Clutch
May 1972
Michael
Salisbury
It
was the last day of eighth grade for Booger Bramlee. Bobby Dale
Treadwell was letting the booger drive his uncle’s souped-up
’67 Camaro, the car he promised his Uncle Ike he’d care
for while Ike was stationed overseas. Booger had had to take $50
out of his daddy’s wallet to bribe Bobby Dale and even then,
he wasn’t sure the older boys would really let him drive
home after school. Bobby Dale and Jimmy were the two coolest boys
at the public high school. They were so cool, Booger wanted red
hair and freckles just like them. They were seniors. Booger
had just turned into the long lane leading up to his house; his
heart was racing fast as the Chevy’s engine, he was sweating,
and Booger Bramlee had a boner.
“Geez Booger, slow down!” Bobby Dale scolded.
Booger couldn’t believe how they’d let him hang out
with them this last year. They couldn’t either, at first.
They did believe he was a pudgy, spoiled, stupid pig-dog-chicken-boy
from the snooty kids' private school, and they knew Booger’s
daddy was rich, rich, rich. Bobby Dale and Jimmy had noticed that
the booger could take anything he wanted from the stores in town,
and nobody would say a word about it. They’d figured out
that when they had the booger in tow, they could take anything
they wanted, too. Booger and his daddy lived in the Grove, and
everybody knew what that meant. People who lived in Burwell Grove
owned the whole wide world. Jimmy and Bobby Dale lived in Hamilton;
they knew they’d be lucky to get jobs for $2 an hour, and
so they never dreamed the booger would really come up with $50
to drive the Camaro.
“Gee Bobby, this is great! I’m doing a good job, aren’t
I?” The booger was taking the car around the second turn
in the long winding lane up to his house.
Bobby wasn’t so sure about the good job bit. He was having
trouble seeing the road. The sunlight filtering through the trees
was hitting the dusty windshield like a driving rain, making it
hard to see. “Slow it down a lit- dammit – watch out!”
There was a boy in the lane.
Booger swerved and ran off into a field, somehow missing the trees
that sheltered the lane. Jimmy and Bobby Dale were screaming all
kinds of Jesus’ names, giving Him a bunch of new middle names
and everything. Booger didn’t care, he loved it when the
older boys cussed. He wasn’t hurt himself, and his daddy
would fix anything bad. He thought it was funny and started laughing
a little.
“Who was that in the road? Was that Hammond?” Hammond
was a year behind Bobby Dale and Jimmy in school; Hammond’s
parents worked for the booger’s daddy. “We gotta check
on him. Did you hit him?” Jimmy ran off to check.
“Look at this mess you made,” Bobby pointed at soda
cans and a bags of chips and candy spilled on the floor. “If
you dinged up my car I’m gonna put a hurtin’ on you,
you fartknocker!” Bobby threatened, getting out to check.
“Forget about Hammond, he ain’t worth checking on. He
was right there in the middle of the drive where he ain’t
even got no business. My Daddy will pay for your car if it’s
hurt, and it ain’t even really your car but my daddy will
fix everything.”
*
Clutch had heard the car coming; he was thinking he’d have
time to get over to the side, as it zoomed right by him. He turned
just in time to see the car miss him by a couple feet with a wild-eyed
Wallace Bramlee III at the wheel. He’d never seen anyone
drive so fast on the lane. Then he realized he’d pissed himself.
Oh, great! Clutch ran off into the woods on the other side of
the lane and hid behind a tree.
*
“Bobby,
I can’t find Hammond anywhere – there’s no sign
of him! What should we do?” Jimmy was out of breath from
panic.
“He’s probably running on up to the house. He ain’t
important. C’mon, I want to finish my driving lesson.”
Bobby Dale barked, “Scoot yourself over – you are finished.
You done got your money’s worth today.”
*
“Are
you all right Gary?” The quiet voice and the hand on Clutch’s
shoulder startled him and he jumped. “I didn’t mean
to frighten you all over again. I was just out for a walk and
I saw what happened.” It was Wallace Bramlee II. Clutch was
embarrassed and tried to cover the wet spot in his pants; he couldn’t
look Mr. Bramlee in the face. He hoped Mr. Bramlee wouldn’t
tell his daddy; the former drill sergeant would be upset his boy
had pissed his pants, humiliated his employer had seen it. “I’m
OK, Mr. Bramlee.”
“Just run along up to the house and get yourself cleaned
up. Wallace didn’t mean any harm; he’s fallen in with
a wild crowd, that’s all. I’ll check on you later; you’re
sure you’re all right?”
“Yes sir.”
“Those older boys from town, they’re a bad influence
on Trey.”
“Yes sir.”
*
Wild crowd, Clutch thought as he walked slowly home. He could
still taste the muddy grit between his teeth from the dust the
Booger had stirred up tearing down the road. He hid deeper in
the woods as he heard Bobby Dale’s car coming back from the
Bramlee mansion. He hid his shame deeper still; it would be there
years later, long after he’d traded his mother’s bowl-guided
haircuts for a marine buzz cut, long after he would see the Booger
for the last time, long after his brown hair turned gray. Clutch’s
dawdling and the afternoon heat dried his pants by the time he
got home, but his face remained red, fueled first by embarrassment,
and later by indignation. Bad influence, he thought, I could poop
a better booger.
***
MICHAEL
SALISBURY is a native Kansan and has lived in Tennessee about
ten years. He was relocated by the Evil Empire Gas Company from
Overland Park to Franklin. He served as editor of his college
newspaper for two semesters and wrote and edited his company’s
newsletter for two years. He dabbles in satirical essays, mean-spirited
haikus, and the occasional short story. He is
a member of the Williamson County Council for the Written Word
and Sisters in Crime’s Nashville Chapter. He is an avid reader
and belongs
to two book clubs.
©
Michael Salisbury