Now it feels like they’re in charge.
“It’ll be okay, don’t worry,” says Pierce as he crawls out of
the engine compartment. “And you might want to move away
from that tailpipe.”
Autumn makes an exasperated noise and stomps over to
Hector and glares at him. Pierce motions at me to start the
engine, and I move from the interpersonal tension into the
driver’s seat. When I turn the key, there’s a choking sound,
then a cough, then nothing except snickers from the girls.
“Hang on,” says Pierce as he bangs on something engine-
ish. Then, “Okay. Try it again!”
Whatever it is that shoots out of the tailpipe skids across
the yard and comes to a stop at Hector’s feet. D’ijon says,
“What is that?”
Hector picks it up, turns it over a couple of times, and takes
a bite. “Filet-O-Fish,” he announces.
“Guys, how many times do I have to remind you to strain
the grease before you put it in the tank?” Pierce is slamming
his tools back in the bag, the girls are gagging, and the engine
sounds as happy as my dad after a bran muffin and coffee.
“Gotta jump,” I holler, and the guys pile in. We wave to the
girls as they stand there in our triglyceride exhaust cloud,
stomping their feet and yelling responsibility-related threats,
but we can’t hear them through the joy.
Two blocks later, all our cell phones start vibrating. Hector
picks his up and says, “More Freckled Children fund-raiser
tasks.” We all look at each other, and then:
But then:
Okay, we may not be totally free, but we’re finally on the
road with nothing in front of us now but weekend and asphalt.
CHAPTER 6
e may be driving a veggie oil–powered van, but we
still need gas stations. This one is about a mile outside
W
Bloomington, Indiana, so we have almost officially made it to
the first stop on the tour. I’m calling it that because “tour”
sounds better than “random trip to Sheboygan.” The guy
behind the counter hollers something about the restrooms
being for customers only, so Pierce puts a quarter in the gum-
ball machine on the way out the door.
I pull onto the highway and glance over at Hector.
“Navigator . . . ?”
“Take a left at the next light, go seven-eighths of a mile,
then turn right,” he says. “In eight hundred and three feet you
will hit a small, oblong pothole, and the destination will be on
your right.”
And there it is, exactly where he said it would be.
“What app are you using?” I ask Hector. “Because it’s dead-
on accurate, dude.”
“No app,” he says, leaning forward and resting his elbows
on his knees. He stares out the window and swipes a hand
over the puddle of drool that’s forming at the corner of his
mouth.
The gravel in the parking lot crunches under our tires like
deep-fried Bubble Wrap as I pull up to the restaurant, conve-
niently situated between a used textbook store and a hookah
parlor. You gotta love college towns.
We can hear some really cheesy eighties rock ’n’ roll com-
ing from inside, and we can already tell that this is going to be
our kind of place. I ease into a parking space right below the
rusting neon sign, which says it all.
There’s enough
grease in the air that
we could probably fill
up our fuel tank by
just sitting here with
the gas cap off, but
Chunky promised us
eighty gallons of used
veggie oil, and we’re
going to collect. It’s a
long way to Sheboy-
gan. Hector spots a
menu taped to the
window by the front
door and grunts.
Pierce looks over his
shoulder and gives a
low whistle.
“Rolling Stone calls Chunky’s ‘the hottest hot wings this
side of the third ring of hell,’” he says. “‘At one million three
hundred seventy thousand Scoville units, they’re hotter than
the Trinidad Moruga Scorpion pepper and only slightly milder
than Mace.’”
“They used to mix my grandma’s habanero sauce in my
baby formula just to get me interested,” Hector scoffs. “This
stuff doesn’t sound that hot to me. I’m going to need some
proof.”
As proof goes, that’s pretty convincing, if you ask me. A
demonic smile spreads across Hector’s face.
“I need a snack,” he says, and leads us inside. I look back
and see the guy in the leather vest scraping his tongue across
the gravel parking lot. This could be interesting.
Inside the restaurant, hanging above a bored-looking
cashier, is a piece of plywood with the same flame-butted bear
from that amazing outdoor sign. This time he’s screaming
a challenge: “Finish an entire jumbo order of Scalding Anus
Wings in under five minutes and win your choice of a selection
of fine products from Chunky’s Used Textbooks and School
Supplies.” The whole place has a real retro vibe, making it
seem almost Photoshopped. Now that my eyes are adjusting
to the gloom in here, I can see that the walls are covered with
photos of some of the victims of Chunky’s wings.
At the end of the line of photos is the Inferno, a beat-up
wooden table with flames painted on the legs and a tripod-
mounted camera off to the side. The table is surrounded by a
bloodthirsty crowd of rowdy frat guys and over-the-hill jocks.
It smells like armpits and chili powder, and I’ve never seen
Hector more at home. He sits down and picks up a menu. He
studies it again for what seems like a minute, and then looks
up at the waitress, tapping his chin.
“I’m between the egg salad and the JUMBO SCALDING
ANUS WINGS. What do you recommend?” The crowd erupts
in cheers and jeers like a tribe of Vikings. Guys pound on the
table and slap money down, betting on Hector’s very survival.
A woman at a nearby table shouts, “He’s just a child! Show
some mercy!”
The waitress stands there and stares at Hector, rolling her
pencil between her fingers impatiently. She’s either slightly
amused by Hector’s confidence or anticipating his demise.
It’s hard to tell through all that eye shadow. She’s about my
mom’s age (somewhere in her mid-frumpies) and dressed
in I-don’t-care-anymore stretch pants and a green T-shirt.
She takes off her pointy glasses and wipes the lenses on her
apron, then looks down at Hector again. After a few seconds,
she tucks her order pad into her bra, shrugs, and yells over
her shoulder to the cook.
Pierce says, “I’ll have the iceberg wedge.”
“Dude, you sure about this?” I ask Hector, and he just winks
at me.
“I got this,” he says, and shakes a couple of drops of Tabasco
sauce onto his tongue as an appetizer. The place goes quiet,
; and the regulars all turn their heads toward the kitchen.
The wings are served on a galvanized metal plate that
hisses and pops as it is ceremoniously slid in front of Hector
with tongs like the ones used to pluck plutonium rods from the
nuclear core at Chernobyl. Wagner’s the Ride of the Valkyries
starts blaring out of the crappy speakers that are duct-taped
to the wall. This is Hector’s moment.
“For gawdsakes, man, what are you thinking? Use your
common sense!” shouts Pierce.
Hector picks up a wing
and, realizing it’s hot, flips it
from one hand to the other
until it cools slightly. He
crosses himself and takes a
bite. The crowd holds its breath.
We all go nuts. Guys are jumping up and down and pound-
ing Hector on the back as he proceeds to polish off the rest
of the order of wings with style, sucking every last drop of
hot sauce off every last bone. Nobody can believe that he is
actually finishing a plate of these heinous wings. Grown men
ask him for autographs, and women ask him to sign body
parts. Hector’s face is on the monitor above the bar with the
word WINNER flashing underneath. It’s like Mardi Gras, New
Year’s Eve, and the last day of school all rolled into one. The
guy in the hazmat suit carries a huge box out of the back of the
restaurant and sets it down in front of Hector.
“I’m Chunky,” he says.
And then he lifts a gnarly-looking machine out of the box
and sets it on the table.
“First prize for my new asbestos-mouthed friend. The
ShredZall six thousand! Cadillac of paper shredders!” And
then, like he could read our minds, he shrugs and says, “Look,
I know it’s a weird prize, but it’s all I got. Maybe you can sell
it or somethin’.” I guess that makes sense. And as far as used
office equipment goes, you could do a lot worse. “This baby
shreds paper, paper clips, cardboard, plywood, sheet metal,
you name it. It’ll turn whatever you feed it into confetti.”
“Um, thanks,” says Hector, opening and concluding his
acceptance speech in two words or less.
Then Pierce jumps in and flashes the Kickstarter screen
at Chunky. “We’re the guys from the Freckled Children fund-
raiser you donated the used grease to, remember?”
Then everybody gets quiet. Chunky sits down on a bench
and unbuttons his shirt cuff. As he slowly begins to roll up the
sleeve of his shirt, he looks up at us.
“Of course I remember,” he says.
If freckles were stars, this guy’s arm would be the Milky
Way. Chunky wipes a tear from his eye and shakes our hands.
“Thank you for helping these kids.” A single clap echoes
through the restaurant. Then another, and another, and soon
the place is filled with wild applause for the cause. Chunky
hauls his butt off the bench and calls to the cook. “Elroy, get
these young gentlemen their oil. They have a job to do.”
CHAPTER 7
t feels like I’ve been asleep for a week. My tongue is pasted
to the roof of my mouth with what tastes like a sour cream
I
’n’ onion–based glue, and my clothes are soaked.
“And nice umbrella work, by the way,” I add, just because
I’m always kind of a snot when I first wake up.
“Screw you. I’m not even one hundred percent sure where
we are,” snaps Pierce. “I haven’t exactly had a free hand to
check my maps app since it started raining around Indianapo-
lis, SIX HOURS AGO!”
“No way. I’ve been asleep for six hours? That’s amazing!
We must be getting really close to Sheboygan by now. Let me
see your phone.” I grab it off the seat and stare at it for a few
seconds. Then I look out the window.
“Here’s something weird, though,” Pierce says. “Did you
know there is a Best Buy exactly every twenty-six point three
miles on I-465?
“And I mean EXACTLY twenty-six point three. This may
be the gas station sushi talking, but I bet it’s happened at least
twelve times!”
“Um,” I say again through the flavor-packed phlegm in my
throat. Gross. After a gulp of Mountain Dew, I start again.
“They don’t build Best Buy stores exactly twenty-six point
three miles apart, Pierce.”
“No! I’m telling you! I’ve been tracking this, and every
twenty-six point three miles there’s a B—”
“Dude,” I say, rubbing my eyes, “we are exactly where we
were when I crawled into the back to go to sleep.”
“Oh” is all he says, and then lets go of the umbrella handle
to wipe the windshield off. The defroster hasn’t worked since
last winter, so when the windshield fogs up, you have to wipe
it off with your sleeve or whatever. But you never do this if you
also happen to be holding the umbrella that’s keeping the rain
from coming into the van. Otherwise,
getting soaked by the rain that’s now pouring through the hole
in the roof where the umbrella used to be. “This sucks,” I say.
“Totally,” says Hector, waking up.
“Let me ask you guys something,” says Pierce, wiping the
rain out of his eyes with his forearm. “Are we or are we not on
a road trip?”
“Sure,” I say.
“Obviously,” Hector mutters.
“And we’re making our own rules and following no sched-
ule, eating all the junk food we want, hundreds of miles from
our parents and school, right?”
I don’t say anything, and Hector shifts in his seat.
Pierce glances at us both. “Can somebody please tell me
what sucks about that?” There’s a long silence, and then Hector
and I both tilt our faces up to the rain.
This is actually the most fun I’ve ever had, and I didn’t even
know it. “I’ve got an idea,” says Hector, pointing ahead. “Take
the next exit.”
I have to admit that I thought Hector was out of his mind
when he told Pierce to pull in to this strip mall, but it turned
out to be pure genius. If you’re looking for a warm, dry shelter
where a few quarters will buy you some dry clothes, you could
do worse than the 24-hour Sir Suds-a-Lot in Carmel, Indiana.
And we have the place to ourselves. Sweet!
“Hmm-fump-a hmmm fump-a bumbumfump-a-bum . . .”
The big industrial dryers toss our wet jeans, sweatshirts,
and shoes around in circles, and Pierce picks up on the cool
rhythm of it all. He starts to play along on an old Tide box, and
Hector adds this chord progression in F sharp minor he’s been
working on. It has a weird, wistful sound to it that for some
reason makes me think of Frankenstein. Frankenstein . . .
Freckles . . . Frecklestein! Not bad! I spot a pen that’s stick-
ing out of a wad of lint on the floor and start writing some
random lyrics on my leg. Freckles . . . speckles . . . heckles . . .
this thing is starting to write itself! If there was ever a
n
Instagram moment, this is it. I snap a few pics and a couple
of selfies, making sure to capture the full skeezeosity of the
environment. My mom would freak out if she saw this place. I
mean, she gets grossed out when there’s dirt and soap scum
in those little crevices under her washing machine lid. In this
place you could base a whole semester of biology on the crud
that’s smeared on the change machine alone. It’s awesome. I
start humming a melody of some sort and it actually sounds
pretty good. Better than pretty good, in fact. We sound incred-
ible, partly because it’s three o’clock in the morning and we’re
practically naked in a random Laundromat near Indianapolis,
but mostly because the acoustics in here are amazing! I make
a note on the back of my calf.
My phone vibrates, and it’s a text from Sara. That’s inter-
esting. She usually doesn’t stay up this late. “Idea for the
Freckled Children fund-raiser: Get autographs from all the
A-list freckled TV and movie stars and auction them off.” Not
bad. Then, “Problem: There really aren’t that many. GAWD!
Why is this so hard? Luv the pics on Instagram!”
“Never fear,” I write back. “We have this thing totally under
control.” I push Send and then look up.
I see some movement
outside through the streaky
Laundromat windows, and
then a blazing light slices
through the dim room, send-
ing Hector and me diving for
cover. Pierce isn’t as shy, and
takes full advantage of the
spotlight.
“Hello, boys,” a short cop with a bristly mustache says.
“Having a little rehearsal tonight?” There’s another cop with
him, and he snickers. The second cop looks sort of like my
dad, if my dad were six inches taller with twenty-six-inch
biceps, a semiautomatic weapon on his belt, and a look on his