when you work for yourself like I do here. Can’t afford to misread a fella.” Gus reminds me of Atticus.

Gus, Atticus, and I watch Dad and Theo walk around the bus, kicking tires like either of them knows anything about it.

“We’ll take this as a loaner while you’re fixing our truck,” Dad calls.

“The heck you will. I’d never let a complete stranger who can’t take care of his own vehicle borrow
my
bus.”

“I’ve always wanted to drive a bus,” Dad says. “Even got my license for it a few years back. This is way better than the pickup. It’s a statement: we support education
and
border collie rescue. What’s the gas mileage on a
thing like this? It’ll be mostly freeway driving, once we get out of here.”

“Is he hard a hearin’?” Gus asks me. I shake my head. “No,” he says loudly in Dad’s direction.

“We can put a banner in the rear window:
BORDER COLLIE OR BUST
.”

“
N
period
o
period. No.”

“You can come with.” That’s my voice. Dad looks at me and beams. Even Theo smiles. Gus studies the ground. I’m the only one who seems surprised I spoke up. What was I thinking? This breakdown was my ticket home.

“No one can ever say I don’t pull my weight,” Gus says. “I work seven days a week. You don’t work, you don’t eat. Don’t believe in namby-pamby stuff like trips. No.” He shakes his head, but he’s still looking down, thinking.

Atticus leans against his leg to be petted. Gus ruffles Atticus’s ears and nods. Makes up his mind.

“All right. Someone’s gotta be there to check the oil. Make sure you get to that dog in time. And I don’t like the thought of you two boys in the care of a man who doesn’t look after his vehicle. Lemme get my toolbox and lock up.”

We introduce ourselves as we collect our stuff from the pickup and climb into the bus. Gus tosses Dad the key, but sits where he can keep an eye on him, toolbox
on his lap. Theo and I flop down across the aisle from each other. Atticus stands in the door and stares at Gus.

“Yer dog’s lookin’ at me like I’m settin’ in the spot got his name on it, but I ain’t movin’,” Gus tells me.

Atticus grunts, real put out, but he jumps onto the seat ahead of me. Dad turns the ignition, grinding the starter.

“Turn it. Let it go. What’s so hard about that?” Gus growls at Dad.

Dad tries gently and the engine purrs.

“Touch a motor right, she sings for ya.” Gus tips his head, listening.

Even Atticus seems to sigh and settle back.

Dad adjusts the mirrors and studies the dashboard. Slowly, he backs up a few feet. Getting the feel of the bus, carefully maneuvering it between the cars up on blocks and piles of old batteries and tires, backing up and easing forward a little at a time. He gets the bus pointed toward the street without driving over or crashing into anything.

“If I can fix anything, this fella can drive anything,” Gus says. “He’s got the touch.”

Dad turns onto the street without running over the curb. Then he guns the engine and we’re smoking down the road.

Gus throws back his head and laughs. “Well, all right, then.”

Theo and I high-five.

We watch Dad weave through city streets and get on the highway. Atticus moves over to sit with Gus, and I take their picture. Atticus smiles. Gus doesn’t. I take a photo of Theo, too, even though what I get is him flipping me the bird.

I take a self-portrait. No photo of Dad. I text the picture of Gus to Mom. “We made a new friend after the truck broke down.” She’ll go out of her mind trying to figure out who the stranger is and what happened to the pickup. Excellent.

Like clockwork, Dad’s phone rings.
He
can explain Gus And The Bus to Mom. Dad’s probably going to use up all his minutes this month before lunch.

“Want some popcorn?” I ask Gus, digging through a sack next to me. I’ve got the morning munchies.

“Cheese or caramel?”

“I’ve got both.”

“Caramel.”

“Snacks are important.” I toss Theo a bag of mini-donuts.

“Amen.” Gus rips into his popcorn.

“How’d you wind up owning a garage?”

“Only thing I’m good at.”

“I’m not sure what I’ll be good at.”

“Well, you’re what, fourteen?”

I nod.

“Sooner or later you’ll know. Find yourself where you’re supposed to be without noticin’ ya got there.”

Theo speaks up. “Man, I hope so. That sounds like a sweet deal.”

“It ain’t easy; gotta work for it. You a good worker?” Gus is giving Theo a hard stare.

“I am now. Wasn’t always.”

“You two brothers?” Gus asks.

“Friends,” Theo answers. I wish a speech bubble were over his head so I could take a picture of his answer.

Gus bellows, “Yer fool pa is gonna run us off the road he doesn’t stop yappin’ on the phone and start watchin’ the road.”

Dad straightens out the bus and salutes Gus in the mirror.

“Where’s yer ma and why ain’t she here, too?” Gus asks me.

“Why?” I can’t see myself saying “My father spent our savings on some house-flipping/get-rich-quick scheme and I’m not talking to him because he screwed me out of hockey camp and my mom is glad we’re gone.” Especially to a stranger who might think I’m a huge baby for whining.

“Last thing we need is a woman,” Gus says. “This bus is gonna remain woman-free.”

I like the bus. The truck felt crowded with Theo; it’s usually just the boss, the boy, and me. I like having my own seat and being able to walk up and down the aisle and go from side to side looking out the windows. It’s important to be able to see everything all the time.

Maybe we’ll forget about getting a dog and just keep picking up new people. That’s a better idea.

The man who smells like grease acted like he didn’t want to come along, but he did. He got on the bus quick. And he’s looking at my boy and the boss and Theo out of the corners of his eyes when he thinks no one notices. And he smiles a little with his eyes. Not his mouth, but with his eyes, which is always real.

The Brawl

“I don’t mean to complain,” I say to Theo, low, “but it seems to me Gus spent a lot of time on the engine and not much on the shocks.” We’ve been on the bus for twenty more miles.

Theo nods. “Yeah, everything inside of me is either sore or bounced to the wrong place. And we just got started.”

“I don’t like what I hear,” Gus says, tipping his head just like Atticus when he’s listening hard.

“Dad’s singing, right?” I call to Gus.

“Our complaining?” Theo guesses.

Gus snaps at Dad, “Pull over. Need to see what’s going on with that engine.”

I haven’t noticed anything. It would take something pretty extreme to catch my attention. The pickup
sounded like nails in a blender; the bus just sounds like a dull roar to me. Normal.