Girls Love Travis Walker (3 page)

 A door opened on the second car. From the driver's seat, a man tried to rise, then sat back down, blood pouring from a wound on his forehead. His face was a color I'd never seen, a scary kind of pale I wouldn't have associated with anyone living. As I ran over to him, he sat, eyes closed, but lifted one hand enough to point to the cliff edge. “Motorcycle,” he said.

“There was a motorcycle?” Right now I was more worried about him. His paleness and all that blood were freaking me out.

He didn’t reply, leaning his head back as if exhausted, but managed to point again. That's when I saw a dark, ugly single skid mark extending from the crash site across the road to the cliff edge.

I whipped around toward a knot of people that had gathered. "Any doctors here? Or nurses?"

"I know some first aid," a woman offered, moving forward.

In one movement I stripped off my t-shirt and handed it to her. "See if you can stop his bleeding."

I ran across the road and looked down. The cliffside rose up a good five hundred feet to meet the road. At the bottom lay hundreds of sharp-edged boulders that looked small from here but had to be the size of refrigerators and small trucks. Closer to the top, the cliffside was barer, but still studded with rocky outcroppings. I didn't want to think about a person falling here among all those boulders and protruding stones.

I scanned the hillside below where the skid mark ended. Nothing. No motorcyclist.

Then I saw him. Or
it,
rather—the spot of bright orange from his shirt. He lay on a ledge maybe a hundred feet down.

I strained to see him, then yelled, screaming at the top of my lungs. "Can you hear me?"

No response.

I called to him again, and this time I was sure I saw him raise his head just a little.

My heart started a slow, heavy pounding in my chest. "Can you hear me?" I couldn't be sure, but something about the way he lay there made me think he could. "We're sending help," I yelled. "Don't worry! We're coming!"

In the distance, the sound of sirens, bringing me back to the cliff edge. The fire trucks were arriving. As they pulled in I ran up to them. A firefighter exited in full heavy gear, but moving fast anyway. He was maybe early-fifties, my dad's age.

 "A guy went over the cliff!"

Frantic, I ran, as he and a younger guy followed me. Reaching the cliff edge, I pointed down. My relief at having finally gotten help made me almost dizzy.

I wondered how they could possibly get him up from there, but the two were already strapping on harnesses and clipping them to ropes that attached to the truck. I overheard fragments: "probably spinal injuries... need a helicopter... " 

Awestruck, I watched the two firefighters go backwards over the edge, rappelling down the vertical face of the cliff. These were big, fit guys, but within less than a minute, they already looked small compared to the huge rocks and obstacles on this hillside. A miscalculation could have impaled them on sharp stones or crushed them against a ledge, but they moved steadily down, making it look easy.

I looked around to see paramedics tending to the injured man, while a police officer talked to the driver of the other car. Someone had shut off the car horn. I turned back to the rescue going on below me.

It was the most awesome thing I'd ever seen. I hung over the edge as far as I could stretch, staring as the two guys worked their way down to the cyclist. I could see them checking the guy over and talking into their radio. It seemed they were waiting with him until more help arrived. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to be down there, dangling on skimpy ropes four hundred feet above a boulder-filled chasm.

The steady beat of a helicopter rose in the distance. Closer and closer the helicopter loomed, until it was practically in our faces, the noise from its blades pounding my ear drums. A door opened, and I watched the machine lower a guy with a stretcher board down on a cable that looked about as thick as a strand of spaghetti. Some moments later, it pulled them back up, the cyclist now securely strapped to the stretcher board.

The ropes hauled my two firefighters back up over the edge to safety.

"How is he?" I asked, thinking these were the two coolest dudes I'd ever met. I couldn't imagine being them, or anything like them.

"He was conscious and pretty scared," the younger one said. "We told him jokes to take his mind off things."

I'll bet he was scared. I looked at the firefighter, who wasn't that much older than me, in his early twenties. He whistled as he pulled off his harness. Seeing me watch him, he shot a hand out. "Garret Hale."

"Travis Walker." I shook his hand.

"So, Travis, you know any good jokes?"

At that moment, I'd have given anything to be able to fire off just the right one. Instead, I choked. "I'll have to get back to you on that."

"Fair enough." He slapped me on the back and moved on.

The older guy had wavy, dark hair, a big mustache, and a tan that gave new meaning to the term Perma-Baked. "Garret collects jokes. He gives out points for contributions."

I wished again I'd had one for him.

"Since you were asking what we did, we stabilized his head and neck and kept him secured to the ledge until the helicopter came," he told me.

I couldn't believe it. These guys were beasts. They acted like it was completely normal to spend part of an afternoon dangling four hundred feet above the ground to save an injured man's life. And telling jokes while they did it.

"That's really cool."

The guy gave me a big, broad smile. “I'm Officer Tripp Perkins, the battalion chief. We need to get a statement from you."

"All I did was call 911."

"Don't be modest," a lady said. It was the one who had done first aid with my t-shirt. "This kid helped take care of the injured," she said to Perkins."He spotted the cyclist, called for help…."

Perkins eyed me with interest. "Good work!"

"Here's your shirt." She handed me a blood-stained wad, her face glowing. "The paramedics said we saved that guy!"

"Awesome! But you did it."

"Because you told me to. And you gave the shirt off your back!"

We gave each other mental high fives. It was amazing to feel like I'd done something good, helped somebody.

I turned back to Perkins, who'd been listening to our conversation. "Will the motorcyclist be okay?" I asked.

Perkins gave a short nod. "He should be."

"Well," I said. "I guess I oughtta go." It was already three o'clock and I was going to be  late for work.

"Travis, c'mere for a second!"

I followed Perkins back to his truck. I'd never seen a vehicle so clean, its paint so perfect, every switch and nozzle gleaming. If I didn't know better, I'd think these guys didn't actually fight fires, but instead just sat around painting and polishing their trucks.

Perkins handed me a flyer. The headline read, "Santa Alicia Fire Department, Station #1 Community Open House."  It was a few days from now, this coming Saturday.

"Why don't you come by? I'll show you around the station." 

"Thanks!" I nodded to the officer, feeling that for once I deserved the space I occupied on this planet, for a little while anyway. "Maybe I will." 

Dropout

Ms. Val had called me three times, leaving messages. "Travis Walker, get your butt down to this school –
fast.
" 

She called my mother twice. "Mrs. Walker, are you aware that your son has not been to school for the last two days?"

When I didn't call Ms. Val back, she put the heat on Benny, who was married to Ms. Val's sister. Apparently, sisters stuck together, because when I pulled up to the work site, Benny was waiting for me, pacing back and forth in front of his battered truck, a backwards baseball cap on his head.

"Man, what are you doing to me?" he yelled. "No green enchiladas for
me
last night!" His eyes accused me. "They're my favorite." 

I hoped green enchiladas were the only thing Benny wasn't getting. "I'm sorry, Benny. But, for now, I gotta work."

“You tell me you already graduate.”

“I told you I wanted to work full-time. I can’t go to school right now.”

"Don't be stupid! A white boy
knows
the value of an education!" Benny believed the dream, that America was the land of opportunity. A Mexican immigrant, he now owned a home, and his daughter had just transferred to UCLA from Perdido Community College.

I kept my voice mild and polite. “I’ll graduate from high school. But right now, I need money, and if I can’t get it from you, I’ll have to work for somebody else.”

"Yeah, well, you lucky I need good workers.” Benny was yelling again. “You show some
respect
! You call Maria back and explain
now!”

I pulled out my cell, knowing I couldn’t change my decision, because fate had made it for me. It wasn’t like I’d wanted to drop out, after all.

As I dialed Ms. Val, I saw Mom in my mind, drifting zombie-like around the apartment in an old t-shirt. Tomorrow was Friday, the deadline Mrs. M had given me for the rest of the overdue August rent.

"Mom's not working," I told Ms. Val as I looked up at the thickly overgrown hillside above me. "I have to work time-and-a-half to cover the bills until she gets better."

"How long will that be?”

I told Ms. Val I’d talk to Mom about it that evening, but she was asleep when I got home. Something had to be wrong with her, and the thought scared the crap out of me. Time to call DJ and head for Chick's with our fake IDs. I tried to have a good time, but knowing I was a futureless dropout made it hard for me to worship womanhood in my usual whole-hearted way.

To me, women were like snowflakes--each one different from the others, but equally interesting and desirable. The minute you met one with a sexy whisky voice and a great ass, you'd find another with sea-green eyes and a wicked sense of humor. Some had warm, satiny skin; some hot, luscious lips; some perfect round bellybuttons. Deliciously curving breasts and legs, thighs you could bite into like a marshmallow.

I liked them all. But the memory of Kat was cramping my style at Chick's tonight. That girl was hotter than a sidewalk in July. After seeing her, no one else seemed really all that great.

At first, anyway.

After some shots and a couple of pep talks to myself, a few of the women around me began to look attractive. A redhead named Suki did the honors, taking me up to the roof of her four-story apartment building, where we smoked weed and did it on top of an old sleeping bag. I thought I loved her for about an hour. Then she wanted to hang over the edge of the roof naked and throw peanut M&Ms on cars as they drove by, and I got the hell out of there.

##

The next morning, I checked my hair and teeth and put on a tight t-shirt to go see Mrs. M. Giving her my wholesome nice-guy smile, I handed her a wad of cash. I knew it wasn't enough, I told her, but I'd be back to see her again next week with more of the August rent.

I looked deep into her cold little fish eyes. She didn't even give a simper in my direction, but on the other hand she didn't threaten me with
Bye-bye
either. I hoped that meant the old Travis charisma was kicking in and buying me time. Talk about ball busting—Mrs. M specialized in it. She practically had an advanced degree in it. With honors.

As I drove to the hillside for more forced labor, I thought about Mrs. M and about that crazy Suki last night and decided there must be more to life than all that. My mind returned to Kat. It had to mean something that I’d met her two whole days ago and was still thinking about her.

At lunch hour I drove home to my apartment, showered, and changed into clean clothes, then went back to the community center to look for her. I found the troop of kids in red t-shirts, but Kat wasn’t there. Disappointed, I was about to leave when I recognized a long, platinum blonde ponytail. It was the other girl, the one who'd been working with Kat that day.

"Hey!" I waved. Heads turned, but not hers. She was sitting in the middle of an ocean of picnic tables, drawing pictures with the kids. It was definitely her; that ponytail was impossible to miss. I started easing my way through the crowded tables, while little kids giggled and stared at me.

"Excuse me," I said a couple of times, waving at the kids, while trying to get the blonde girl's attention.

Finally she looked up. She had a perfect oval face and a small mouth that opened for a second, then quirked up into a smile. "Who, me?" she said in pretend surprise, touching her chest and looking around to see who I really wanted.

I found myself grinning back at her. "Could I talk to you for a minute?" I called the words across two picnic tables.

She stood up and searched around for something to wipe her hands on. I backed out of the morass of tables, while she found her own pathway out.

"Yes?" She seemed friendly, but not particularly bowled over by my exciting, masculine presence. It threw me off a little. Meanwhile, the other blue-shirted counselor girls twittered like birds, throwing glances at us over their shoulders as if they were dying to know what I wanted.

"Hi. I don't know if you remember? I came by before and talked to a dark-haired girl named Kat. And you were here too. I just wondered if you knew how I could reach her."

 In an instant, her eyes filmed over, turning bland and impersonal. "I know her."  She looked me over, the friendliness gone. "What do you want?"

She probably thought I was this total stalker. Obviously, I couldn't just ask for Kat's number.

She stood there, not about to help me.

I had an idea. "Would you give her a note from me?"

She considered my question. "I guess I could."

While she finished with the kids, I ran over to the Community Center office and asked for a sheet of paper and envelope. I sat at a picnic table and wrote a note.

Dear Kat,

I met you last week at the community center. You told me your middle name was Destiny, remember? There are lots of other things I would ask you, if you'd let me. What's your last name, where were you born, who's your best friend, what do you think about just before you fall asleep at night?