Lawrence’s Boat
I was a nervous wreck driving slow on the interstate. My stepfather’s pickup took some getting used to. The truck sat higher and handled different than my hybrid and the layout of the gauges and controls was unfamiliar. The engine rumbled and stank like diesel fuel. By itself it the truck was bad enough. The real kicker though was hauling Gravy, Lawrence’s pretentious boat, behind it. Every time a gust of April wind caught the truck or the boat’s hull I thought I was going to veer into the wet grass and the occasional blotches of stubborn snow between the road and the rows of trees. Pain surged in my arm and shoulder from locking my elbow while I fought to keep the steering wheel straight and the trailer behind me on the pavement.
I couldn’t remember how Lawrence had conned me into bringing his boat down to Roosterville for him while he and mother relaxed in Florida. He demanded it, really. I don’t recall him asking, or me saying yes. The more I thought about it, the more the little hint of anger inside me started to grow. He just expected me to do this for him. What an asshole. He made mother happy and his boat made him happy, but I barely had enough time to take care of my own responsibilities, let alone his.
Cars flew by me like I wasn’t even there. That didn’t bother me so much, but once the semi drivers started honking at me as they made their slow and eventual pass, I knew I needed to exit the freeway. I was pretty sure most of the truckers gave me rude hand gestures as they went by, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the road to look at them. It would take me a little longer to get the boat down to Roosterville if I used the back roads, but if the traffic was lighter and I could slow the haul down a little more, I thought I might be more comfortable. I just needed to get the damn boat into Hen Lake and get this chore over with.
*
M-71 was quiet that morning. I didn’t even see a semi. 71 was a straight shot from Blair all the way down past Mill City. I could hop off in Roosterville and cruise over to Lawrence’s cottage on Hen Lake from there. Easy. With just one hand on the wheel while I drove, I took a drink of coffee. A big step for me. This bullshit was almost over. Almost over, but I knew I was going to have to start telling Lawrence no, when he asked for these kinds of favors. Asked. Demanded. Whatever. I was done.
One of the other things about the truck that took some getting used to was the mirrors. Out the rearview was nothing but the boat. The curve of the bow and the tilt of the windshield were visible beneath the blue canvas cover. All I could see that wasn’t part of the boat was the sky. Nothing on the road behind me. The side mirrors had smaller, rounded mirrors in the corners to help see what was behind the trailer, but the images were distorted.
A car kept coming right up behind me, acting like it wanted to pass, but then would drop back. I couldn’t tell for sure what kind it was. It was older, mid 80s, probably. A Crown Vic, maybe an Impala. Long, wide and boxy. Across the front it had one of those wide, toothy grilles that in those days didn’t get covered with a prettier, fake grille like they do today. The car pulled up close enough for me to tell it was an older woman driving. I slowed down a little, so she could pass, but she slowed down right with me. When I sped back up, she dropped further behind.
*
A mile or two from the Hen Lake turnoff I saw that lady coming up behind me again. She was flying, like when you see a cop car in the distance behind you and in no time they’re cruising right past, only she came right up on me. Again, she didn’t pass. She began to irritate me. I already had enough to worry about.
Up ahead, in the oncoming lane, I saw one of the signs that spring had officially blossomed. A kid on a crotch-rocket motorcycle. Both his bike and helmet were canary yellow. He leaned his bike out from behind a minivan into my lane, a good half mile ahead, then once he passed it, leaned back into his lane. I’d never been into motorcycles but I couldn’t help but feel a little envious about the sense of freedom he must have enjoyed on it. You could tell by watching him that he loved it. And there was no way his stepfather was making him ride it. I watched him as he rode all eased down and forward under the tiny windshield to make himself more aerodynamic.
Just as he was even with the front of my truck he bolted upright. His bike started to angle. He was braking hard and trying to steer away. The sunlight hit the tinted visor of his helmet and I could see terror on his face as he unmistakably screamed the word FUCK. He couldn’t have been more than 22 or 23 years old.
In the side mirror, I saw that grandma behind me had finally worked up the courage to pass. She drove right out into the path of the kid. I pulled over hard, hoping I could give the kid room to squeeze between us. Too late. The car and motorcycle collided with a nauseating crumple. My truck and trailer slid on the gravel kicking up a plume of dust. A blur of color went across the rearview mirror through the cloud behind me.
The old lady swerved and screeched to a stop up ahead of me. Black smoke bellowed out the front end of her car. I dropped down from the cab of the truck and started back, toward the direction of the blur but I couldn’t. He wasn’t a blur in the air anymore, just a motionless heap jutting onto the gravel from the tall grass. He still wore the yellow helmet. Hoping to see the slightest flex of an arm or a twitch of a foot, I stood there. Waiting for movement. Anything. It didn’t take a doctor to know. He was gone. I’m sure it never occurred to him that morning that he would never make it to his destination.
I jogged over to the old lady’s car. The front end was on fire. What was left of the motorcycle was still wedged into her hood and grille. Grandma sat inside trying to unbuckle her seat belt. The door stuck at first, finally when I yanked on it, it opened with a squeal. She looked up at me in surprise and let out a little gasp. The color in her eyes was gone. No iris at all. Just a cloudy, purplish-gray circle around her pupil. I could tell she had no idea what day of the week it was, let alone what she had just caused.
Sirens rang in the distance getting closer and closer by the second. A few other cars stopped along both sides of the road. People from who knows where gathered around. A few of them were on cell phones. I was a little ashamed that it hadn’t occurred to me to call the police. Or an ambulance. Or someone.
“Oh,” she said and smiled at me. Like I was some kind of hero rushing in to save her. She fucking smiled at me.
“LADY,” I yelled. “Your car is on fire.”
Again, she fiddled with the seatbelt. I reached in and unbuckled it for her. She started getting out when I pulled her by the arm, then she pulled out of my grip and sat back down.
“I need my purse,” she said and turned toward the back seat. A kid lay dead 50 yards up the road because of her senile ass and she was worried about her purse.
Then it occurred to me. If that asshole Lawrence had hauled the boat himself none of this would have happened.
Then even worse. This was my fault.
If I had stayed on the interstate I wouldn’t have been in Grandma’s way. She wouldn’t have gone into the kid’s lane. If I had stayed on the interstate that kid in the yellow helmet would still be alive. I stood there next to her burning car, lifting her out by her arm, not caring if Lawrence’s boat ever reached the water again.
I was a nervous wreck driving slow on the interstate. My stepfather’s pickup took some getting used to. The truck sat higher and handled different than my hybrid and the layout of the gauges and controls was unfamiliar. The engine rumbled and stank like diesel fuel. By itself it the truck was bad enough. The real kicker though was hauling Gravy, Lawrence’s pretentious boat, behind it. Every time a gust of April wind caught the truck or the boat’s hull I thought I was going to veer into the wet grass and the occasional blotches of stubborn snow between the road and the rows of trees. Pain surged in my arm and shoulder from locking my elbow while I fought to keep the steering wheel straight and the trailer behind me on the pavement.
I couldn’t remember how Lawrence had conned me into bringing his boat down to Roosterville for him while he and mother relaxed in Florida. He demanded it, really. I don’t recall him asking, or me saying yes. The more I thought about it, the more the little hint of anger inside me started to grow. He just expected me to do this for him. What an asshole. He made mother happy and his boat made him happy, but I barely had enough time to take care of my own responsibilities, let alone his.
Cars flew by me like I wasn’t even there. That didn’t bother me so much, but once the semi drivers started honking at me as they made their slow and eventual pass, I knew I needed to exit the freeway. I was pretty sure most of the truckers gave me rude hand gestures as they went by, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the road to look at them. It would take me a little longer to get the boat down to Roosterville if I used the back roads, but if the traffic was lighter and I could slow the haul down a little more, I thought I might be more comfortable. I just needed to get the damn boat into Hen Lake and get this chore over with.
*
M-71 was quiet that morning. I didn’t even see a semi. 71 was a straight shot from Blair all the way down past Mill City. I could hop off in Roosterville and cruise over to Lawrence’s cottage on Hen Lake from there. Easy. With just one hand on the wheel while I drove, I took a drink of coffee. A big step for me. This bullshit was almost over. Almost over, but I knew I was going to have to start telling Lawrence no, when he asked for these kinds of favors. Asked. Demanded. Whatever. I was done.
One of the other things about the truck that took some getting used to was the mirrors. Out the rearview was nothing but the boat. The curve of the bow and the tilt of the windshield were visible beneath the blue canvas cover. All I could see that wasn’t part of the boat was the sky. Nothing on the road behind me. The side mirrors had smaller, rounded mirrors in the corners to help see what was behind the trailer, but the images were distorted.
A car kept coming right up behind me, acting like it wanted to pass, but then would drop back. I couldn’t tell for sure what kind it was. It was older, mid 80s, probably. A Crown Vic, maybe an Impala. Long, wide and boxy. Across the front it had one of those wide, toothy grilles that in those days didn’t get covered with a prettier, fake grille like they do today. The car pulled up close enough for me to tell it was an older woman driving. I slowed down a little, so she could pass, but she slowed down right with me. When I sped back up, she dropped further behind.
*
A mile or two from the Hen Lake turnoff I saw that lady coming up behind me again. She was flying, like when you see a cop car in the distance behind you and in no time they’re cruising right past, only she came right up on me. Again, she didn’t pass. She began to irritate me. I already had enough to worry about.
Up ahead, in the oncoming lane, I saw one of the signs that spring had officially blossomed. A kid on a crotch-rocket motorcycle. Both his bike and helmet were canary yellow. He leaned his bike out from behind a minivan into my lane, a good half mile ahead, then once he passed it, leaned back into his lane. I’d never been into motorcycles but I couldn’t help but feel a little envious about the sense of freedom he must have enjoyed on it. You could tell by watching him that he loved it. And there was no way his stepfather was making him ride it. I watched him as he rode all eased down and forward under the tiny windshield to make himself more aerodynamic.
Just as he was even with the front of my truck he bolted upright. His bike started to angle. He was braking hard and trying to steer away. The sunlight hit the tinted visor of his helmet and I could see terror on his face as he unmistakably screamed the word FUCK. He couldn’t have been more than 22 or 23 years old.
In the side mirror, I saw that grandma behind me had finally worked up the courage to pass. She drove right out into the path of the kid. I pulled over hard, hoping I could give the kid room to squeeze between us. Too late. The car and motorcycle collided with a nauseating crumple. My truck and trailer slid on the gravel kicking up a plume of dust. A blur of color went across the rearview mirror through the cloud behind me.
The old lady swerved and screeched to a stop up ahead of me. Black smoke bellowed out the front end of her car. I dropped down from the cab of the truck and started back, toward the direction of the blur but I couldn’t. He wasn’t a blur in the air anymore, just a motionless heap jutting onto the gravel from the tall grass. He still wore the yellow helmet. Hoping to see the slightest flex of an arm or a twitch of a foot, I stood there. Waiting for movement. Anything. It didn’t take a doctor to know. He was gone. I’m sure it never occurred to him that morning that he would never make it to his destination.
I jogged over to the old lady’s car. The front end was on fire. What was left of the motorcycle was still wedged into her hood and grille. Grandma sat inside trying to unbuckle her seat belt. The door stuck at first, finally when I yanked on it, it opened with a squeal. She looked up at me in surprise and let out a little gasp. The color in her eyes was gone. No iris at all. Just a cloudy, purplish-gray circle around her pupil. I could tell she had no idea what day of the week it was, let alone what she had just caused.
Sirens rang in the distance getting closer and closer by the second. A few other cars stopped along both sides of the road. People from who knows where gathered around. A few of them were on cell phones. I was a little ashamed that it hadn’t occurred to me to call the police. Or an ambulance. Or someone.
“Oh,” she said and smiled at me. Like I was some kind of hero rushing in to save her. She fucking smiled at me.
“LADY,” I yelled. “Your car is on fire.”
Again, she fiddled with the seatbelt. I reached in and unbuckled it for her. She started getting out when I pulled her by the arm, then she pulled out of my grip and sat back down.
“I need my purse,” she said and turned toward the back seat. A kid lay dead 50 yards up the road because of her senile ass and she was worried about her purse.
Then it occurred to me. If that asshole Lawrence had hauled the boat himself none of this would have happened.
Then even worse. This was my fault.
If I had stayed on the interstate I wouldn’t have been in Grandma’s way. She wouldn’t have gone into the kid’s lane. If I had stayed on the interstate that kid in the yellow helmet would still be alive. I stood there next to her burning car, lifting her out by her arm, not caring if Lawrence’s boat ever reached the water again.