Broke-Ass

The last time I saw Brian’s dad was right before he disappeared. He’d pick me up first, then Kevin, then Jeff, and then Brian. None of our dads lived with us, and none of them drove carpool, either. Brian’s dad only did it to stay out of court for never paying any child support. Everybody knew that this deal was a favor to Brian, not his dad. Even us.

The Datsun B210 Brian’s dad drove was either dusty or wet. Inside, it stank of burgers and musk. First thing you did when you got in was roll your window down. But Brian’s dad played The White Album Part II cassette until it was time to flip it over and start the next side. He also cussed and let us cuss, as long as we didn’t use the “B” or “C” words or ask what the “B” or “C” words were. All that and a half-decent chance the B210 would overheat as we chugged up the coast were enough to make the ten-minute ride into Camarillo as good as most weekdays got.

One Monday, Brian’s dad laid on the horn at seven — twenty minutes before he was supposed to get me, thirty minutes before he usually did. I jammed my shoes on and ran out into June’s gloom so he wouldn’t have to wait. “Shut it,” he said, as I got in.

Before I could get a grip on the door’s wobbly handle, he peeled out and then braked hard at the stop sign. “Shut it,” he said again. As he sped up, I gave the door a good slam and started rolling down my window. Dew dripped in…