Not Another Danger Boy: The Sequel

Not Another

D A N G E R

B O Y

The Sequel

Copyright 2013 Dan Combs

Published by Dan Combs at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

acknowledgements

Pizza Man

I Left My Socks In Downtown Detroit

Foam Party

White Water

Late Night Brewery Tour

Kathy Unraveled

Rock Star

Road Trip

Walking To L.A.

Homes

Accelerated Freefall

The Good Son: Part Two

About The Author

Connect with Dan Combs

Acknowledgements

Lis, Pam, Veronica, Word Up Bookstore, Stee Tee, Steve, Julie, Jennifer, Brooklyn Writers, Carl, Hannah, Tiny Fork, Rob and Laura, New York Writers Circle, Sissy, Alexis and anyone else who was nothing short of incredible in their support of my scribblings, intelligible or otherwise.

pizza man

What an obscene mustache. Standing in the doorway, a man with dark, wavy hair and olive skin gives me a smirk. He holds out a twenty dollar bill and, his eyes not leaving my face, says, Ahmed, do you see this?

I quickly make change, giving him seven dollars in ones. As I reach into my jacket pocket for the remaining thirty five cents, he returns one of the bills and says, Keep that and whatever else. An attractive woman with blonde hair, wearing a short skirt and expensive blouse, appears behind him.

She says, I think it’s cute.

Obscene. He smiles and grabs her by the waist. As he closes the door I get a glimpse of Ahmed and a woman who could easily pass for the blonde’s sister craning their necks to see this strangely mustachioed delivery man.

It’s early, around six forty five. There’s a long way to go before my work night ends, usually with a stop at the market just before local laws forbidding the sale of alcohol kick in.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

This night started at four p.m., the moment I stepped out of my house and made the most leisurely commute of my life across Burdick Street and into Domino’s. My first task after clocking in was to gas up the red, white, and blue company car I’d be driving. Over to the station up the block, top off the tank, fly back. Next, pop a fresh can of Sterno into the aluminum box on the back seat, light it up, and relax.

It always took awhile for things to get going. Plenty of time to hang out with the other drivers, get caught up on the news: Jeff bought a harmonica, Robert finally paid off his student loan, Stevie sold his motorcycle, and Christa - the only woman on our crew - scored a small stash of pep pills. Walter overheard her telling us about getting them from a kid on the WMU campus and inserted himself into the conversation.

So, Christa, you want to sell me a few of those? he asked.

Not really.

Why not?

She looked at me. I raised an eyebrow and gave my shoulders a shrug as if to say, ‘There’s more where those came from.’

Walter smiled, his gold tooth glinting in the fluorescent light. Christa pulled a plastic sandwich bag containing thirty or so white tablets from her jeans pocket.

Two bucks apiece.

Walter gave her six dollars, stuck two of the pills in his wallet, and swallowed one dry.

I spun around and walked to the front. Setting up the large coffee can that served as my bank only took a few minutes. I was called into action soon after. Gus had been taking orders since we opened, Jamal was boxing up a few pies, and my name was next on the list. Perry, who managed the store as one half of a husband-and-wife team, set two pizzas on the rack. They were in my hot-box and on the road seconds later.

My first stop was a flat in a good-sized Victorian over by the railroad tracks. We didn’t take any orders from the neighborhood on the other side; too many muggings. I pulled into a parking area, grabbed the pizza that matched the house number, and ran up the stairs. The door swung open before I had a chance to knock. A slightly overweight woman in a low-cut dress stood there. She gave me a quick look up and down.

Hi! she said and moved toward the rear of the apartment. My purse is around here somewhere.

I stepped inside where a well-groomed poodle trotted out of the kitchen to give me a warm greeting. Now, I’m not much of a dog lover. When I was about four my grandfather took me out in the backyard to introduce me to his hunting dogs. As we approached their pen, all four of them lunged forward, barking. Scared the crap out of me. This little guy didn’t make a sound, but instead rose up on his hind legs and placed his front paws directly on my crotch. His owner rushed back with a handful of bills.

Junior! she cried playfully. That isn’t polite!

I brushed him away and moved forward to grab the cash. As I did, the woman gave me a sultry stare.

He can be such a bad boy, sometimes.

I said, Uh, that’s alright. No harm done.

Winking, she replied, You just keep the change.

Thanks.

I shoved the pizza into her hands, turned, and scurried out to my car. Interesting game. If she’d been better looking - and I wasn’t engaged - I might have played a round or two. Walter did take a woman up on her not-so-subtle overtures, once. He went back to her hotel room after his shift was up; said he had a great time.

I had another pie to deliver, on the same street. Cool. This might be an opportunity to collect the bonus for making over fifty deliveries in one night, maybe even break the store record. Gunning the engine, I raced up the block and into the driveway of a small apartment building.

Running inside, I found 4A, knocked. Nothing. I was about to pound on the door when it flew open. I instantly took in the scene: several people sitting around the room - some on plush chairs, two on a small couch - beer cans and a sizable mound of pot on the coffee table. I didn’t say a word. One of the guys on the couch was rolling joints. He got up, calmly stepping past the woman who’d answered the door, took the pizza, handed me exact change, and slipped a skinny blunt into my shirt pocket.

I gave him a nod and headed to my car. It wasn’t unusual to walk in on somebody smoking pot, but that was a bit much. I stuffed the possibility of the cops showing up at that exact moment into my subconscious and buzzed back to the store.

Another two pies, one address.

I walked up the stone path, climbed a few stairs to the wide porch, and rang the elaborate doorbell. Nice place. While waiting for Ahmed’s buddy to open the door, I gave my equally elaborate moustache a twirl. The only reason I wax it into loops big enough to hang Christmas ornaments on is because of Domino’s specific rules concerning facial hair. First, no beards. Second, no mustache may hang more than one inch below your lip. I guess to prevent drivers from sporting the dreaded Fu Manchu.

OK, that brings us back to the present.

If I’m going to get my hands on that bonus, I better get moving. My transaction with the Middle Eastern man who found my handlebar so scandalous completed, I race to the store and hurry in the back entrance. On a shelf next to the sink is an undeliverable pizza; too burned for the customers but good enough for us. I grab a piece and stuff it in my mouth. Beats paying for supper. Up to the front. Four pies are waiting on the rack.

Jeff runs in, shakes my arm, and asks, Hey, is that your car?!

Is what my car?

He points out the back window and says, That.

Clutching my stack of pizzas, I sprint outside to see my beautiful, almost new company car sitting sideways in the street, one tire up on the curb. Oh, my god! I forgot to put it in park! We always keep them running because management says that turning them off and on again wastes gas. I fill the box, jump in the driver’s seat, and punch the accelerator, hoping nobody tells the boss.

My next stop is a house whose living room is dominated by a giant pyramid made out of copper tubing. After getting a quick lecture on its mystical power, I run back to my vehicle. Shit. The next three pies are addressed to some hungry folks on the other side of town. Guess I can forget about that bonus. I will eventually claim both it and the store record, but on a night when each delivery is within a mile of the shop. Now I’m headed to a house that’s actually beyond the city limit.

North a couple of blocks and into a newer subdivision; lots of modern, ranch-style homes with plastic siding and two-car garages. I can’t believe it; there’s some idiot right on my tail. I’m driving well over the speed limit, hugging the center line to avoid scraping any paint off the cars parked on both sides of the street. What’s this guy’s problem? I can’t shake him, and I’m definitely not going to let him get by me.

I break free of the winding boulevard and turn right, onto a two lane road. Speed Demon is still attached to my ass, his headlights growing larger in the rearview mirror. Foot to the floor, I make a left and burn down a country lane, tires spitting gravel. I gain a little ground on the car behind me, my dust clouding his vision. Just as I get to the customer’s house, it occurs to me why this nut is trying to chase me down. So I drift past before hitting the brakes. He whips into the driveway, slams to a stop, and jumps out. I put my car in reverse, so I can pull in behind him. As I haul his dinner out of the hot-box and stand upright, I see him casually waiting in the open doorway like he’d been there the whole time.

How’re you doing tonight? I ask, ambling up to the porch.

Fine. He’s sweating, leaning against the door jamb. How are you?

I give him a big smile. Never better.

He pays, and I hand over his pizza. I figure he phoned in the order from work and thought he’d have plenty of time to beat it home. Two more deliveries to houses in that neighborhood and I’m on my way back to the store, laughing to myself, deciding on the best way to tell the others about this wacky chase scene.

The night drags on. There’s the usual rush between ten and midnight, then things calm down. I make the obligatory beer run. We close the shop, turn in our coffee cans, wash up. Everyone clocks out by two. Which means it’s time to open a twelve pack and hang around the parking lot. I end my night in the customary fashion, drinking beer with my coworkers and tossing the empties on the roof, then head for home.

Good times.

I took this job because it was easy. And because it was a legal way to drive as fast as I wanted. For awhile, a dream job. Then I was sent to another store managed by the same couple, the one serving Western Michigan University. Getting those pizzas to their destinations in under thirty minutes was too much like work. Walter got fired after he crashed into a parked car, Jeff joined a band, Christa moved out of state. The excitement and camaraderie were gone. So I quit, leaving everything behind: the wild nights, the tips, the company car.

Well, almost everything. I kept the moustache.

I LefT my socks in downtown detroit

The stylus on the record player lifted, hushing all those lovely pops and crackles that come along with the music free of charge. For a moment I could hear the refrigerator chugging away in the kitchen. Then silence, as it stopped. I watched the needle swing back to its starting point, smoothly drop onto the vinyl of Venus and Mars, and begin playing side one, again, for the fourth time, maybe the fifth.

Lying on the couch, listening. I already knew the entire album fairly well. It was one of my favorites. After tonight, it would be as ingrained in my memory as the grooves on the record itself.

Having volunteered my services as official alarm clock, I checked my watch, then shifted to my right side - the movement either a toss or a turn, I wasn’t keeping track - and stared into the dark of Tom’s living room. Only three hours to go.

The volume on the stereo was set low enough not to disturb anyone’s sleep but mine. I was using each song to keep myself awake another three or four minutes, concentrating on different aspects of the music. This time through the album, I was going to pay special attention to the background vocals. Then I’d flip the record over so I could focus on the rhythm guitar part. Letting my mind stray into unconsciousness was not part of the plan. As much as I enjoy dreaming, getting caught in a soothing reverie would only result in waking up to the nightmare of having missed a fantastic opportunity.

Rod, Mike, and Tom had gone to bed around midnight. I was too excited to sleep, which was the main reason I offered to play wakeup service. Another reason for staying up all night had to do with the fact that I don’t need as much downtime as most people. In any group slumber situation I’m usually the last to fall asleep and the first to wake. And, of course, there was the simple fact that Tom’s alarm clock wasn’t particularly reliable. When you work on the late shift - as we all did - you tend to sleep very soundly starting at one or two a.m., then rise before lunch, no clocks necessary.

This was going to be a great trip. It was Tom’s idea. A friend of his - George, back in their hometown of Bowling Green - had clued him in on what sounded like a killer rock show: Uriah Heep, Blue Oyster Cult, and Aerosmith. All rock, all day. In a little over thirteen hours, we would be deep in the heart of Ohio, establishing an outpost and drawing up a plan to occupy Cleveland Municipal Stadium.

We’d already done a bit of preparation. Rod had stuffed a few items into an old gym bag, I’d thrown some things into a backpack: sweatshirt, jacket, book, lighter, pipe, change of underwear. And, because I promised not to damage or lose it, my girlfriend’s large souvenir pennant from her vacation in Mexico. It would fly above us, proclaiming our existence among the many thousands of music-loving party-heads who would no doubt be crowding the venue. Tom was counting on the fact that, even though he’d moved to Michigan that spring, he still had plenty of stuff stored at his mom’s house, so he wouldn’t be saddled with any carry-on baggage.

Daylight crept in. The sun hadn’t actually cleared the horizon but, in the last fifteen minutes, the sky had steadily changed from black to gray, my signal to turn off the music and get moving. It was a short walk down the hall to Tom’s room. His door was open. As I sauntered in to perform my duty, I could hear him softly snoring, his body curled around a pillow.

Hey, man, I said. Tom.

He rolled over and looked at me, a crooked smile on his unshaven face. I’m alive. He threw off the covers and sat up, swinging his bare legs over the edge of the bed. I could have done without the clear view of him scratching his butt through a pair of dingy white briefs.

Oh, man, I cried, cover that shit up!

Yeah, well…stop staring, you perv, he joked. I just laughed. The noise must have roused the others, because they were stumbling out of the bedroom across the hall. I left Tom to put on his pants.

Good morning, Rodney! I could see my own anticipation reflected in the way he cocked his head to one side and grinned.

He said, Hey, man. You ready?

Oh, yeah!

Mike brushed by on his way to the bathroom. He waved a hand and bid us a grumpy, Morning.

Rod and I moved to the living room and sat down; he took the couch, but only because I beat him to the recliner. Tom headed for the kitchen. He opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of orange juice, raised it to his lips, and took a long swig. Wiping his mouth with his hand, he looked at me and smiled. Mike came out of the bathroom and went over to talk to him. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but Tom’s look of concern gave me the impression that something wasn’t right.

Oh, no… he said, not hiding his disappointment. Come on, man.

Mike shook his head as they entered the living room. No, he said, I have to.

Rod asked, What’s up?

I’m not going, Mike answered. I have to cash in my ticket.

I said, Man, we need you. You’re part of the team.

No, no…you’ll be fine without me, Mike continued. Probably better; I’m getting too old for this kind of thing. He sat on the couch and looked out the sliding glass door. "I thought