Boot'er

That place between my girlfriend's shoulder blades.

Came across this published story of mine—from a mag called, Thieve’s Jargon, which no longer exists. I thought some might enjoy this one.

Photo by Matt Collamer on Unsplash

Boot'er

Summer strains of a Beach Boy tune hum out of the dash while we grind deep snow under the wheels of my Pontiac. 

"Boot 'er," Ed says. 

I give her some more gas, but I don’t floor it, that’ll get us nowhere. 

The rear end of the Pontiac slides out behind us and I jerk the wheel, too hard and too fast. The back end starts catching up on us, and where I used to see the road, I see Ed’s big head taking a swig of Canadian Club. 

"Hold her, hold her," he says and then hands me the mickey. 

I ignore the offer and urge the wheel the other way. In protest, the car gives a shake and returns to its rightful place. Patches of gravel peek through the packed snow and the road straightens. It’s still slippery as hell, but at least I feel like I’m back in control. Ed places the rye bottle in my outstretched hand. Not taking my eyes off the road, I ease up and chug a couple of ounces. 

"You know what we should do?" 

"What?" The whiskey burns raw down the back of my throat. 

"We should drive onto the lake." 

That’s fucking nuts, I think. 

"Sounds good," I say. Then I ask, "You ever do that before?" I make sure there’s not the slightest hint of fear in my voice. 

"Nah. But I always wanted to. Don’t worry, the ice will be thick as hell by now." 

I wonder how he knew I was worried. 

The road narrows and stiff branches tap against the windows of the Pontiac. A long spindly one reaches out and scrapes and squeals along the car like a steak knife slipping on a plate. 

"Which way, Ed?" 

"Fucked if I know. How 'bout there?" 

He points at a break in the treeline. I start to slow.

"Not too slow, we’ll get stuck for sure." 

The Boys are singing about surfing and I know Ed’s right. I glance at the speedometer. 20. I take it to 15 and hold it steady. The break comes up and I try to ease the Pontiac into it, the back end starts sliding again, but this time I ease the wheel, caress it like that place between my girlfriend’s shoulder blades, and I make the turn. I look over at Ed for a compliment. He’s staring right ahead, but he’s holding his thumb up. I’ll take it. 

With a sudden jolt and a whump, we drop what feels like ten feet but I know is only a couple. The road has become a barely plowed path -- a path that is being swallowed by the surrounding bush and ends at a point just yards away. Just before we hit the tangled bush, I see, through a rough oval torn in the branches, a shimmering expanse of ice. 

The wheels churn deep snow, and we’re spitting ice and leaves and gravel. To hell with it -- I floor it. With a lurch, the Pontiac erupts through the bush’s stranglehold and hurtles onto the ice. We’re spinning and sliding, but who cares, there’s nothing in the way to hit. 

"Wooo-hooooo, Smitty!" Ed slams the dash with his fist. 

We both have to squint to see where we’re going. Where are we going? There’s a slash of sky that’s bluer than anything I know and the only other colour out there besides the whiteness is the muddy brown of a couple of ice shacks. 

We spin effortlessly across the lake like we’re a couple of drunk figure skaters. 

"Hey, Smitty, figure —eight." 

Obviously, the two of us are on the same wavelength. I start a big loopy circle and then duck and circle back. Ed looks out the window and traces the tire lines with his fingers. 

I stop the Pontiac and we toast, one at a time, our athletic feat. The sun bounces off the golden hood and dances around the cracked windshield. It’s a helluva moment. I’m looking at one of the ice shacks, when I see a figure in a gray snowsuit come out and start waving at us.

When I hear a crack, I whirl around to see if Ed dropped the bottle on the floor. He’s in mid-swig, when he lowers the bottle and looks at me. 

"Boot 'er." 

I do. 

END