Vision Quest Read Free

ask.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWould you like me to talk to him about it, then?”
    â€œYes,” Carla says. “But not because I can’t. It would just make me feel better about us. Okay?”
    â€œSure,” I reply. Now I’ll have to talk to Tanneran. Shit. But it’s good of Carla to let me know what she expects of me. Having a serious girlfriend is not all fun and games. There’s responsibility in it.
    *  *  *
    Carla is related to the reason I’m working during wrestling season. It was partially because of Carla that Dad lost his job and is being sued for fifteen thousand smackers. He decided he didn’t want to work for anybody else again, so he sold our cabin at Loon Lake and our boat and pickup, borrowed a bunch of money, and opened Spokane’s first Honda car store. Shortly after Dad lost his job he and Mom broke up. He lost our poodle in that deal, and I lost partof my mother. I felt like I should help Dad, so I sold my 450cc Honda motorcycle and vowed to work as steady as I could through the school year to earn money for college. This was one of the big reasons I decided to graduate early. Chances are I’ll get a wrestling scholarship, but they don’t pay for everything. I had other reasons, too.
    Carla walked into the store one afternoon last July with three hundred bucks. She’d been hitching since Chicago and was fed up with it and wanted to buy a car that would get her to the Pacific Ocean. The store was a big Buick dealership downtown near the freeway and Dad was sales manager. Dad was out when Carla came looking for a car. Ray Lucas, one of the used-car salesmen, showed Carla the back row, where all car dealers keep their clunks. In the back row last July sat a ’62 Rambler wagon, a ’65 Imperial, a ’49 Chevy pickup, a ’66 Buick, and a ’53 Ford coupe. I remember because Dad and I were looking for a cheap car to run as a claimer in the stock car races. I was all set to buy that Ford if it was any good at all. I figured to bash out the windows, rip out the upholstery, and weld in a rollbar. I’d dropped by after work that day so we could test-drive it. Dad thought the bearings might be about gone.
    I saw the commotion from way down the street. Five or six people were gathered on the sidewalk, looking through the cars toward the back of the lot. I walked the Honda through them, then rolled down the driveway and pulled up next to Ray Lucas. He was leaning against the trunk of a’71 Buick, looking down at the bloody dentures in his hand and spots of blood that ran down his white shirt and burgundy pants and onto his white shoes. Dad was talking to a girl about my age who instantly reminded me of a Raggedy Ann doll. In one hand she clutched a bouquet of paper money, and from her shoulder hung a cheap packsack out of which poked a beat-up cardboard sign that said WEST . The old Ford coupe hung from the company wrecker in the alley. The girl stuffed the bills in her packsack, then tore off her shirt and wrapped Dad’s bleeding hand in it. She wore a man’s white cotton tank top undershirt, through which her beautiful round breasts were visible to the crowd of us. Dad tried to take off his suit coat to put around her, but he couldn’t get his sleeve past the wad of flannel.
    â€œYour fucking father cracked up,” Lucas gummed.
    Two bike cops pulled in, flanking me, followed by an ambulance. They leaped off their bikes and grabbed my arms. “Dad!” I yelled. He turned and ran toward us, waving his bloody flannel mitt.
    â€œIt’s not the kid!” yelled Lucas. “That’s the one!” He pointed at Dad. “The guy’s gone crazy.”
    The cop let me go and raised his hand in front of his chest to show Dad to keep his distance. Dad slowed down and walked the rest of the way to where I sat on the bike. “It’s all right,” he said to the cop. “It’s all over.”