Bud Smith: F 250

The F-250 was a dangerous P.O.S., but I liked it. It was jacked up high over the road. Four-wheel drive. Over-sized swamp tires. Rusted out holes in the sheet metal, like gremlins were devouring it in the unguarded night. No heat. No AC. Cassette deck.

The guy who owned it before me had plastered the back bumper with rebel flag stickers. I scraped them off with razor-blades and replaced them with stickers Seth gave me from the record store where he worked.

Work. I used the truck for work … mostly. Usually, the bed of the truck was full of stone and dirt. It was awkward to control, so I hit everything with it. Whenever I got distracted and stopped concentrating on the road it was — bang: the back of somebody’s car crumbling in, dirt and shovels and concrete jumping up in the bed of my F-250.

So I drove nervously.

A few weeks after I met Feral, with his face all ripped open, and barely two months of living back in New Jersey following my near escape, I was cruising in my truck towards the Atlantic Ocean, a heavy load in the bed.

I’d just finished a job building a set of concrete steps at the studio where my band was recording. It was a barter job: masonry work for studio time, so the truck was weighed down with work — rocks, sand, a few bags of leftover cement, my wheelbarrow, and shovels — but also play: my 50 watt tube amp, my guitar, cables. I was on my way to play a show. My side project, Ottermeat, was playing at Spider Bar, always a great time.

I turned off Route 37 east onto 70 towards Princeton Ave. The nectar of the world was thick and heavy, butterflies everywhere slapping against the glass. I almost had to put the windshield wipers to clear them. The cassette deck began to eat the tape. I desperately tried to eject it.

I rumbled forward, screwing with the tape. When I looked back at the road, it was too late to stop. A line of cars waited ahead at a red light that was usually a perpetually blinking yellow. I stomped on the brakes. The F-250 skidded, fish-tailed. Rubber melted on asphalt.

At impact, rocks and sand rained down. The rear end of a white Lincoln Continental caved in horribly. Its frame twisted. The tail pipe pushed up beneath the under carriage. Fluids leaked out. I felt sick.

The drawbridge was up. In all my life spent living in the area, I’d never seen the drawbridge up on Princeton Ave. Well, there it was, and there I was — another accident. A line of cars pulled up behind, blocked me in.

The door of the Continental swung open unevenly. An old man, a true geezer, stepped out and scratched his baked potato-shaped head. He wore sky-blue polyester pants, Velcro shoes, and a striped polo that accentuated his man boobs and turkey neck. This man hunched over, studied the demolition, and ran one of his leathery palms over the damage as if he could repair it by feel.

Remembering the coffee cup incident from a few years before, I stayed in my truck. The damage was b-b-b-bad. This was it for me. I was already broke. I was already getting sued by a whiplashed lady with a psychologically traumatized calico cat. They had me.

People waiting for the drawbridge got out of their vehicles too. They wanted to get a look for themselves at the show. They stretched and paced around, glancing over at us. We were high entertainment.

Then the old man with the baked potato-shaped head spun around and looked at me with soft eyes. I waved sickly, mouthed, “I’m sorry.”

He smiled, waved back, offhandedly gave me a thumbs. “Forget about it. It’s nothing.” He got back into his Lincoln, closed the door. His bumper crashed down towards the asphalt. Nothing was done.

The worst part was to follow, we sat for ten more minutes like that, the drawbridge hanging up in the air, unseen boats possibly passing underneath. No-one knew.

I was sweating like a madman. The other people, the spectators, were all out of their vehicles, gawking and pointing. I had to sit there like a pariah basking in my careless shame.

And it was manifested so clearly. My ineptitude. I could see it right before my eyes. The rear bumper of the Lincoln hung on by a thread.

A guy walked up to my window, he was chewing gum and stunk like cologne.

“You really whacked that guy,” he said.

“He said it’s nothing,” I said to the concerned citizen.

“S’nothing? I don’t think so! You gotta call the cops.”

“Zero good ever came from calling the cops,” I said, glaring at him. He backed away and spit his gum out into the grass. He got into his bright yellow Geo Tracker, gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles.

We were, all of us, white knuckled, sitting still. Another five eternal minutes. Until the drawbridge descended. The light turned green. And we began to move again. Very carefully.

I got to spider bar late. Narrow alley.Cats leaping from overflowing garbage cans. I pulled around to the rear door plastered with hundreds of bright band stickers left there as a rite of passage.

Inside, I could hear the bartender, Gail, talking too loud.

Seth stepped out of the back door, beer in hand, a menthol cigarette hanging out of his mouth. A mess of curly brown hair. Ripped jeans. RUSH 2112 t-shirt.

“Lee!” Seth slouched, lighting his cigarette.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said.

Seth shrugged. “Nobody here anyway. It’s dead inside.”

“I was in an accident,” I said. “I caused a wreck.”

“Another one? Holy smokes …”

I walked to the back of the truck and dropped the tailgate. The jolt of the impact had ruptured a bag of cement; my amp and my guitar case were covered in dust.

“Oh shit!”

I yanked my amp out and tried to brush it off. It was no use. The dust was sucked deep into the speaker fabric. Seth tried to hand me his beer.

“Thanks, but no.”

I sat down on the steps still a little shaken from the collision I’d caused. He pulled my guitar case out of the bed of the Ford and dusted it off.

“Drawbridge was up. Didn’t see traffic was stopped,” I said.

“Where?”

“Princeton Ave.”

“There’s a drawbridge on Princeton Ave.?!”

“That’s what I said.”

Seth grinned. I stared at my hands. Half my fingernails were black, purple, brown — blood trapped underneath the nail from being crushed by rocks, bricks, small boulders.

Masonry and playing guitar are at odds. I was nervous I was gonna break my hand one day. Then what would I do? Playing guitar, writing songs, playing shows … that was my life.

“Come on,” he said. “I need another beer.”

I took his soft, pink, record store clerk hand. He yanked me to my feet. We went inside, lugging my music gear.

Spider Bar is dark, stale, ominous. A true dive. Five guys, probably from the warehouse down the block, in dirty work clothes just like mine, were leaning on the bar. They were screwing around with Gail, a former G.L.O.W. (Gorgeous Ladies of Wrestling) girl from Bayonne who’s now overweight and in her mid-fifties. A wall of cigarette smoke hung in the air like a fog machine was on.

Seth’s drums, a 10-piece kit, were already set up on the little stage. It gleamed in the spotlight. The only bright thing in the place. The cymbals emitted a golden hum.

All around the drums, suspended from the ceiling, were ancient Halloween decorations. Plastic skeletons. Bleeding skulls. Big, fanged, 8-legged fluorescent monsters so thick with dust that I couldn’t even tell what color they used to be.

We set my gear down on the stage just as Aldo rolled through the back door. He was managing bands at the time.

“Morning, Lee.” He motioned to the pool table at the center of the bar. It had to be moved to the far corner to open up room for people if they showed up to see any of the bands. The pool table was off level anyway, nobody played it.