David Bischoff: The Blob

“Hear you got a birthday comin’ up. No more juvie hall, right?”

“You got that right, Sheriff!” Brian said.

“You bet,” said the sheriff, stabbing a finger at him. “Next time you fuck up, you’re in the majors.” Herb Geller grinned. “See you around, Flagg.”

The bubble-top cruised on.

Flagg sighed. Geller would like that. Geller was the guy who’d pegged him early as a juvie and had made damned sure that Brian Flagg didn’t get an inch to spare. That was why, when Brian Flagg had first been caught at something even slightly unlawful—in this case, fooling around in the brewery with some guys, guzzling some free beer in the middle of the night—the proverbial book had been thrown at him.

And it was in the Websterville Juvenile Detention Hall—for four long weekends of “reform”—that he had met the guys that had gotten him into trouble the second time—Vinnie Marshall and Ted Clinco. Once “sprung” themselves, they’d bring their motorbikes over to Brian in Morgan City for minor repairs. Brian had palled around with them for a while, attracting Sheriff Geller’s attention. Then, when Vinnie and Ted were seen hauling loot through the broken door of someone’s apartment, the sheriff immediately showed up at Brian Flagg’s house, with a search warrant. Unfortunately for Brian the guys had stashed a few stolen articles in the shed in his backyard. Equally unfortunate, the shed was the place where he kept a small bag of marijuana as well. They never caught Marshall and Clinco—at least not around these parts—but they did put Brian back in juvie hall for his summer vacation.

It wasn’t like he didn’t expected it, though. Maintaining his hard veneer, Flagg had always cultivated the rougher crowd. If there ever had been a gang in Morgan City, Flagg had belonged to it. That it had been a play gang consisting only of a bunch of kids who liked to pretend to be tough meant nothing to the local authorities. Brian Flagg looked like a hood, therefore he was a hood, and like any potential troublemaker, he should be squashed—the earlier, the better.

Flagg knew he shouldn’t complain too much. He had played the role, and at least it gave him an identity, one he liked a hell of a lot more than those white-bread sorts who were the general run of Morgan City youth. And it wasn’t like he didn’t have friends here, he thought as he headed toward the sign labeled MOSS’S REPAIR SHOP. There were some folks around who liked him. Moss Woolsey was a friend, and Brian knew he could count on Moss helping him get his wheels back on the road.

Flagg sauntered across the street and went into the grimy cinder-block garage. Ah, the smell of old tires and oil, of gasoline and elbow grease—Flagg smiled at the familiar aroma. It was in this garage that, with the help of Moss, he had fine-tuned his mechanic skills. It was there that he had learned the heavy-duty, by-the-seat-of-your-pants mechanical stuff, like how to strip an old engine, clean it, put it back together with secondhand parts, and then stick it into a car shell it wasn’t designed for. As soon as he reached the legal age, Flagg fully intended to get into serious drag-car stuff. Right now, though, a motorcycle would have to do.

As he strode in, Flagg saw Moss Woolsey bent over, wrenching away at the engine of a large Sno-Cat. On the Cat’s door was the logo INDIAN SUMMIT SKI RESORT.

“Yo, Moss!” said Flagg. “Qué pasa, buddy! I see you fooled the resort people again. Make ’em think you can fix this thing. Way to go!”

The muscular, middle-aged black man lifted his head and peered at Flagg. A thick, soggy cigar protruded from his mouth.

“Yeah. It’s a ritual, ain’t it?” Moss said, surveying his visitor and reacting with a flinch. “Whew! You look like hell, man!”

Flagg looked down at himself. He was dusty, disheveled, and still wet. He ran a hand through his usually well-cared-for hair and found that it was a mess as well. He struck a pose and said, “It’s a fashion statement.”

Moss grunted. “The only statement them clothes got to make is ‘I look like hell.’ ”

Flagg didn’t want to bother his friend while he was busy, so he made his pitch immediately. “My bike’s sitting out at Elkins Grove. Can I borrow your ratchet set?”

Moss took the cigar from his mouth. When Moss took the cigar from his mouth, that meant he had something important to say. “You kiddin’ me? The Summit’s got me overhauling six fuckin’ Ski-doos, three Cats, and two flatbed snowmakers. By Monday!”

Flagg shook his head and looked back out to the bright sunlight. “What’s the hurry? Must be ninety degrees out!”

Moss chuckled. Apparently deciding it was time for a break, he strode over to one of the flatbed snowmakers he’d alluded to. There was a six-pack sticking out of a pile of manmade snow on the lip of the thing, and Moss took one of the bottles and tossed it to Flagg. He took another for himself, opened it, and took a pull.

“Just Indian summer out there, boy.” Another pull, a shake of his cigar out toward the mountains. “Before you know it, winter’ll come tear-assin’ through this town with no apologies. Fall ain’t nothin’ but a rumor around these parts.”

Using the edge of a steel locker, Flagg knocked the cap off his beer bottle. “C’mon, it barely pissed snow the last couple of years. The whole town’s ready to fold.”

Moss looked troubled by that remark. “This year’s gonna be different.”

“Is that right?”

“Take my word. You’re gonna wish your piece-of-shit excuse for a motorcycle was one of these sweet little rigs.” He patted the side of one of the Sno-Cats. It wasn’t a brand-new Sno-Cat by any means, but it had been kept polished; its big front skis looked good, and its fuselage was shiny and ready.

“I’ll put on chains,” said Flagg. “What about the ratchets, Moss?”

Moss shook his head and went back to work on the engine. Flagg had been afraid of this. He and Moss were still pals, but it was true that it was Flagg who was always asking the favors. And there was no question that Moss had not forgotten the joyride Brian took last month in a Porsche that Moss had been fixing in his shop, a ride taken totally without permission. The car came back with no dents, but Moss had been furious. “What if the sheriff had caught you, man!” he had yelled. “My ass would have been in the same crack as yours! That’s a thirty-five-thousand-dollar piece of machinery there, Brian! I coulda gotten into a shitload of trouble with the owner if you’d even scratched the thing!”

Flagg didn’t blame Moss for being angry, but he really needed those ratchets now. The bike’s motor just needed some adjustments, some tightening—that’s all. It was an old thing that Flagg and Moss had put together themselves, and you couldn’t blame it if it konked out once in a while. Still, Flagg owed his friend. Maybe he could offer recompense.

“Maybe if I put in some hours for you over the weekend,” he said, “it would lighten things up.”

Moss sighed. “There’s twelve ratchets in that set. Twelve. They better all be there when I get it back.”

Flagg grinned. He went over to the tool bench to where he knew the ratchet set was, and he gathered it up, rolling it into its cloth sleeve and sticking it into his jacket pocket.

“Thanks, Moss,” he said. “I owe you one.”

Moss grunted. “You owe me too damn many.”

Flagg said good-bye and strode out, eager to fix his bike and wrap his legs around freedom again.

In the mountains, the light at dusk has a curious, otherworldly quality. It seems to bend around the slopes, filling valleys with soft shadows. It is a beautiful time of day, and tonight the sunset was especially beautiful.