Rant

Traffic: “…I love you, Echo Lawrence, but I got to try and save my mom.”
    Shot Dunyun: Off the record, but, weeks ahead of that night, I’d been dosing Echo’s root beer with that Plan B, morning-after abortion pill. Just in case. I can’t say how many little Rant Caseys I made her poop out.
    Rant Casey on DRVR Radio Graphic Traffic: “…What if reality is nothing but some disease?” 26–In Denial
    Shot Dunyun ( Party Crasher): How weird is this? The last night I go out with Rant Casey, we waste our whole window Mercy Crashing. The more front-end damage your car has, the better you look in Party Crashing. Teams I know, they’ll take a sledgehammer to the bumper and front fenders of any new ride, just whale away on their headlights and grille so they won’t look like newbies.
    The opposite of status is rear-end damage from getting tagged. First, because it marks you as a loser, you’ve been nailed so many times. Second, because after too much damage nobody bothers to even stalk you. The damage Sharks inflict, they want it to show. Any team looks for something pristine to ram into. You might take half the night to stalk a battered car, but if something with a perfect paint job and a showroom body drives by flying the flag, you’ll go for the cherry.
    Neddy Nelson ( Party Crasher): In Party Crashing, you know what a For Sale Night means? You know the flag is to write big prices painted in white across your windshield and rear window? To keep the flag exclusive, you know you have to always make the price thirteen thousand dollars and fifty cents? Can you imagine the mess if the flag was just any price?
    Shot Dunyun: For one Dead Deer Night, we’re cruising with our Styrofoam deer tied to the roof and a bullshit Park Avenue charges out of nowhere. It slams into our right headlight, breaks a radiator hose, and our coolant goes down a storm drain. The Park Avenue backs off with nothing but body damage. Even with their windows rolled up, you can hear them laughing. Rant climbs out of our backseat, walks over to the team in the other car. Mr. Money Bags, he leans into the driver’s window, and out of his back pocket he pulls a wad of bills. They signed over their pink slip, and took their dead deer home on the bus. We moved our deer to their car, and played the rest of the window in that Park Avenue.
    Bodie Carlyle ( Childhood Friend): In a letter Rant wrote to me, he said, everybody being inside cars, you couldn’t tell women from men. Black from white. If you asked him, the tough teams to beat were always the gimps. Gimps or queers. You put them in a car on a level playing field and you’d see some pent-up frustration. Nobody drove as hard as paraplegics with hand controls. Or skinny, hundred-pound girls.
    From the Field Notes of Green Taylor Simms ( Historian): The night in question, our last together, was a Mattress Night. Foremost in my memory of the evening is Rant Casey unbuttoning his blue uniform coveralls in a brightly lit parking lot while we drank coffee. I remember his chest was riddled with hundreds of extra nipples, countless raised, round welts. “Hobo spiders,” he told me. “Found some at work.” He said he’d tried to smuggle them home by dropping them inside his open collar.
    Shot Dunyun: Certain game windows, if you don’t tag anything all night and nobody tags you, just so you don’t go home disappointed you might slam into some trashed old Shark. Any game window, you’ll see beater cars rattling around, each in its own cloud of blue smoke, their rear ends balled up into shivering, creaking sheetmetal. Rolling scrap. You get your hit, and that beater Shark feels like part of the game.
    If you smash into some clunker out of pity or desperation, that’s what we call Mercy Crashing.
    Echo Lawrence ( Party Crasher): Come on. Dunyun was all, “Don’t!” Don’t mix with Rant. Don’t fall in love. Dunyun kept tugging me aside, all, “Can you still boost anything?” Going, “Rabies!”
    I’d let Rant ride in my backseat for months.
    Shot Dunyun: Our last game as a team, we’re playing a Mattress Night. Certain people will spray-paint their mattress black to make it harder to see. You want my advice, crack your side windows and loop the rope through the inside of your car. Tie down your mattress, leaving the slipknot on the inside. That way, if the police come sniffing around, you can yank the slipknot undone and ditch the mattress. It slides off, taking the ropes with it,