The Bazaar of Bad Dreams

The damage to the Subaru is far worse than the damage to the absurdly oversize pickup, probably fifteen hundred or two thousand more, but that isn’t what makes Sanderson speak up. It isn’t being afraid the lug will get away clean, either – all Sanderson has to do is write down the number of the plate above those hanging rubber testes. It isn’t even the heat, which is whopping. It’s the thought of his gorked-out father sitting there in the passenger seat, not knowing what’s happening, needing a nap. They should be halfway back to Crackerjack Manor by now, but no. No. Because this happy asshole had to cut across traffic. Just had to scoot under that green arrow before it went out, or the world would grow dark and the winds of judgment would blow.

‘That’s not how it’s going to work,’ Sanderson says. ‘It was your fault. You cut in front of me without signaling. I didn’t have time to stop. I want to see your registration, and I want to see your driver’s license.’

‘Fuck your mother,’ the big man says, and punches Sanderson in the stomach. Sanderson bends over, expelling all the air in his lungs in a great whoosh. He should have known better than to provoke the driver of the pickup truck, he did know better, one look at those amateur tats and anyone would have known better, but he still went ahead because he didn’t believe this would happen in broad daylight, at the intersection of Commerce Way and Airline Road. He belongs to the Jaycees. He hasn’t been punched since the third grade, when the argument was over baseball cards.

‘That there’s my registration,’ Tat Man says. Big streams of sweat are running down the sides of his face. ‘I hope you like it. As for my driver’s license, I don’t have one, okay? Fuckin don’t. I’m gonna be in a lot of trouble, and it’s all your fuckin fault because you were jerkin off instead of looking where you were goin. Fuckin ringmeat!’

Then Tat Man loses it completely. Maybe it’s the accident, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s Sanderson’s insistence on looking at documents Tat Man doesn’t have. It might even be the sound of his own voice. Sanderson has heard the phrase he lost it many times, but realizes he has never taken in its full meaning until now. Tat Man is his teacher, and he’s a good teacher. He laces both of his hands together, making a double fist. Sanderson has just time enough to see there are blue eyes on Tat Man’s knuckles before he’s hit in the side of the face with a sledgehammer that drives him back against the newly distressed right side of his car. He slides along it, feeling a prong of metal tear his shirt and the skin beneath. Blood spills down his side, hot as fever. Then his knees buckle and he lands on the road. He stares down at his hands, not believing they are his hands. His right cheek is hot and seems to be rising like bread dough. His right eye is watering.

Next comes a kick to his wounded side, just above the beltline. Sanderson’s head hits the right front hubcap of his Subaru and bounces off. He tries to crawl out from under Tat Man’s shadow. Tat Man is yelling at him, but Sanderson can’t make out any words; it’s just wah-wah-wah, the sound adults make when they’re talking to the kids in the animated Peanuts cartoons. He wants to tell Tat Man okay, okay, you say tomato and I say tomahto, let’s call the whole thing off. He wants to say no harm and no foul (although he feels he has been fouled quite badly), you go your way and I’ll go mine, happy trails to you, see you tomorrow, Mouseketeers. Only he can’t catch his breath. He thinks he’s going to have a heart attack, may be having one already. He wants to raise his head – if he’s going to die he would like to do it looking at something more interesting than the surface of Commerce Way and the front of his own wounded car – but he can’t seem to do it. His neck has become a noodle.

There’s another kick, this time in the high meat of his left thigh. Then Tat Man gives a guttural cry, and red drops begin to splash the composition surface of the roadway. Sanderson at first thinks it’s his nose – or maybe his lips, from the double-handed blow to his face – but then more warmth splashes the back of his neck. It’s like a tropical rain shower. He crawls a little farther, past the hood of his car, then manages to turn over and sit. He looks up, squinting against the dazzle of the sky, and sees Pop standing beside Tat Man. Tat Man is bent over like a man suffering serious stomach cramps. He is also groping at the side of his neck, which has sprouted a piece of wood.