Read Online Jack on the Tracks by Jack Gantos - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jack Gantos
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down the road.
I smiled. Miss Kitty II
was
a cool cat, and I could tell Jock liked me better already.
“About this skiing,” Tack said. “We don’t exactly have a boat.”
“Then how do we ski?” I asked, confused.
“I’ll show you,” Jock said. “It’s a little dangerous, but you’ll get the hang of it just moments before you kill yourself.”
Suddenly I lost my smile.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s Halloween. If you die this morning you can come back as a ghost in time to scare the pee out of someone tonight.”
That didn’t make me feel any better.
First, we pulled up onto an old dirt road that ran right next to a long straight canal. Jock opened the trunk and pulled out a plywood sled and about twenty yards of yellow nylon rope. He tied one end of the rope to the rear bumper of the car and attached the other to the sled. The sled was about two feet across and four feet long and had a rope handle in front so you could hang on. Jock showed me two rudder boards on the bottom of the sled and said we could steer it by shifting our weight to keep from sliding too far right or left and up onto the bank.
This was not my idea of skiing. I was thinking of all the sunny postcards with acrobatic bathing beauties stacked up in a pyramid, one on top of another as they effortlessly skied across Biscayne Bay. I took one look at the homemade sled full of splinters and said, “One of you guys go first. I’ll watch and get the hang of it.”
“I’ll go,” Tack said. He picked up the sled and heaved it into the canal. A black cloud of water bugs and mosquitoes took flight.
“Watch out for moccasins,” Jock warned him.
I wished I had brought my snakebite kit.
Tack carefully worked his way down the bank and waded out into the water until he pulled himself up belly first onto the sled and grabbed the rope handle with both hands. “Okay!” he hollered. “Let ‘er rip!”
I got into the seat next to Jock. Miss Kitty II had climbed onto the roof and dug her claws into the fabric of the convertible top like a streamlined furry ornament. Jock slowly drove forward until the rope was taut and then he hit the gas. The Impala took off with a roar and I turned around to watch Tack. He was kneeling and hanging on with both hands and zigzagging back and forth with a ragged rooster tail of water spraying out behind him. His hair was blown back and he had a flattened-out look on his face that seemed more like pain than pleasure. We went about a quarter of a mile until we got close to a rusty railroad bridge and Jock slowed down.
“Once I kept going,” Jock said, “and when the rope hit the top of the bridge it pulled the sled straight out of the water. Lucky for him Tack had already fallen off. The sled got caught in a trestle, and darn if the rope didn’t pull the bumper clean off the back of my Dad’s car.”
I could just imagine my skull hitting one of the metal girders head-on at fifty miles per hour. At least I would be so dead that Dad couldn’t kill me again for being hopelessly stupid.
Jock turned the car around and nodded at me. “You’re on deck,” he said. Then he laughed like a lunatic, and gunned the engine so that a cloud of gray smoke rose above us.
I pulled off my T-shirt. I was so pale my skin looked like the bloated bellies on the dead mullet that were floating upside down in the swampy water. My legs stuck out of the bottom of my baggy swim trunks like two pencils. I kept my sneakers on to protect my feet.
“Good luck,” Tack said when he climbed up the bank. “It’s a thrill ride is all I can say.”
I stared down at the underbrush. I was certain there was a water moccasin just waiting to bite me.
“Hurry up,” Jock said. “We haven’t got all day. We have to get home and bloody up our houses and make our costumes for tonight.”
I got up my courage and marched down the bank and into the dark water. I pulled myself up onto the sled and squatted as I took a good grip on
I smiled. Miss Kitty II
was
a cool cat, and I could tell Jock liked me better already.
“About this skiing,” Tack said. “We don’t exactly have a boat.”
“Then how do we ski?” I asked, confused.
“I’ll show you,” Jock said. “It’s a little dangerous, but you’ll get the hang of it just moments before you kill yourself.”
Suddenly I lost my smile.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s Halloween. If you die this morning you can come back as a ghost in time to scare the pee out of someone tonight.”
That didn’t make me feel any better.
First, we pulled up onto an old dirt road that ran right next to a long straight canal. Jock opened the trunk and pulled out a plywood sled and about twenty yards of yellow nylon rope. He tied one end of the rope to the rear bumper of the car and attached the other to the sled. The sled was about two feet across and four feet long and had a rope handle in front so you could hang on. Jock showed me two rudder boards on the bottom of the sled and said we could steer it by shifting our weight to keep from sliding too far right or left and up onto the bank.
This was not my idea of skiing. I was thinking of all the sunny postcards with acrobatic bathing beauties stacked up in a pyramid, one on top of another as they effortlessly skied across Biscayne Bay. I took one look at the homemade sled full of splinters and said, “One of you guys go first. I’ll watch and get the hang of it.”
“I’ll go,” Tack said. He picked up the sled and heaved it into the canal. A black cloud of water bugs and mosquitoes took flight.
“Watch out for moccasins,” Jock warned him.
I wished I had brought my snakebite kit.
Tack carefully worked his way down the bank and waded out into the water until he pulled himself up belly first onto the sled and grabbed the rope handle with both hands. “Okay!” he hollered. “Let ‘er rip!”
I got into the seat next to Jock. Miss Kitty II had climbed onto the roof and dug her claws into the fabric of the convertible top like a streamlined furry ornament. Jock slowly drove forward until the rope was taut and then he hit the gas. The Impala took off with a roar and I turned around to watch Tack. He was kneeling and hanging on with both hands and zigzagging back and forth with a ragged rooster tail of water spraying out behind him. His hair was blown back and he had a flattened-out look on his face that seemed more like pain than pleasure. We went about a quarter of a mile until we got close to a rusty railroad bridge and Jock slowed down.
“Once I kept going,” Jock said, “and when the rope hit the top of the bridge it pulled the sled straight out of the water. Lucky for him Tack had already fallen off. The sled got caught in a trestle, and darn if the rope didn’t pull the bumper clean off the back of my Dad’s car.”
I could just imagine my skull hitting one of the metal girders head-on at fifty miles per hour. At least I would be so dead that Dad couldn’t kill me again for being hopelessly stupid.
Jock turned the car around and nodded at me. “You’re on deck,” he said. Then he laughed like a lunatic, and gunned the engine so that a cloud of gray smoke rose above us.
I pulled off my T-shirt. I was so pale my skin looked like the bloated bellies on the dead mullet that were floating upside down in the swampy water. My legs stuck out of the bottom of my baggy swim trunks like two pencils. I kept my sneakers on to protect my feet.
“Good luck,” Tack said when he climbed up the bank. “It’s a thrill ride is all I can say.”
I stared down at the underbrush. I was certain there was a water moccasin just waiting to bite me.
“Hurry up,” Jock said. “We haven’t got all day. We have to get home and bloody up our houses and make our costumes for tonight.”
I got up my courage and marched down the bank and into the dark water. I pulled myself up onto the sled and squatted as I took a good grip on
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