Innertube

Fiction

1st shift always worked Christmas Eve at Bellings Molding.

Dave remembered his first one, some of the old-timers passing around spiked eggnog.

That tradition ended five years ago when Cam Mulhern ended his career at Bellings by just about melting his hand to one of the finish heat presses.

Now Dave was the old-timer, and the shop inspector, and he had his own tradition:

Bring your parts to the inspection table and he’d clear ‘em so the very second the crew member was done with their quota they could go drink or go home and be with their families or both.

He never told ‘em that sometimes he stayed behind making the C936 Caps to cover the out-of-spec ones that people made.

One year he had to make thirty-four of em, didn’t get home until it was dark out.

This year they were only off by nine, he’d run five out, Old man Bellings nephew, who inherited the business, was in Cancun for the holiday, it wouldn’t make a difference. They’d be back at it on the second of January.

Dave banged out the last C936, gauged it - perfect- and placed it gently in the bin instead of tossing it like he often did, walked out the door and triple-locked it.

Everyone was gone.

They invited him to Shaftsbury’s, but he was ready for a hot shower, maybe a hot toddy, watch a mob movie and go to bed.

Damn, Dave, you are an oldtimer, he thought as his knee made a crackling sound climbing into his truck.

What didn’t make a sound was his ignition.

Fuck.

Dave popped the hood, checked everything checkable, everything logical–he was an inspector after all– and chalked it up to trying to coax 270,000 Michigan miles out of a truck.

He could call any of the guys on the crew, but they were at Shaftsbury’s, probably three shots of Tullamore and an argument over am eight ball rule into the evening.

A light snow fell, just flakes really.

Dave went around the side gate of Bellings and walked down into Hines Park. Though cutting through the snow would make the walk somewhat harder, he’d save at least a mile by not walking straight out to Telegraph Road.

He trudged down the path into the park, the incline getting steeper as he went. 

He could feel his old knees creaking and popping but couldn’t hear them over the crunch of the snow.

At least twice he thought about turning back and seeing if one of the boys would leave Shaftsbury’s and come get him, but then he knew he’d wind up at Shaftsbury’s all night and be hungover all Christmas Day.

He didn’t have any responsibilities and the thought briefly saddened him,

Franny gone eight years in January, Dave Jr doing volunteer medical work for Amazon Promise in Peru, nowhere near a damn phone.

He shoved his hands in the pockets of his Carhartt, a fresh black smudge on the sleeve from the battery cable he had jiggled back and forth to no avail, and made it down to level ground. 

To the west, some teenagers were playing disc golf, heaving Day-Glo plastic at chained baskets, stopping, sparking a joint. 

Franny made Dave quit smoking weed because she said it made him mumbly, inarticulate.

He thought about walking up to the disc golfers, asking to hit the joint but they’d probably think he was a cop or just a pain-in-the-ass old-timer.

The snow seemed to get deeper as he cut east, toward Telegraph, then it was only two miles to home.

Maybe get a cab on Telegraph, he thought.

He pulled his hands from his pockets and cracked his knuckles, fist on fist and a secondary squeeze of each individual digit.

Fuck is wrong with you, a cab, you pansy, you can walk less than 3 damn miles, you’re old, but you aren’t dead. Jeezus.

If you do see a cab, get in it and take that sonuvabitch straight to Shaftsbury’s, have a beer and a Christmas shot with the guys.

Dave kept walking, kept talking to himself inside his head, kept feeling his knees creak and groan.

He passed a small copse of trees with laughter cascading through them. 

Young kids, having fun.

He could barely remember being that young, laughing at just about anything.

The sledding hills were to his south. He’d have to veer back a bit north, out of his way to stay on flat land. His knees would thank him.

Two kids came flying down the hill on a red disc that looked like a mini flying saucer.

As the ride ended they rolled off and began to run back up the hill.

Dave watched them run up, thinking it would have taken him twenty minutes.

Some kids came sliding down on a cheap plastic roll-up sled, screaming and giggling. 

Dave remembered buying those damn things at the pharmacy for about 4 bucks. Just a sheet of plastic, a grommet and a rope. They could make ‘em at Bellings without too much trouble. Maybe they should, he thought, give ‘em out to the kids in the–

WHOOOMP!

Dave heard a noise, then a scream at the same time his lower legs buckled and then he screamed, a solid mass making contact with his ribs, and his scream getting choked out from the lack of air, as he flipped sideways, looked up at bare branches, then landed shoulder and cheekbone first in the hard-packed snow.

It took a few seconds for his air to come back, but when it did he rolled off his shoulder and lay flat.

Some snow got in his mouth. The water it made tasted good, but then Dave tasted the salt of blood.

He began to lift his head, then put it back down.

He blinked and heard “Dougie, you killed that dude!”

Dave blinked again, wondering who the dude was that got killed and with what.

“You were on the tube too, Brandon, so it ain’t like it’s just on me, asswipe.”

Then two young faces were above Dave.

One had a snotty nose and Dave rolled slightly away from it. He groaned.

“We didn’t mean it, old dude, like… fuck.”

“Hey, Mister, hey, do you want me to call an ambulance?”

Dave realized the heaving in his chest was adrenaline.

“Help me up.”

“Sir, Mister,” Brandon said, “You’re not supposed to move an injured person. You could be like paralyzed. I’m gonna call an ambulance.”

“No, wait.” Dave held his left hand out, starting to redden from the cold and snow.

He groaned again, rolled to his right, and pushed himself up, As his legs extended his knees sounded like a child running over a pile of chopsticks with a tricycle. His right calf throbbed.

His lip was swelling where he bit it when he faceplanted.

“ Are you sure you should be standing, dude?” Dougie asked.

Dave nodded affirmatively.

“We’re so sorry, dude, but like righteously, you probably shouldn’t wander at the bottom of a sledding hill.”

Dave smiled.

“Probably right.”

Brandon looked at Dave with a mixture of fright and awe.

“I thought you were dead at first, dude, for real. I thought it would suck to live as long as you have and die getting hit by a couple tubers.” 

Dave put his hand on Brandon’s shoulders.

He had to suppress a laugh to talk.

“Two things dude,” he said.

“I’m not that old, and that was the most fucking fun I’ve had in fifteen years.”

Dougie laughed.

“Woah, old dude, that’s awesome.”

Dave limped over and sat, groaning and creaking, in the innertube.

“Now do me a favor. Grab that rope and drag me to Telegraph.”

Dave spit blood in the snow, Brandon grabbed the rope, Dave closed his eyes and silently thanked his old truck for not starting.

***

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