So distraught was I over the pixies, I sank to new depths. I was actually thankful for the company of the Deadheads - their mindlessness had a tranquility to it that was sorely lacking in the jittery pixies. Still, I offended them wantonly, especially when they wanted me to play hacky-sack.
"Do I look gay?"
"Why's it gay? Because it takes skill?"
"Yeah man, I'm terrified of all you guys kicking my ass with a bean bag."
But the Deadheads had bigger concerns than my brotherly non-love: the Family Truckster. Their visions of touring across America in it hitting Phish concerts was in jeopardy. Somehow, Dustin had gotten it in his head that there was a severe mechanical problem with the Truckster. The fist time he made this curious observation, we had just returned from the store.
"Darren, there's something wrong with the Truckster!"
"What?"
"I don't know. It wasn't running right."
"Dude, I just went to the store with you. It was fine."
"No really, Darren! Didn't you feel it vibrating?"
"Jesus Christ."
Dustin parked the Truckster in the back of the station, next door to the police, claiming he would have it in top form by the end of the shift. I watched with skepticism as he opened the hood and began poking at the engine in confusion and fear.
A few hours later, I sat at the desk staring out into the lot, lost in thought. The semester was about to begin again and I had signed up for something like 22 hours worth of classes. I was as insane as my cousin pulling random parts off of a perfectly good engine. The truth was, school had lost its luster. The thought of sitting through class after class and constantly being tested annoyed me. I'd grown used to sleeping in over the summer and not having any responsibilities.
Tracy was another issue. She had subtly hinted at us getting an apartment together. I carefully steered her away from that idea. Something deep down inside told me it wouldn't be right. I would be dumping on her one thing I hated passionately - responsibility, namely the responsibility of juggling living and financial concerns with a romance. I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy, let alone my first love. Maybe I was more worried about myself having to take on more responsibility. It was all the same.
She didn't show any signs of anger or insult by my decision, thankfully. I suspect she realized I was right. She decided to share an apartment with Sky in midtown, a few blocks away from the Art Institute. It was a cozy place, with hardwood floors and big rooms. The only drawback was the psychotic apartment owner. He was an Italian guy who drove a tan Bronco and was evidently at war with the owner of the property on the opposite side of the parking lot. They often had animated conversations in the lot - each one making sure to stand within the boundaries of his own property - which quickly escalated into death threats.
My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Josh. He darted into the back room, barely looking at me on the way, "Hey dude."
"Hey, Josh."
He had lost a good deal of his goofy joviality since he had taken up pixie dust. Now, he was paranoid and quiet - weird in a way that wasn't good.
I heard Josh light up Toad's propane torch that everyone used to smoke pixie dust. It was annoying that people came to the station for the sole purpose of smoking that shit in the back room. They were also scaring off customers in droves, not that I minded so much, but the economic implications did concern me.
Don't these idiots realize we're sitting next to a police station? I thought, forgetting my own adventures on LSD. I'd even pumped the chief of police's gas while tripping. I suspected he may have been a little more tolerant about drugs. It was rumored he'd had a bout with addiction a couple of decades ago, thus the constant shaking and his nickname, Shaky Joe.
After several minutes, Josh came out of the back room, pale and tormented, "Dude, what's up with the van?"
"Nothing. Dustin thinks there's something wrong with it but there isn't."
"You mean, he's taking it apart for no reason?"
"Yep."
Josh laughed nervously, "Dude, that's ate up!"
"I know, man."
That night there was yet another pixie celebration at the apartment. Tracy and I sat on the couch watching in quiet bemusement. It was simultaneously horrific and magical. Sometimes I found the pixies utterly fascinating. Their ability to be completely busy without actually having anything at all to do was amazing.
It was deep in the morning when the pixies finally filtered away. Tracy went home to get some sleep before having to be at work delivering pizzas. I was left with Jack, Dustin and our cousin Peter. I retired to my room to try to get some sleep, but was having difficulty, as I could hear Jack rambling a non-stop stream of schizophrenic madness. He was trying to talk Peter into taking him to a bar downtown, since Dustin left the Truckster torn apart at the station.
There was a lull in Jack's chatter, then I heard, "Ow! He bit me!" followed by Dustin yelling, "He's invincible, Peter! He's invincible!"
I'm not certain what impulse caused me to hurry into the living room. It was probably the same one that causes people to slow down and watch the scene of a bad car wreck or to stare at some drooling mongoloid with a misshapen head lurching along the sidewalk. The sliding-glass door leading to the balcony was open, with Peter and Dustin standing outside and Jack sitting inside in the recliner, his face red and his blue eyes puffy.
"What's going on out here?"
Dustin waved out into the darkness, "He's invincible, Darren!"
"What are you talking about?"
"Kalyptis bit me. And Peter. We threw him out and he ran away when he landed! Kalyptis is invincible!"
I turned to look at Kalyptis' cage. The Christmas decorations and gold paint adorned an empty aquarium.
"Dude. How could you throw Kalyptis away? What the fuck is wrong with you?"
"I'm a fucking mess, Darren!"
Two weeks later, the Truckster was still parked at the station. Parts were strewn on the ground in an arc around the front of it. Dustin worked furiously, sweat rolling off of his face. Customers started to ask me questions about it, "What's wrong with that van?" Or eventually, "What's wrong with that guy?"
One day, Shaky Joe pulled in driving a police car. He watched with fascination as Dustin removed hoses, belts and other plastic and metal parts and tossed them haphazardly to the ground. I started Shaky Joe's gas and began cleaning his windshield, "Oh, don't bother with that."
"Cool. What's going on?"
"Oh not a lot. What's he doing to that bus? It's been there for a couple of weeks now."
I looked over at Dustin who was busy wrenching out the alternator, "I don't think he knows."
As was his wont, during any critical time in the Truckster's repair, Dustin called out to nobody in particular, "I think I got it!"
Shaky Joe examined the situation through the passenger-side window, "Well, what's a 'Kalyptis'?"
"It was his pet rat."
Shaky Joe chuckled and shook his head as he gave me his Phillips card.
The high-point (or low-point, depending on your perspective) of the Truckster debacle happened one afternoon with Josh, Peter and Wayland and other assorted pixies at the station. Dustin had gone without sleep for maybe approaching two weeks at that point. I was outside, handling a regular customer - a soon-to-be ex-regular customer, who just saw Dustin vomit all over himself while working on the Truckster.
"What's the matter with him?"
"Uhh. Flu or something."
I took the woman's cash and she left, somewhat hurriedly.
Dustin walked over to me, slowly, cradling himself in his arms, "Darren! I just shit my pants! Don't tell anyone!"
I could smell it - mixed with the odor of vomit. After a few moments staring at Dustin with a combination of shock and disgust, I could only muster two words to him, "Go home."
I went inside the office, "Peter, get him out of here."
Everyone turned to Dustin, standing outside wiping vomit off of himself.
"Dude," Josh coughed, "do you want me to cover for him?"
"No. I want you all to leave. I'd rather just finish the shift by myself."
A few more days passed and Dustin had given up on fixing the Truckster. There were bolts, nuts, washers, belts, hoses, fans, gears and wires scattered in impossible confusion all over the gravel lot. Trent walked into the office as Dustin sat staring morosely out the front window, "Hey cuz!"
Dustin ignored him.
"What're you gonna do with the bus?"
Dustin glared at him, "I'm going to slap some Grateful Dead stickers on it, park it in front of Winstead's and sell it to some dumbass kid."
I'd seen the look on Trent's face before. Though, I didn't laugh when I saw it on my grandfather's face - watching the evening news with him in the dimly-lit family room. They often showed old footage from World War II back then, in the '70s. My grandfather would look distantly, through the whiskey and Valium, at some horror invisible to me. The look on his face just before he would shed a tear is the look Trent had assumed. It was probably due to his extreme sensitivity that Dustin and I so enjoyed tormenting him and we both knew, instinctively, where to aim.
Trent turned away. "I'm sorry. I jus..." He mumbled something unintelligible as he left for his car and drove away.
Eventually, Lee had the Truckster towed away, as Dustin was too confused to make a decision that monumental. He subtracted the cost for the tow from Dustin's paycheck. Dustin managed to talk his dad into helping him buy another car. Two days after he got it, he had removed the rear window and painted the car with graffiti and tan latex house paint.
Posted by DevilMonkey at 5:39 PM