driving brewster--a very short story

 

“Dad?” Maxwell asked. “How did I get my name?”

They were traveling in an old pickup from their small trailer full of no fun located in their small town, also full of no fun, to an amusement park in a bigger town that was, at least in the young boy’s mind, mostly full of fun.

Their Collie dog, Brewster, sat dutifully between father and son on the worn, burgundy vinyl bench seat.

Maxwell’s dad, Frank, looked over from the wheel, his mouth half grin and half snarl. “You're twelve, Max; you're telling me you're just now curious about this kind of thing?”

Frank was a hard man, but a fair man. He showed love in his sternness and he never showed fear. He felt Max should learn to grow up strong. Lord knows the world has enough yes men, he’d say.

Maxwell shrugged, pet the dog absently. “I don’t know. I just wondered is all.” The windows were down, and Maxwell’s sandy blonde, too-long hair blew around, circling his face like a thick, shiny halo. His striped polo shirt was two sizes too big and hadn't been washed in a week, but it wasn't showing stains yet so they let it ride.

“Well, if you must know, it’s because it was easy. Your mom and I we… well, I… just wanted to keep it simple. If you were a girl, your name would have been Maxine.”

Maxwell looked up then, as if he’d heard a strange noise. “So, it woulda been Max either way? Oh. Yeah. That actually makes sense.”

Frank gave a satisfied nod and looked back to the road, reaching into his shirt pocket to shake out a Pall Mall as he did. He lit it and shook his head and smiled. “You're something, you know that, Max? Really something.”

They arrived at the park an hour later, the pickup sputtering into a parking lot full of modern cars and SUVs, shiny paint jobs reflecting the noon-day sun so brightly Maxwell shaded his eyes with his hand.

Maxwell had wished for the amusement park trip for his birthday. Frank would normally not be able to afford a place like that amusement park, but he had worked at the park briefly the previous summer as a site mechanic and had been able to get tickets at half price after a phone call to an old work buddy.

Their day at the park went fantastically. Even Frank, who had been skeptical from the start, had a wonderful experience. They strapped in for roller-coaster rides, they played Skee-Ball and arcade games, ate cotton candy and hamburgers. And smiled. And for Maxwell, that was a birthday present, indeed. With the economy and Frank being a mechanic, there weren’t many smiles anymore.

On their way out of the park, as the sun was setting, Maxwell asked if he could have just one souvenir, even if it was cheap and flimsy. Frank reluctantly agreed, and they scurried to the gift shop. As they approached the door, the shop keep was holding the CLOSED sign, but turned it around to the OPEN side with a smile when he saw the pair.

Once they’d purchased Maxwell’s trinket, a keychain with the park’s logo embossed on a small plug of wood, the shop keep stopped them at the door, his long, silver and black hair blending into his bushy, well-maintained beard.

“Say, did I hear you say it’s your birthday?” he asked, looking at Maxwell.

“Well, it’s tomorrow, but there’s school so we came today. So, technically, no.”

The shop keep winked at Maxwell, snapping his fingers and standing up straight. “Close enough! Follow me!” He turned, took two giant, animated steps toward a closed, black door at the back of the gift shop, stopped, and turned around like a soldier might about-face. “Wait. How old did you say you were?”

Maxwell smiled. “Twelve. Tomorrow.”

“Nonsense! It’s one sleep away. Today is tomorrow. You're of age! Follow me, young birthday boy! Dad, you can come, too!”

“Wait,” Frank said, chuckling under his breath. “What’s this about? Where are we going? We don’t even know your name.”

“Well, that’s easy! It’s Donald. Now, follow me, or we’ll be late!”

The father-son duo watched as Donald took more giant, animated steps toward that black door, his massive, flowing hair seeming to move of its own accord behind him.

Another about-face. “Well? Are ye comin’?” His eyes were comically wide.

Maxwell giggled and the pair walked toward Donald, who turned and opened the black door. The three of them walked through, and Donald closed and locked the door behind them. They were in a dimly-lit tunnel with wooden sides and a light bulb hanging every twenty-five feet or so. The tunnel was longer than they could see, and strange carnival-like music played from its depths.

“Right this way, boys!” Donald said, and hopped in front of them again. “You won't believe this.”

•••

They stayed a good distance behind Donald as they walked. “I don’t remember this at all,” Frank whispered to Maxwell.

“Maybe it’s new,” Maxwell whispered back with a smile. “It’s cool so far!”

Frank rolled his eyes but kept pace with Donald. A couple of minutes later, they came to another door and Donald about-faced again, his white shirt and black suspenders looking stark under the hanging forty-watt bulb.

“Behind this door,” Donald said in a carnival-barker’s tone, “lies your destinies!”

“Okay, okay,” Frank said with a nervous laugh. “Let’s see the big thing, the new attraction.”

Donald looked from Frank to Maxwell and back to Frank again. “Oh, you will. You most certainly will.” With that, he turned a big brass knob and the door opened.

At first, when the men in monster masks ran out, Frank and Maxwell were amused but still dodged and hollered at the unexpected scare. “Whoa!” they cried, jumping out of the way, tourist smiles on hillbilly faces.

But when the weapons came out—the ax, the knife, the baseball bat with hair on it—tourist smiles were replaced by the grimaces worn by the terrified, the hunted. In the wooden tunnel, these men in monster masks now seemed unbelievably large, their breath coming in deep, long sighs.

There was no hesitation, there was no chance. The one with the baseball bat swung it at his father’s head. It connected, and made a sound that reminded Maxwell, even in that moment, of the time he threw a watermelon off the roof of their trailer. He’d been grounded a week but he had pummeled an entire platoon of plastic army men below, and so the punishment had been well worth the experiment.

Frank fell, dead, his left eye hanging out of a mangled socket.

The one with the ax flanked Maxwell, his mask turning askew as he brushed against the harsh wood of the tunnel’s wall. He saw the flash of a knife in another hand and turned, ran as fast as his feet could take him. Brewster was waiting in the truck, as he always did, and would be able to help if only he could reach him. Brewster would know what to do.

Halfway through the tunnel, he still heard footfalls behind him, still heard their muffled commands to stop, to give up, heard their promises that running was hopeless, heard the scraping of metal along wooden walls.

He ran.

And he ran.

And, by luck or by sheer determination, he made it into the gift shop and out the door, across the courtyard, through the turnstile, and into the parking lot. Only a few scattered employee cars sat in the lot, so spotting the truck was easy. But it was still a ways off.

He ran. Hard. Harder. He didn’t look back.

When he reached the truck, he threw open the driver door and they hopped onto the ripped and faded seat. He pulled the door closed behind him with a clang. Brewster stood up on the passenger side, stretched, wagged his tail, and licked Maxwell on the cheek.

“Hey boy, not now! They killed dad. I don’t know what to do. They're coming!” He looked out the back window. Nothing.

Brewster barked and pawed the steering wheel.

“Jesus, boy, are you psychic?” Maxwell turned, sat in the seat as his dad had on the way to the park. He knew the keys were on top the sun visor. They always were. He sat, looking at the instrument panel, looking at the gear selector, studying the pedals. “I think that’s exactly what we gotta do, boy. Good dog!”

He ruffled the hair on Brewster’s head before pulling the sun visor down. The keys fell into his lap. “Here we go, boy,” he said. “Hang on, this isn't gonna be anything nice.”

The truck started at the first turn of the key. With a shaking hand, he eased the lever into Drive and pressed on the accelerator, and the truck motored out of the lot.