A car, love, other stuff - these things make up the high school mix for Karl, 16, a boy who never before saw himself outside the mainstream of his class.
Driving around, getting in trouble... fixing to break free, whatever that means, in a world where the mythical boundary of hope is the state line.
Writer’s note
They say that a story grows right up out of the land just like the crops do. If so, then the dry land east of the Columbia River produces this one. What do the boys there want? What do they do? I just wanted to follow them around and see where Dean's '72 Camaro would take them.
When two happy boys push one another toward a crime, one of them speed-shifts up a gear too far. The fast cash and stupid love that Karl takes for real - all that breaks up under the hunter's moon. So he reaches for another gear in a new-look October, like how you can make your way through high school and still go out with who you actually want to.
Passage at Amazon Jacking Dean’s Ride
The beginning of the story…
"GET IN," Dean said.
I lowered myself in the passenger side of his '72 Camaro, burgundy, dual racing stripes of an oyster color down the middle of the hood.
"Where are we going?" I said.
We were high school boys with nothing better to do.
Dean was always coming up with stupid ideas, but like most stupid ideas they just kind of faded out. And then one day he would pull up beside the curb again, all of those Chevy cylinders snarling like some beast looking to bust out of the zoo.
"Where do you think?" he said.
Anywhere from the local Dairy Queen to Reykjavik, Iceland. That would be Dean. I didn't take the question as a challenge.
"I don't know."
"It's time we hit the big time," he said. "I'm sick and tired of all this nickel-and-dime stuff."
I looked at him while he drove. Dean was intense, like the curls of his hair kept his mind all wound up. He was in his white T-shirt, a St. Christopher medal against the cotton.
"What nickel-and-dime stuff?" I said. Maybe I was egging him on, I don't know. One thing about Dean was that he was entertaining.
"I've got plenty of clothes for both of us," he said, and he clicked on the turn signal like a symphony conductor in a Beethoven passage. "We can buy you a toothbrush along the way."
We had school in the morning, not that it mattered to Dean. It did matter to me, though, that we make it through October of our junior year.
"Where you fixing on taking us?" I said.
"Get something good on the radio, will you? I hate the garbage they play."
I knew an answer would be along soon, but first he had to sling comments at somebody that was off-key in his strange orchestra. Dean was the one who was off-key, but you could never make him see that.
"You like this one?" I said. His radio had the big knobs and I worked to fine-tune the reception.
"Fort Knox," he said. His grin drew back enough to where his gold tooth flickered. The whole thing looked like it was staged, what with the federal gold depository being at Fort Knox, but Dean never really planned things out in advance.
Me and him had been friends since grade school. If we had met in high school, I don't know what kind of friends we would have been. We sort of saw the world differently.
"Kentucky?" I said.
"You got it, Karl."