BOOM-BOOM

by John D. Nesbitt

When I sort back through it all, I think of the Kilmer place where it began. The bare ground was rolled flat, and the trees were dry as well, with the hulls on the almonds splitting open and turning grey, ready to fall. When we would get there in the morning, the air was still and cool. Then the hustle began as the two crews got started. Each crew had a tractor to pull the two sleds, plus a second tractor that had the shaker boom mounted on it. Every time we knocked two trees and rolled up the canvas sheets, the driver gunned the engine and pulled forward to the next two trees. While he went back for the shaker, the other kid and I pulled out the sheets again. Then came the shaking, which up close sounded like a giant jackhammer but from across the orchard sounded like a machine gun.

All day long there was noise from the equipment, plus voices from the workers. Dust came up from the ground and down from the trees, and the temperature went over a hundred every day. We had plenty to do just to manage the sheets and the fallen almonds, hit a few licks with a mallet or pole, then shovel the load into burlap sacks when the sled got full. I didn't pay any attention to the other crew or to the two swampers, who showed up on the third day.

We had been leaving sacks standing in groups of six or seven, until Kilmer got started with the swampers. He drove his dark blue Ford pickup and pulled a low trailer while the two husky guys, probably in their mid twenties, loaded the sacks. Back at the huller they dumped them, then came back for more.

We finished the first variety late that afternoon, and we sat in the shade of a big walnut tree in the boss's yard while he went inside and figured our pay. When he came out with the checks, he told the other kid and me that we could ride back to town with the two guys who had come that day. The boss had been picking us up in the morning and taking us back in the evening, and he said he would come for us again in a couple of days when the next variety was ready. We had already seen the green hulls starting to split and turn yellow, so I knew what he meant.

I knew what it meant for me, too. This kid Dennis was still living with his parents, so he could sit in front of the cooler and watch t.v. for a couple of days. I was out knocking around on my own, though, and two days off meant two days without wages. It wasn't enough time to go find another job until Kilmer started up again, so I either sat it out or found another job, period.

The swampers had a 1955 faded red-and-white Pontiac, and on the way into town they struck up a conversation. The one driving, who was red-haired, looked in the mirror and asked our names. Dennis gave his name, and I told him mine. Then the guy riding shotgun, who had dark hair, turned around and asked us if we wanted to drink some beer.

We both said sure.

"Let's do it this way," he said. "We each put in a dollar, and we'll have enough for two six-packs. That's enough for three each."
Dennis said that was fine, and I said it was all right with me.

The guy in the dark hair bought two six-packs of Schlitz in the can. I hadn't drunk it before, but when you're under age you drink what you get, so I took my can and pulled off the ring and tab.

"Don't lift it up till we're out of town," said the red-haired guy. He drove out on the old highway until we came to a wide spot where there were some oak trees, and he pulled over.

The beer tasted good—–kind of watery and tinny, but it had a cold bite to it. The two guys in front lit up cigarettes, and Dennis bummed one. Then he asked them their names.

"Floyd," said the red-head.

"Mine's Benson," said his pal.

"Are those your first names?" Dennis asked.

"Last names." Benson blew smoke out through his nose. "We were in the Army, and you get used to goin' by your last name. You boys been called up yet?"

"Not yet," said Dennis. "I just graduated."

"Me neither," I said.

"Maybe you'll get lucky and not have to go." Benson took a swallow of beer. "What are you two goin' to do for the next while? Gonna wait for this farmer to come around when he gets ready?"

Dennis huffed on his cigarette. "I guess. How about you guys?"

Benson did a move where he turned down his mouth and shook his head. "We don't do this kind of work," he said. "But we needed gas money."

"What kind of work do you do?" I asked.

"Construction. Why, hell, even kids like you can make two, maybe three times what you make workin' in the dirt."

I was getting interested. "Where do you find work like that?"

Benson gave a wag of the head. "You've got to go where they're building. Right now, there's a boom in Redding."

"That's not so far," said Dennis. "What are they building?"
"Houses, apartments."

"And you guys find work, just like that?"

Benson nodded toward his pal. "He's a framer, and I'm an electrician. We can work in one trade or the other. I follow him, or he follows me. Unless we find work in both. Are you two ready?" He held up an unopened can.

We finished off our beers, and Benson handed us each a new one. Dennis smoked another cigarette and asked more questions. Benson said he was from Pittsburgh, and Floyd said he was from Oklahoma and might be related to Pretty Boy Floyd the outlaw. Dennis got their first names out of them, too. Benson was Bill, and Floyd was Larry. I was sitting on the passenger's side, kind of out of the way, and I didn't have the habit of asking questions, so I just drank my beer.

Benson turned to me and said, "You don't talk much. What did you say your name was?"

"Stan."

"Stan what?"

"Campbell."

"Like soup."

"I guess."

Benson had a heavy face and small eyes, but he opened up when he smiled. "You kids look like you know how to work."

Dennis was taking a drink, so I answered. "I'd say I do."

"Well, shit," said Benson. "Redding's not that far. If you kids want to ride up there with us, we can split the gas, get a room for all four, and see what's goin' on." He looked at his partner, who nodded.

"Might as well," said Dennis. He looked at me. "How about you?"

I shrugged. "I'm not doin' anything else. My room rent comes up tomorrow."

"What kind of room is it?" asked Benson.

"Just a regular room in an old travel court."

"Huh. Why don't you let us stay there tonight, and we can all leave in the morning? Get there during the day and look around." He held up two more cans of Schlitz.

"I guess so." I took a beer.

"Let you kids learn how to make some money. And don't worry. We'll get some more beer, too."

* * * * *

I had a headache in the morning, and these other two guys weren't moving very fast, so the car was hot inside and stale-smelling when we got ready to go. Floyd was driving again, and I gave him directions on how to get to Dennis's house.

Dennis came out looking uncomfortable. He stood at the passenger's side, squinting in the sun, and said, "I've decided not to go."

Benson flicked his ashes out the window. "That's okay," he said. "We'll send you a postcard, and pictures of all the girls."

In a few more minutes, we were on the freeway headed north to Redding. We were whipping along at seventy in their old Pontiac with the windows down and the radio turned up. The two guys in front hollered back and forth when they had something to say, and they pretty much left me alone. I had the back seat to myself and my canvas bag, and I watched the dry countryside go by. It seemed like nothing but star thistles and sour dock, both dry at that time of year. At about noontime I began to see trees, tall and broad-leafed, and then we took an off-ramp into Redding.

I was getting hungry, and I imagined the other guys were too, since we hadn't had any breakfast. I wondered if they were going to pull into a hamburger joint until Benson said, "This looks like a good place," and Floyd brought the Pontiac to a stop in front of a bar.

Benson spoke to me over his shoulder. "We're goin' to go in here for a minute and see what's the haps about work around this place."

"I'm startin' to get hungry," I said.

"That's all right. We won't be long. You keep an eye on the car, and we'll get something to eat in a little while."

I sat in that car sweating as I waited from one minute to the next. At least a dozen times I thought about getting out and leaving, but I couldn't quite get up the nerve. I figured that if I went in and told Floyd and Benson I was taking off, they'd tell me to go back to the car and wait. If I left without saying anything, they'd be good and pissed that I didn't keep an eye on the car, and they might even come looking for me. So I sat there for about two hours until they came out of the bar.

"What did you find out?" I asked.

Floyd slid in behind the wheel. "Not worth a shit."

Benson didn't say anything.

"Are we going to get something to eat?" I asked.

"Sure," said Benson. "We'll eat."

Floyd pulled out onto the road and headed towards the main part of town. About a half-mile later, I saw a place on the right called Winkler's Patio. It was painted pale yellow and had white lattice-work along a roofed outdoor sitting area.

"There's a place," I said.

I thought we were going to go past it, but Floyd cut the wheel and hung a right into the front lot, where the car came to a stop.

When the two guys in front just sat there, I said, "I don't think they've got any car hops."

"No, of course they don't have any car hops," said Benson. "Not in this shit-knockin' place." He spit out the window. "I don't care if we eat or not."

"Well, I'm hungry," I said.

Floyd opened his door. "Let's eat."

I guessed they had some kind of a disagreement back in the bar, but I didn't want that to keep me from getting lunch, so I opened my door.

"You two go ahead," said Benson, still in a grumble. "Don't take all day."

We ordered our food at the window inside the shaded area and sat down at a metal picnic table. As we waited for the order, I asked Floyd if they had found out where the work was.

He had just lit a cigarette, and as he blew the smoke away he said, "There's no work here."

"None?"

"Not in this town. At least, there's no housing tracts being put in or apartment complexes goin' up." His face was relaxed, and his eyes looked dull. "There's damn sure not any boom goin' on."

When we got back to the car, Benson said, "Piss on this cow-town. Whoever said there was work here had his head up his ass."

Floyd made a big smile with his mouth closed. "You're the one said there was a boom here."

"I mean whoever said it to me. If I woulda known what a podunk town it is, I'd've laughed in his face."

"What do we do, then?" I asked.

Floyd had cranked up the car and was pulling out onto the road. As he looked over his left shoulder for traffic he said, "We're gonna have to go somewhere else. I guess we can try what those guys in the bar said."

"What's that?"

"Portland. Even if these yokels don't know their ass from Shinola, there's bound to be work there."

"Sure there is," said Benson. He flicked his cigarette butt out the window. "Waste our time in this two-bit town, anyway."

* * * * *

The air coming in the windows was hot and dry, and after one big grasshopper smashed against my fingers, I kept my hand inside. Bumblebees and cicadas and butterflies and all kinds of bugs had splattered on the windshield. The radio was turned off, and the two guys in front weren't talking much. They had a six-pack on the seat between them, and I had said I didn't care for any yet, so they were drinking the beer and smoking cigarettes as we rocketed north towards Oregon.

I could tell Floyd was letting things eat on him when he said, "Some boom."

"Aw, hell with it," said his pal.

"We come all this way because there's supposed to be a boom, and there's not shit."

"Piss on 'em, I say. We just keep goin'."

"To the next boom?"

Benson sniffed. "It was your idea just as much as mine to go to Portland."
"What are we supposed to do, go back?"

"You could."

"On what? We've got barely enough to get to Portland." Floyd looked at me in the mirror. "You've got something for gas, haven't you?"

I was wishing I had gotten out in Redding, but I said, "Yeah."

He looked as if he settled down a little, but he didn't let it go. Without even glancing at Benson he said, "We come six hundred miles because you believed there was a boom."

"You believed it, too."

"I took your word for it. Boom-boom."

"So there's not any work in that chickenshit town. We'll go where there is."

"To a boom in Portland."

"It's a hell of a lot closer than where we came from."

We stopped in a town called Dunsmuir, where I gave them ten dollars and they filled the tank. Then they got another six-pack, and we were out rolling along at seventy again. We were in the mountains by now, but the freeway was a good, broad highway, and Floyd kept his foot on it. As he took a drink from his new beer, he started in on Benson again.

"Boom-boom."

"Yeah, yeah, give me shit."

"Boom-Boom Benson. Knows where the work is. Ten dollars an hour."

"When we find work, you'll see."

"Just follow Boom-Boom Benson."

"Well, fuck it, then. Just go back."

"What do you mean, go back? The farther we go, the farther away we get."

"If you don't like it, go back."

"How in the hell do we go back?"
"Easy. Just do it." Without another word, Benson reached over to the gearshift on the steering column and pulled it down.

A sickening, grinding sound ran from the front floorboard all the way through the underside of the car and then changed to a clattering whir. The Pontiac started losing speed, and Floyd was pulling up on the gearshift, trying to yank it back into a forward gear. He pulled over to the side of the road and stopped, then jammed the gearshift into drive and gave the car some gas. It lurched forward, but no matter how much Floyd stepped on it, he couldn't get above fifteen miles an hour.

His eyes were wide open, and his face was red. "Look what you did to my car! What a fuckhead thing to do."

"Piss on it," said Benson. "You wanna go back, go back."

"I never said I wanted to."

"You give me shit about everything."

"I'll give you shit about this. You fucked up my car."

Benson scowled and said, "I can fuck up more than that."

Floyd gave him a funny look and didn't answer.

We were crawling along the shoulder at ten to fifteen miles an hour, and I was wondering what we were going to do next. The sensible thing would have been for me to get out, carry my bag across the highway, and hitch-hike back to the valley. But I had a sick feeling in my guts and I felt as if I couldn't make myself move. Along with that, I had the idea that my ten dollars were in the gas tank. That was a wrong idea, because the ten dollars weren't mine any more, but I didn't think in those terms. So I stayed where I was in the back seat and said, "Hell with it, I'll have a beer, too."

Benson didn't seem to care for that, but he gave me one anyway.

We threw out the empties as we went along, and the beer was all gone by the time we limped into a town called Weed. It was early evening. The mosquitoes were out, and the only service station in town was closed. We pulled in back of it and sat in the car and slapped mosquitoes. The sun went down, and I drifted in and out of sleep. The other two guys shifted in their seats and slept, too. And still it did not occur to me that I could have just up and left. I felt that I was tied to these two guys.

* * * * *

Just before daylight a cop rapped on the window, and Floyd rolled it down. He told the cop we had had car trouble and were waiting for the Enco station to open. The cop said we had to move, and he told Floyd there was a café open across the street from the station and we should go there.

I had a stack of hotcakes, and so did Floyd. Benson had a short stack. We drank coffee for about an hour and a half, and when the service station had been open a while, we got in the car and drove back across the street. Floyd went in and talked to the owner, and after a while he came out and gave us the news.

"This guy says it's goin' to be about three hundred dollars."

"Hell, we don't have that," said Benson.

"That's what I told him. I asked him if he could patch it up. He said he won't do anything half-assed. He either re-does the transmission, or he doesn't touch it."

Benson rapped a cigarette against his lighter and then lit it. "Well, I guess we don't have much choice."

We got back out on the highway and crawled along at that slow pace for what seemed like an eternity. Floyd had gotten a road map, so Benson studied it. We were still in the mountains until we got into Oregon, and then we dropped down into a valley. We were in farming country again, and I didn't feel so lost. Where there were crops, there was work.

We stopped in Ashland, where a man in all khakis let us put water in the radiator. He said the place to go was Medford, just up the road a ways. We could find work there, picking pears.

We crept into Medford before the labor office closed, and we got a referral to a place out east of town where we could stay in the bunkhouse and ride with the crew. Benson didn't like it much, but it sounded good to me. Everything was right there—–food, a place to stay, transportation. Floyd could see the benefit of it, too. He said he was willing to give it a try.

* * * * *

The weather felt chilly the first morning, and the hard green pears were cold to the touch. The three of us were picking into one bin, using twelve-foot ladders and canvas picking bags, the kind that unhooked at the bottom and dropped open. I was back in my own world now, and I was glad to show these guys how to go about ringing the pears for size, pushing up on the stem, hoisting the bag, setting the ladder, and on and on. Floyd got the hang of it pretty well, but Benson hated it.

"This is shit for work," he said. He was sitting on the third rung of his ladder, resting his forearms on the leather ridge that ran around the top of the picking bag. He had lit a cigarette, so his partner stopped to join him. I paused for a minute, too.
"It's what we're stuck with until we've got money to leave on," said Floyd. "The more of these tubs we fill, the more we make."

"Tubs, my ass."

"That's what the row boss calls 'em. I don't give a damn myself. Five bucks is five bucks. Watch how this kid does it."

"Looks like he was born to it. Is that right, Slats?"

"Not quite," I said. He had taken to calling me Slats, I think because I had thin arms and hadn't gotten my muscle yet.

"Well, I wasn't," said Benson. He flicked his ashes to one side, sniffed, and spit.

I went back to my tree and started picking bottoms. I wasn't going to leave all the easy pickin' for Benson, even if he got off his ass. Floyd went back to working on his own tree, and when I went to empty into the bin, he did, too.

Benson was still sitting on the rung of his ladder, smoking another Marlboro. He said, "Son of a bitch, Slats. You got twice as many in your bag as Floyd does. This is your kind of work, isn't it?"

I didn't stop to talk. I was snapping the bottom of my bag into place as I walked past him. I think I had my courage up because I was in my element and he wasn't. "I don't like to be called Slats," I said.

The whole deal with fruit picking, or any kind of piece work, is to get as much done as you can in the cool part of the day. None of it is fun, but the time goes by a hell of a lot better if you buckle down and work, not stand around and lolly-gag. When I came up with my next bag, Floyd had about two-thirds of a bag to dump alongside me. Benson was still smoking his cigarette.

"Come on," said Floyd. "We can't let this kid pick more than the two of us together."

"Maybe that's his talent. What do you think, kid?"

"I don't know anything about talent. You just do it."

Benson dropped the stub of his cigarette and stepped on it as he stood up. "I guess so," he said.

As he went to picking his tree, I thought, if we were somewhere else, he'd want to hit me.

* * * * *
After a couple of days of picking pears, we got a draw for twenty dollars each, which was just about all we had coming when you figured room and board. We got into the old red-orange Pontiac and started for town. We didn't have anything in particular to do, like laundry, but these other two guys got antsy sitting around the labor camp. We poked along at fifteen miles an hour, and when we got into town we went to a liquor store.

Benson came out with a fifth of rum and two quarts of Coke. He got in, and Floyd started to drive out to the country where we could drink in the car. We went past a car lot, and there in the second row was a nice, clean '56 Chevy, aqua blue and white.

"That's what we need," said Benson.

Floyd answered, "No shit."

Out past the edge of town, we drank about a third of each of the Coke bottles and then poured in the rum. Then we drank the rum and Coke, and the whole mess was gone by the time the sun was going down.

"We ought to get some more cigarettes," said Benson.

Floyd started the car, and we puttered back to town.

As we went past the car lot, Benson said, "Why don't you loan me that ignition key?"

"What for?"

"A lot of these GM keys will open the doors of other cars."

With those GM cars of the 1950's you could also take the key out of the ignition while the engine was running, so Floyd gave his pal the key and pulled over.

"Just drive around back," said Benson.

We did that, and a couple of minutes later the clean '56 Chevy came rolling up next to us.

"Son of a bitch," said Floyd. "He hot-wired it."

Benson leaned over and cranked down the window. "Follow me out to where we were," he said.

He took off, and when we got to the place where we had drunk the rum and Coke, he was waiting for us. In a few minutes he and Floyd put the California plates on the blue-and-white Chevy and the Oregon plates on the Pontiac we had been traveling in.

"We didn't get the cigarettes," said Benson.
He drove the Chevy, and Floyd went with him. I waited in the front seat of the old crippled Pontiac, wondering what the hell I would tell a cop if one came along.

It wasn't but a couple of miles into town, but those two guys took almost an hour. As I sat there, I tried to imagine how I could get away from those two guys. I sure couldn't drive away in their car, and if I got out and walked back to the labor camp, they would catch up with me either on the road or at the bunkhouse. So I sat there on the passenger side of the car with the stolen plates on it.

When the guys came back, they had two girls with them, all four in the front seat.

Floyd got out, and Benson drove off with the two girls.

"What's going on?" I asked as Floyd scooted in behind the wheel.

He started the car and put it in gear. "We picked up these two girls. They wanted us to buy booze for 'em, and we said we would if they'd drink with us. So they got a pint of sloe gin, and we got two six-packs. They know of a place to park."

"What kind of girls are they?"

He looked over at me. "I think they're all right. The one sittin' next to Benson has a boyfriend overseas, so I think she's itchy. Her girlfriend's along for the ride, but she might be okay, too."

We drove a couple of miles until the road crossed a creek, and on the other side, down on the right, we could see parking lights. Floyd pulled down into the spot, where the ground was bumpy and gravelly with weeds growing up in some places and smashed down where cars had turned around. Benson was sitting in the front seat of the Chevy with the two girls. They were all smoking cigarettes.

Everyone got out and stood around. The girls had already started on their sloe gin, and Benson was drinking a bottle of Olympia. Floyd got one for himself and one for me.

Those girls were eighteen at the most, and the liquor went to their heads pretty quick. The one with the boyfriend overseas was named Bev, and her favorite expression was "Whoop-dee-shit." Her girlfriend's name was Carol. She didn't talk as much. Benson was putting his arm around Bev, and Floyd was making the same kind of move on Carol.

Benson started spinning a story about how he and Floyd were from Coos Bay, which I guess he got off the map. He said they'd been down in California and made a bunch of money in the oilfields, and that's how they got the nice car. They were going to sell the other one to me, and then they were going on to Alaska to work on the pipeline.

"Well, whoop-dee-shit," said Bev. "I'll go with you."
"Why not?" said Benson. "The both of ya can go." He flicked away a live cigarette butt, and it landed in the gravel.

"How about it?" asked Floyd. He gave Carol's shoulder a squeeze.

"I don't know. I have to pee."

"Do you need some help?"

"Not from you. Bev, come with me."

"You don't need me."

"Come with me."

"Oh, okay." Bev dropped her cigarette and took a couple of stabs at it with her sandal until she snuffed it. Then she went with her girlfriend into the willows.

It was not a very bright night, but I could see them walking away, unsteady-like, in their shorts and sleeveless blouses. They were both blondes, and Bev wore her hair poofed up on top more than Carol did. She also had more of a figure, with boobs that pooked out. When the girls came back, I could tell them apart easy enough, and when they got into the same arrangement with the two guys, I could tell no one was going to pay attention to me.

Not only was I the odd man out, but my nerves were eating on me about the whole thing. Here we were with a stolen car and two girls that might be under age, and we had to go to work in the morning. Naturally, no one had said anything about picking pears, and I think the other two guys had had enough to drink that it took the edge off of any sense of responsibility. Maybe if I had drunk more and was going after one of the girls I might have been the same. I don't know. As it was, I just stood around and fidgeted.

The four of them chattered on, with Benson and Floyd making plenty of suggestive remarks, and finally they got the two girls separated. Carol was blubbering by now, and Floyd got her into the front seat of the Chevy, while Benson got the other girl around to the back door of the Pontiac.

"Whoop-dee-shit," she said just before she got in. "I can do what I want. I know he's over there screwin' gooks."

I wandered off to the edge of the parking area, wondering if there was any way I could get back to the labor camp by myself, when in the hell these other guys were going to get around to it, and what they were going to do with the '56 Chevy.

A car door opened, and I heard Floyd call my name. The interior light had not come on, but I could see him standing by the driver's door. I walked to the front of the clean-looking Chevy, and he came as far as the fender. His voice was low and clear in the darkness.

"She says she'll do it with me, but she doesn't want to do it with everyone else around, so I'm going to take her down the road, and then we'll come back."

I shrugged. By now I was pissed at all the delay, as well as on edge about when a cop was going to show up, but I knew how much my opinion counted. So I said, "I guess I'll just wait, then. It's what I'm doing anyway."

"Okay," he said, still in a low voice. "If the others ask anything, tell 'em I'll be right back."

He got into the car, closed the door with a muffled click, and got the engine going. It had a quiet purr. He turned the car around and eased out of there, and the headlights didn't come on until he was up on the main road.

I heard some commotion from the back seat of the other car. Bev was saying, "Don't, don't, not now," and then her voice got louder as she called out Carol's name.

Benson's voice came out rough as he said, "Calm down, damn it. Just do this."

"I don't want to."

"You said you did."

"Carol!"

"Don't worry about her. She's got her hands full. Just lay back and enjoy it."

"Umph! No!"

I heard a wrestling sound, of bodies rubbing the upholstery and making the seat springs crumple.

Benson's voice was sharp now as he said, "Settle down!"

The girl said, "I want out."

Then there was more thrashing, and it sounded like two people hitting each other.

Bev's voice sounded like she was struggling. "Uh! Ahh!"

"Knock it off!" said Benson.

There was a short lull, and she said, "You're a fuck-nut." Then there was grunting and groaning, and I could tell she was trying to get out of the car.
I heard him give her three or four whacks, and there was more bumping around. Then it sounded like he hit her pretty solid, and everything went quiet. I had a sick feeling in my stomach, but I couldn't help watching to see what was going to happen. In the faint moonlight I saw Benson back his way out of the car, pull up his pants, and stand up straight.

I listened for the sound of the girl crying, but I didn't hear a thing. Now I was scared deep. My head was buzzing, and a strange, hollow feeling went all the way to my feet.

Benson leaned into the back seat for almost a minute and then came out and took a deep breath. "Stupid bitch," he said.

I stood in the dark about fifteen feet away and waited for him to say something else. When he didn't, I fought the dryness in my mouth and said, "What happened?"

His voice had a quaver in it, and I could tell he was trying to make light of things. "Oh, she got all shook up about her friend leaving, and I tried to get her to settle down."

After another silence I said, "It didn't sound good."

He cleared his throat. "It wasn't. Or it isn't. Where in the hell's Larry, anyway?"

"He went off with the other girl. He said he'd be back."

"That's a hell of a mess. Did he think he was goin' to get somethin'?"

"I guess so."

"Dumb shit. And we're stuck here with this on our hands."

I didn't know what time it was, but I figured it was close to ten. Floyd hadn't been gone that long, and I wondered what we were going to do when he came back with the drunk girl. I was fearing the worst about the girl in the back seat of the Pontiac, and besides that, I was worried about the stolen car. Underneath that huge, dark sky, it seemed as if everything, the whole world, had gone way out of whack, yet I still had it in mind that we had to pick pears in the morning.

Benson lit a cigarette. "Shit," he said. "He's got all the beer with him, too. I could use one about now."

We stood in the gravel as he smoked his cigarette. No sound came from the old Pontiac. The back door was open just as he had left it, but he didn't go near it. He took a long drag on the cigarette, and it glowed in the dark. "Why don't you go close that door," he said.

I would have given anything to be able to say no, but I went and pushed the door shut.
After what seemed like an hour but was probably less, I saw headlights coming down the road. Brake lights went on as the car crossed the bridge, and then the front beams swung down to where we were. I told myself that if it wasn't Floyd, I was going to have to decide pretty quick what I was going to say.

It was Floyd, though, and he didn't have anyone in the front seat with him. When he stopped, I went to the driver's window and looked in to see if the girl was passed out in the back seat, but she wasn't.

"Where's the girl?" I asked.

Floyd shut off the lights and killed the engine. "I had to take her to town. She was sloppy drunk and wouldn't do anything. Did Bill get any?"

"You'll have to ask him."

Casual-like, Floyd opened the door and got out. I followed him around to the other side of the Pontiac, where Benson stood with his back to the car.

"What took so long?" he asked.

"I had to take her to town. She was drunk off her ass. Where's the other one?"

"In there."

"Is she passed out?"

"No, I think it's worse. Pretty bad scene, actually."

Floyd's answer came quick. "What do you mean?"

"Well, um, things didn't go well." Benson took out a cigarette, rapped it on his lighter, and lit it. "I was startin' to get it on, and then you took off with the other girl, and this one got worked up. Didn't want to go any farther, even after she said she would. I told her to cool it, and she wouldn't, and I think I hit her too hard."

I could tell he was trying to make the fight itself seem like less than it was.

"Did you knock her out?" Floyd asked.

"Worse, I think."

Floyd seemed to get it then. He took a seething breath. "You stupid son of a bitch. How could you do that?"
"I didn't hit her that hard, or it didn't seem like it. But she was twistin' around, and all cramped in the back seat. I think she cricked her neck."

"You mean you did. You stupid fucker. How could you do something so god-damn stupid?"

Benson's voice came back pretty sharp. He was done making excuses. "Look. It just happened, that's what. I wasn't trying to hurt her. I just wanted to finish."

Things went silent for a moment until Floyd shook his head and said, "I'm goin' to get a beer."

"Get me one, too. Do you want one, kid?"

"Sure."

Floyd came back with three bottles of Oly with the caps all off. "This is so fucked-up I can't believe it," he said as he handed out the beers. "It doesn't make any sense at all. I mean, this is really—–it's crazy. What in the hell are we gonna do?"

Benson took a long swallow. I could tell he had pulled himself together when he said, "It's a cinch we can't leave her here. This is the first place they'll come tomorrow morning."

Floyd stared at him. "You want to hide it, then."

"I sure as hell ain't gonna turn myself in and get thrown in the jug, not if there's a way out."

"What's that?"

"I'd say we get rid of it and the car at the same time."

"My car?"

"Yeah, this one that doesn't run worth a shit."

"Just leave it somewhere?"

"Not just anywhere. But it sure doesn't make sense to take it with us. And if we leave it in sight, with or without these Oregon plates, it's a matter of time till they connect a name with it. Even if it doesn't have anything in it, they connect that with the missing girl."

"My name."

I could tell he resented it, but there was worry in his voice as well.

"That's if they find it," Benson said. "But if we put it where they can't find it, we can be long gone. We take the Oregon plates off and keep 'em, and later we put 'em back on the new car and leave it in the middle of a city."

"So where do we put the Pontiac?"

Benson took another drink. "There's lakes and reservoirs up the ass around here. I saw 'em on the map."

"Where's the map?"

"It's in the glove box."

"The dome light doesn't work in that Chevy."

"I know. We can read it with a match or a lighter. To begin with, we'll read it in this car." Benson pointed at the Pontiac.

"I don't want to sit in there when she's in the back seat."

"Jesus Christ," said Benson. "I'll put her in the trunk. That's where she's got to go anyway."

I went off by myself and turned my back. For the umpteenth time I wished I could get the hell away from there, but I couldn't imagine how. I heard the trunk open, then close about a minute later. Next I heard a car door close and two others open. I looked and saw Floyd and Benson reading the map inside the old Pontiac.

After a little while, the car doors closed and Floyd called my name. He and Benson were standing between the two cars, and I walked up within speaking distance.

"Here's the deal," said Floyd. He pointed at the Chevy. "Bill's gonna drive this car to lead the way. I'll ride with him and read the map. You can drive the other car and follow. You don't have to see anything or know anything, just drive it until we get to where we want to get rid of it. Then you're in the clear. Even if we get stopped, none of this is yours. We'll keep you out of it."

I took a deep breath. Even though I thought he was talking to me like I was the biggest dummy in the world, it was one way to get out of this mess. I didn't want to drive a car with a dead body in the trunk, but at least I couldn't see it, and I sure didn't want to ride in the stolen car with Bill Benson and read the road map to him. Even if I had preferred that, I didn't feel like I had much choice.

"Okay," I said.

He handed me the key. For a second I wondered why he had taken it out of the ignition, but maybe he wanted to make a show of giving it to me. I didn't know. I got in, started the car, and waited. They got into the Chevy and led the way out of the make-out spot. A minute later I was topping out at fifteen miles an hour and clutching the wheel as I bent over it. I felt as if I'd been up all night, but I knew it wasn't that late yet.

I followed the blue-and-white Chevy for a long time until it pulled over. I stopped behind it. Benson got out, shielding his eyes from the headlights, and came back to my window.

"This is goin' too slow," he said. "We're gonna go see if we can find a rope or a tow chain," he said. "You just keep movin' along, and we'll catch up with you again."

I felt I was really stuck now. My fingerprints were all over this car, so even if I got out and left it on the side of the road, I was connected. And the dread in my guts told me I didn't want to cross these two guys at this point. At the same time, I knew they wanted to ditch the car, and I doubted they would just leave me wandering like a goose in the moonlight. They had their own asses to look out for. I told myself that if I got stopped, I wasn't going to take the rap for them, but deeper down I knew that I would be taking some kind of a rap, regardless, if we got caught.

"Okay," I said. "I don't know where I am, though."

"Just stay on this road."

He got into the Chevy and took off, and I got going at a crawl again. Now the time seemed to really drag. I remember seeing an old black highway sign that read Upper Klamath Lake, but the reflectors had been pitted out, and I couldn't see how far it was.

A long time later, a car came up fast behind me and then slowed as it went around. It was the shiny '56 Chevy with the black-and-yellow California plates. It came to a stop up ahead, so I pulled in behind it.

Floyd got out of the passenger's side with a heap of grey rope in his hands. He walked through the headlights and came around to my side.

"We found a rope," he said.

I could imagine him prowling around someone's barn yard.

"We're goin' to tie onto you and see if we can't make better time. Pull up a little more. When we get goin', leave it in neutral."

He got us tied together with a double strand, and as the cars eased out onto the highway, the rope jerked and thumped. I made sure I was in neutral. Little by little we picked up speed, and pretty soon we were jamming along at sixty miles an hour. I had the steering wheel clamped in a death grip, and still the car pulled to one side or the other. I kept my right foot ready to stomp on the brake if I had to.

It was a nerve-wracking ride, and it didn't help me forget about the dead girl. I had the feeling that she was riding on my back as I careened along, drifting from side to side as the shiny stolen Chevy yanked me through the night.

We must have gone thirty or forty miles that way until the rope broke, and I was left coasting. The blue-and-white car stayed well ahead, braking now and then, until I rolled to a stop. The other car backed up, and Floyd got out. He looked at the broken rope hanging from the back bumper of the Chevy, and he got on his hands and knees to look under the car I was driving. Then he got up and came around to my window.

"Well, that's the end of that," he said. "Just follow like before. We've got about another ten miles."

I crept along for another forty-five minutes and then followed them as they turned off the highway onto a dirt road at my left. There was a sign that said something like Thornton or Boynton Reservoir. I followed the other car into the dark night until we came to a high spot overlooking a body of water.

Floyd got out again and said, "I'll take it from here. Let's roll down all four windows, and we'll pick you up on our way out."

I was more than glad to stand by myself in the dark, with my back to the water. I heard the noise of the two cars, one louder than the other, and after a while I heard just the quieter one coming toward me.

I turned to face it, and when it pulled up, I opened the back door and got in. Once we were out on the highway, I let out a long breath. Even riding in a stolen car was a relief, compared to being dragged through the night, hunched over the steering wheel with my hands cramped, knowing every second of the way that the dead girl was in the trunk behind me. Now the calmness was unreal, and I couldn't be sure that the nightmare was over.

Floyd tried to tune in a radio station while Benson lead-footed it back towards Medford. Time seemed to speed up as the bushes and posts and dirt banks flowed by in the darkness.

When we were back into the orchard country, Benson pulled over and called a piss stop. He cut the lights down to parking, and we all stepped out into the night. The moon hadn't brightened things any more than before, and I had no idea of what time it was.

"Where are we?" I asked.

Benson answered. "The turn-off to the labor camp is about two miles ahead on the right."

Something in his voice made me wonder. "What's the plan?" I asked. "Why did we stop?"

Benson sounded impatient, and he talked down to me as always. "We stopped to take a piss. The plan is that we've got to get the hell out of here just as soon as we can get our stuff."

"Which way?"

"Depends."

"Depends on what?"

"On which way we turn."

It sounded like he didn't want to tell me any more than he had to. Maybe he thought I wouldn't want to go along and he'd deal with me when the time came. It gave me the feeling that I was one more thing they had to deal with, and I had no idea of what they had in mind for me.

I figured they would go back to California. That girl Carol would tell someone, whoever was looking for her friend, that these guys were going to Alaska. But they had California plates, so it was natural for them to go that way. Then they could put the Oregon plates on the car and leave it in a city like Benson said. In a couple of hours from now they could be highballing it past Yreka, Weed, Dunsmuir, and the rest. That was where I wanted to be going, too, but my stomach tightened at the thought of riding with them.

It wasn't just because we were in a stolen car. That was part of it, but the bigger part was the idea I had of that girl stuffed in the trunk. I wanted to be done with these guys. I wished I'd resisted when they told me to drive the car, but I was too dazed then. Now that I had had time to think, I didn't want to be jerked along like a can on a string any more.

"Well," I said, "maybe I'll just walk from here."

"What do you mean?" Benson's voice had a sharp edge to it.

"If the turn-off is a couple of miles ahead, you can go in and get your stuff and be gone by the time I get there."

"You think you're cuttin' out on us?"

I tried to go easy. I said, "I wouldn't put it that way. I just don't want to go along any more. You guys go ahead and do what you want. I don't need to know which way you're going."

"Well, you little piss-ant."

Out of the dark I felt the slam of a fist against my left temple, and my feet went out from under me. I forced my eyes open, pushed up onto my hands and knees, and turned towards the car. I felt woozy but I got up, and Benson clobbered me with two more. That time I stayed on the ground. I had all too clear a memory of what he did to that girl and how much remorse he had afterwards.

Floyd stood next to him and said, "Leave him alone. He's just a kid. If he's got any brains at all, he'll keep his mouth shut. Isn't that right, kid?"

"Sure."

Benson took a step forward and stood over me. I could hear the menace in his voice. "Now listen, you little fuck. You don't need to know anything. And remember this. You're in it just as deep as we are. So if anyone ever asks, you don't know a fuckin' thing."

He stood with his fists doubled, and when I didn't answer, he spoke for the last time. His voice was slow and threatening, and he might just as well have been pointing a gun at me. He said, "Don't ever rat on us, kid."

The two of them got into the Chevy, and it pulled away. I was shaky getting back on my feet, and I strained to see the tail lights winking as the car went over a rise in the road.

* * * * *

I made it back to the labor camp in time to get about an hour's worth of sleep. When I went to work I felt ragged and washed-out, but I kept to myself and no one questioned me. I worked there for another week, looking over my shoulder the whole time and flinching whenever someone looked at me. Still no one asked me a word, so whatever Benson and Floyd had said when they left must have been enough.

From Medford I took a bus back to the Sacramento Valley, where the almond harvest was still going on. I got a job picking up windfalls by myself, ahead of the knocking crew. That was near a town named Durham, some thirty miles across the valley from where I had met those guys who were going to make big money. Now I was on my own again, kneeling on the flat, rolled dirt, picking up split-hulled almonds and hearing the shakers rattling like machine guns in the distance.

All the time I was working alone in the heat and the dust, I couldn't quit thinking about the girl named Bev. She came to my mind a hundred times a day, and I kept imagining her stuffed in that trunk full of water.

I knew I was the only person in the world who could do right by her, and I couldn't do it just by hating those other two guys. The decent thing would be to tell someone, but simple fear kept me from doing anything—–fear that I would get sent up, fear that I would have to see Floyd and Benson again. So I crawled along, working alone and thinking about what a lousy deal that girl had gotten and what a chump I was to let those guys lord it over me.

* * * * *

Almond season came to a close, and I drew my pay. I went back to my cheap hotel room in the town of Chico, a few miles from the orchard, and I holed up there to plan my next move.

I had it in my mind that I needed to put more miles behind me. I thought I could go to the Tulare and Porterville area. Olive season would be starting pretty soon, with oranges after that. I knew some of the towns on the back highway, like Exeter and Strathmore, and I hoped I could go down there and disappear for a while. It wasn't much of a plan, but I felt that I was doing something. It was like the feeling I had when I got back on my feet after having the flu. Life was starting to seem normal. I was still worried, but I wasn't wrapped up in a ball waiting for someone to pound me again.

For the same reason I took the bus down from Medford, I started looking for a car to buy. I didn't want to be on the side of the road hitch-hiking, where any cop who felt like it could stop and question me—–or worse, where Floyd and Benson might find me.

I looked in the Chico paper and found a 1953 Plymouth for sale for seventy-five dollars. called from a pay phone and went to look at it. It had originally been maroon with a white top, but now it had a black right-front fender and a beige-colored hood, plus green spray-spots on the maroon where someone must have done some patching. The right rear door wouldn't stay closed, so it was tied on the inside with a rope that went across to the other door. The car also blew smoke. I got it for sixty dollars.

I made sure all the lights worked, and I got the door welded shut with a couple of spot welds. I didn't want to give a cop any reason to stop me.

After that I went to a surplus store, where I bought a used sleeping bag for three dollars and a lined Levi jacket for five. I felt better equipped now, but I didn't think I had enough travel money, so I went to the employment office.

I went to the window where a clean-cut guy with a Spanish accent had the day-labor jobs. He chewed his gum with his front teeth as he looked at a manila card, and then he asked me if I wanted to work in the vine seed harvest. I didn't know what that was, and he didn't seem to know any more than what the work was called. I said I would take it. A few minutes later I was on my way south to the town of Live Oak.

The referral slip took me to a place south and west of Live Oak. When I got to the field, I found out that vine seed harvest was a polite name for picking up over-ripe cantaloupes. The row boss gave me a metal five-gallon bucket, the kind that tractor grease came in, and put me to work on a row of dying vines.

It was sticky, grubby stoop labor, and noisy as well. Each time I filled my bucket with squishy melons and parts of melons, I took it to a green harvester, which had a hopper, a barrel made of heavy screen, and a loud gas engine. I dumped the bucketful of mush into the hopper, and the barrel turned around and around as it separated the seeds from the pulp. My hands crusted up with juice and dirt, and the fruit flies buzzed around my nose and eyes. But work was work, and I had already understood that this job wasn't going to last long. One of the other workers, a colored man who wore old black dress shoes with no socks, told me we had this field of melons to do, then another of cucumbers, and that would be it.

At five o'clock the labor contractor, a man named Luis, showed up in a Rambler station wagon. The colored man told me they were going to the labor camp, and if I wanted I could ask Luis if he had room.

I said I had a room for one more night so I would see him in the morning. About half a dozen men went with Luis, and that many more left in their own cars. The field boss was still running the machine when I got into my car and headed back to Chico.

Looking back on it, I can see that little by little, I had gotten back into the regular world. I was doing what I knew how, which was to get a job and look after my own details. I still knew that I needed to get gone and disappear, but I wasn't shell-shocked any more.

I pulled onto Highway 99E, which would take me back through Live Oak, on to Gridley, and from there to Chico. It was a warm, still, hazy afternoon, typical for autumn in the valley. The orchards on either side of the highway had all been harvested, and they had a dry, tired look to them. Some of the leaves were starting to turn yellow. I drove past a big field of pumpkins, and the leaves there were turning pale also. I caught the whiff of a prune dehydrator, which smelled like someone had messed his pants, and then came the dry, sweetish aroma of cured alfalfa as I slowed down behind a hay truck.

The truck pulled off in Gridley, so out on the other side of town, past the OK used car lot and the Frostie stand, I had a clear road ahead of me. I stepped on the gas, noted the blue smoke in my mirror, and out of habit looked around for cops.

I was almost at the turnoff for Biggs when I got a hell of a jolt. I was daydreaming like on any other day, thinking about the colored man with no socks and how he had a piece of thin grey cardboard padding the heel of each foot against the inside back part of the shoe. I hadn't seen that before, and I was wondering how common it was. At the same time, I was watching the road ahead of me. A white bread truck was coming my way, and as it loomed on its way past me, I saw a 1956 aqua-and-white Chevy right on its ass.

It was as if my body knew it before I did. I felt a lurch in the pit of my stomach, and I jerked back with my eyes wide open. Fifteen feet away, Bill Benson must have seen me flinch. As he turned to catch a glance at me, his frown turned to a stare of surprise.

A wave of fear rolled through me. Right out of a sunny fall afternoon, the bad dream had come to life. I looked in the side mirror and saw the Chevy's brake lights go on. I stepped on the accelerator, and the Plymouth coughed before it took off. I looked in the mirror again and saw the Chevy turning in the middle of the highway.

There was a turn-off to my right, so I took it. The road was paved, and I thought it might take me to the other highway, the one that went to Oroville. I tromped on the gas.

Up ahead, a flock of chickens had moved into my lane. I slowed down and went around them. When I looked in the rear view, I saw the Chevy turning off the highway. When I looked again, its nose was lifted and it was gaining on me. It scattered the chickens and came straight on.

I thought it was going to ram me in the rear, but instead it pulled up alongside me. Floyd had his window down as I did, and he was hollering at me to pull over. I clamped on the steering wheel with both hands and looked straight ahead. Benson laid onto the horn, and when I didn't pull over, he edged the Chevy close enough that Floyd could have handed me a can of beer, but of course he didn't.

I slammed on the brakes, and the mass of aqua-blue, white, and chrome shot on past me. I turned off the road to my left, stopped, backed up, cranked the wheel again, and headed back to 99E. Behind me as I looked in the mirror, the Chevy was turning around in the middle of the road just as I had done.

I put my foot in the carburetor. As I came up to the spot where the chickens had been, I saw a white one lying dead on the road, and a kid with straight blond hair stared at me as I roared past.

When I got to the stop sign, I decided to turn left to see if I could make it back to Gridley. I had to wait for the traffic to clear, and the Chevy was getting bigger and bigger in my rear view.

I goosed my car out onto the highway, and the Chevy came shooting out behind me. It nearly got broad-sided by a moving van, but it came through clean. In a minute it was right up behind me again, and Benson starting pushing my rear bumper. It made my front wheels turn, and I had to fight to keep the car on the road. I could see Benson scowling in my rear-view mirror, so close he was practically in my back seat. He pointed for me to pull over, but I held the steering wheel as straight as I could.

Up ahead, a livestock truck was stopped in my lane with the left turn signal flashing. I hit the brakes, and the Chevy rammed my rear bumper. I hit the brakes again, then swerved off the highway and headed for a barbed-wire fence that ran along a drainage ditch and ended at the mouth of a culvert. I heard a crunch behind me, and I saw a flash of white and aqua in my side mirror.

The Plymouth came to a rest in the barbed-wire fence, and I saw the heads of Johnson grass sticking up above the front of my hood. I looked back and saw that the Chevy had spun around sideways. Benson was spinning his wheels, but he couldn't get the car to go forward. He put it in reverse, slid it around a few degrees, and tried to go forward again, but the car bucked and would not move. The front left fender was crushed in, and I imagined the metal was jammed against the tire.

I rolled up my window, locked all my doors, and watched as the truck pulled across the highway and parked in a dirt lane. The driver stepped down from the cab with a handful of flares and started setting them out. Cars began to back up as the traffic slowed, and people stared at my car and the other one.

The truck driver crossed the road, came down off the shoulder, and peered in at me. I rolled down the window.

"Are you all right?" he asked. He was a slender fellow with receding blond hair and a small chin.

My mouth was dry and my heart was pounding, but I was glad to talk to someone normal. "Yeah," I said. "I just couldn't get these guys off my ass."

Benson's voice rose up from behind the driver. "You stupid little piss-ant, I just wanted to talk to you. Now look what you've done."

The driver turned and gave him a curious stare. "I think you're the one that ass-ended my truck," he said.

Benson came forward. He waved his hand, and the tips of his fingers came within five feet of me. "This stupid shit wouldn't pull over."

I was still breathing hard, and my voice was shaky as I said, "I've got nothing to say to either of you two." I looked at the driver, hoping that he wouldn't let those guys at me.

"Well, here's the cops," he said. His small chin lifted toward the highway.

A tan sheriff's car had stopped in the middle of the highway with its lights flashing. When the traffic cleared, it made a slow U-turn and came up behind the wrecked Chevy. A deputy with a butch haircut got out and pulled a cap onto his head.

"Is anyone hurt?" he asked.

"It doesn't look like it," said the truck driver.

"What happened?"

"This car here ran into the back of my truck." The driver turned toward me. "Looks like they were chasin' this kid."

The deputy gave a sharp look at Benson. "Is that right? What for?"

"He gave us the finger."

"Do you know him?"

Benson pushed out his lower lip and shook his head. "Never saw him before." Then he gave me an unmistakable look that recalled his words that night in Oregon: Don't ever rat on us, kid.

The cop turned to me. "Is that right?"

I hesitated.

"Go ahead and get out of the car," he said.

I had my hands on the steering wheel and didn't let go.

"Come on, get out," said the cop.

I opened the door and stepped out into the weeds. Cars were still crawling by, with people staring. Some of them had their windows rolled down. The evening was warm and heavy, and the smell of sheep drifted on the air. Across the highway, the livestock truck was idling as its signal light flashed.

"Do you know this guy?" asked the deputy. He motioned with his left hand toward Benson.

The truck driver, the cop, and Benson all had their eyes on me. I looked away from them and saw the '56 Chevy with the crunched-up fender and broken headlight. Floyd was leaning against the good fender and smoking a cigarette. I thought of the girl Bev, still in the water-filled trunk of that other car, and my answer seemed to rise with its own strength.

"Yeah," I said. "I know them both."

The deputy's face tightened. "Where from?"

I took a deep breath to steady myself. "From before. I'll tell you all about it."