9

Paul ran until the pain in his side made him stop. He decided to go see Mr. Barker. Seeing Mr. Barker always made him feel better.

Eugene was behind the counter, reading a magazine again. Paul wondered if it was the same one he’d been reading yesterday.

“Hi,” Paul said. “How are you? Where’s Mr. Barker?” He wasn’t sure Eugene remembered him.

Eugene snorted. “Probably where he usually is, over at the bank. I tell you,” he said, squinting, looking crafty, “if I could figure out how to get my mitts on some of that scratch, I surely would. Then I might go to Canada …”

“I thought you said you wanted to go to Miami Beach,” Paul said. “That’s what you said yesterday.”

Eugene frowned. “I might go to Canada,” he continued, “and possibly stake out a place for myself for when Uncle Sam decides to put his meat-hooks on me. You can’t be too careful about that old Uncle Sam. He likes red-blooded boys like yours truly. Montreal is a swinging town, they tell me. Then maybe on to Toronto and down through Minnesota, sorta work my way west. Then on to Yellowstone.”

Eugene tapped a cigarette on the counter fiercely, as if he had a grudge against it.

“Y-y-you must g-g-get out of school aw-awful early,” Paul said, suddenly stuttering. “To get here so soon, I mean. What grade are you in?”

“I make my own rules,” Eugene said grandly. “I go to school when I feel like going. When the urge is upon me, you might say. Like, if I get up in the morning and the sun’s shining and all them chicks in their bikinis are lolling around, I go to where the chicks are because of they might not be there tomorrow, right?”

“D-d-don’t they call up when you’re absent?” Paul asked. “That’s what they do in our school.”

“Sure. But my mom’s at work, my old man’s sleeping, and nobody answers the telephone, so that’s that.”

“Oh,” Paul said.

“Listen, you want to hear about this trip I have planned when I make enough bread to cut out of here?” Eugene asked. “Maybe your folks would let you come along. As chaperon.” Eugene winked.

“Sure,” said Paul.

Eugene swept his hair off his forehead with a practiced twist of his head, revealing a covey of pimples hitherto held under wraps.

“First, I climb Mount Marcy, on account of it’s the highest mountain around,” he said. “I always wanted to climb a mountain, sleep under the stars, all that crap. I got a little of the wanderlust in me, I guess.” He looked as if having a little wanderlust in him was a plus for his character. “My ancestors must’ve been pioneers, huh?” He laughed uproariously.

Paul figured Eugene must watch a lot of shows like “Gunsmoke.” He sounded just like those people.

“That’s going to cost a lot of money,” he said.

Eugene was delighted. “Money? What’s that? You get this trip for nothing, my friend. Just use the old thumb and there you are. The whole shebang for zero bucks, except maybe on a bad day you got to spring for a burger and brew. You get suckers to foot the bill.”

“What suckers?” Paul wanted to know.

“I have friends, they been from Maine to California,” Eugene said, “and it didn’t cost them one red cent. The people who give ’em rides, they’re the lonely jerks who got no one else to talk to. They’re so lonely they can taste it. So they pick anybody up, almost, unless he’s got two heads. My friend said he got a ride from a guy, his wife just left him and he’s on his way to his father’s funeral and he starts to cry and everything. So my friend listens to him and this guy buys him dinner and a couple drinks and the whole thing doesn’t cost a penny. If you listen to these guys, they’ll drive you a thousand miles and pay for the works, and in the end they thank you. For listening to them. How do you like that?”

Paul didn’t say anything. He was a good listener too.

“And if you get picked up by a couple greasers, or like that, you know what to do? You know how to split from that scene and fast?”

“No,” Paul said. “What do you do?”

“I’m about to tell you.” Eugene lowered his voice and spoke slowly. “You get in a car with one of these types, queers or something, and you catch on maybe things aren’t so hot, maybe they’re going to roll you or something, take the old money belt, or who knows what-all, and you want out—you know what you do?”

Paul figured if he waited quietly and long enough, Eugene might tell him. He was right.

“You pretend you’re going to puke.” Eugene stopped and looked as if he expected applause. “That’s all. You grab your gut and say you’re going to puke and, man, they let you out and fast! Some guys told me they got a ride with some oddies, and they decided they wanted out. ‘Let us out at the next exit,’ they say and, man, that next exit, she just whizzes by.” Eugene held a finger to his lips. “Here comes somebody.”

A man came in for a six-pack of beer, and Eugene had a terrible time making change. First he gave him too little, then too much. Paul knew he could do a better job, even if he wasn’t all that hot in math.

“Where was I?”

“The guy just went by the exit,” Paul prompted.

“Oh, yeah. Well, you just hold the old gut and start making puke noises and, man, they let you out and fast. It works every time.” Eugene helped himself to a pack of gum from the case. “Don’t forget what I told you,” he said. “It’s a good thing to remember. Might come in handy some day.”

“I’ll remember,” Paul said.

“You ever been to Yellowstone?” Eugene asked.

“No, but I’ve been to Sturbridge Village.”

“I was reading in the paper the other day about one of those thermal pools in Yellowstone. It said this kid, nine or ten, about your age, was leaning over, and he fell smack dab in the middle of that pool.”

“I’m eleven,” Paul said.

Eugene raised his hand for complete attention. “The paper said that authorities said death was instantaneous. I figure they say things like that to make the parents feel better.” Eugene looked very wise. “Then when I get through with Yellowstone, I figure on hitching to the Grand Tetons. You heard about the Grand Tetons?”

“Sure, they’re in Wyoming,” Paul said. “We studied them in social studies.”

“You’re some smart kid,” Eugene said. The door opened and Mr. Barker came in. Eugene put his hand around the broom handle, which was conveniently close, and started sweeping.

“There’s a couple cases of stuff out back that need unloading, Eugene,” Mr. Barker said. “How you, Paul?”

Eugene hopped to his task, and Paul said he had better get home. As he walked he thought about puking and hitchhiking and thermal pools. He thought about Freddy and his gang and the plan that he, Paul, was supposed to be an important part of. He thought about Art getting married to his mother, and he thought about Gran. He thought about going by the exit. He didn’t run into anyone he knew along the way. No one called him Rabbit, which was a good thing. Paul didn’t feel up to being called Rabbit, or anything else.