The Boy in the Red Jacket

Based on a true story

My senior year of college, out of a mixture of restlessness and misplaced testosterone, I got around to the brilliant idea of getting a motorcycle license. I explained to my parents and peers that it was based on prudence, as I had observed the traffic in Spain during my work abroad and noted the abundance of two wheeled motor vehicles on the Iberian roads. Secretly, I just thought motorcycles were cool.

I bought an old, off white Kawasaki from a friendly man in Boston, who warned me that the bike was probably nearing its final days, and it was a daft idea to start my motorcycling experience as the piercing Boston winter loomed near. Like all 20 year-olds receiving words of warning, I didn’t listen.

Fast-forward about 3 weeks, freeze frame at 10:30am. At MIT less than a mile away, the rest of the students on campus are firmly planted, butts in seats, in various lecture halls. I’m on the side of the road, head buried softly in my hands. My new (read: old) 1989 Kawasaki EX500 lay, partially disintegrated, having slipped on a patch of black ice. The tow truck man arrives shortly thereafter.

On our way to the shop, I learned that the tow truck man was a new Boston transplant, having worked towing jobs for over two decades in Texas just before. He told me many stories, but one in particular was especially harrowing. The following is a slightly embellished version of his accounts.

Note: This story was originally posted on Storylane.com, before its acquisition into the mighty jaws of Facebook.

On August 29, 2010, I was a tow truck driver for Sammy’s Towing in the podunk town of Lubbock, Texas.

On August 30, I was unemployed.

The night of August 28 I got a call from Jim, the regional manager, routing me to a call out in some godless stretch of I-27, where the briars met the red yucca. Some kid in a truck had called in, bewildered, ranting about how an animal had sprang onto the road from nowhere, leaving him and the smoky ruins of his Dodge Ram helpless on the corner of the road.

By the time I got on the highway it was past 11, and I couldn’t damn near see the light out of my own headlamps, let alone a boy standing next to his broken truck. A rural Texas night is as dark as anything , and quieter than a whispering snake on the prowl. The road, luckily, was lonely, and I slowed down enough to make out the figure of a stocky looking kid, leaning against his pickup, the soft glow of a half-smoked cigarette at his side.

“Got yer call”, I said, while coming to a stop in front of the crumpled front end of the pickup.

“Thank God you’re here. I nearly ran out of cigarettes.” the boy wasn’t more than 17, and I could see he was trembling. Whether it was the Texas cold, or the shock from the accident, I didn’t have the patience to find out. He wore a red letterman jacket, with a large T engraved on the front bust.

“It came out of nowhere”, the boy in the red jacket said. He was shivering, and could barely lift his head to look me in the eye. “A deer, I think. I didn’t see.” Even in the cold dusk, I could smell the whiskey on his breath.

“You been drinking, boy?”

“No, nothin, sir.” He paused. “Maybe a little.” I gave him a look. “A buddy of mine, he’s fixing to get married tomorrow, and we thought we’d throw him a goodbye party,” He looked for approval in my eyes, as if such an excuse would satisfy. I probed no further. It weren’t my job to go about policing.

I pulled a torch out from the glovebox to inspect the damage. Through the light I could make out the large dent on the grill where the animal had been struck. Blood covered the grill, the hood and some of the cracked windshield. But something wasn’t right.

“Wasn’t no deer you hit, son.” He looked surprised.

“If it was a deer, there’d be deer fur. Ain’t no fur on the grill. No fur, no deer. And no bear, or antelope, or dog neither.”

“Well some damn thing hit me!” He looked defensive. Angry, confused. I’d seen the look half a million times in ten years.

“Well I ain’t no detective, and I ain’t gonna be the one asking questions. Now I’m gonna take your truck back to the impound; you’re welcome to come with me if you like.”

The boy paused, furrowed his brow, and nodded solemnly. We drove into the darkness.

~

The next day, in the heat of the morning, some of the local boys down at the police station went along with me to inspect the damage in the area, and file a report. The boy asked to come, and we had no reason to object. We took the tow truck, cop cars in rear, and led the gang back to that previously dark stretch of road.

I got out of the truck. Sure as day, that animal had been hit, and hit hard. All that was left was a trail of blood, leading into the grass. I traced it through the path of crushed plants, to a clearing where it stopped.

And nearly vomited.

It was a man.

Not yet 30 by the looks of it, abdomen nearly split in half, hands and face covered in crusted blood. His face hung dry, with an inexplicable expression of serenity. The flies were already swarming.

“You there, Dave?” The boy’s invisible voice called out from behind the tall grass. “I wanna get a look at the sumbitch who hit me.”

No. No no no no no.

“STAY. WHERE. YOU ARE.” I turned violently to face him, and pushed him back toward the road. He, shocked, obliged. “What? What’s there? What’s going on?”

“STAY.” He would get no answers from me.

I said nothing more, and climbed into my truck. And drove.

I don’t remember stopping.

I wanted to get away that night. I wanted to run as far as my legs could take me, away from the cursed dried grass fields and urine yellow, flat-as-the-earth buildings and crystal white church steeples and the trucks and the stetsons and the clay pigeons and oversized grills. I wanted to get away from that bloody face, and the look of calm that washed over him.

Why had he crawled into the fields? I couldn’t stop thinking. What was waiting for him there?

The next day I parked out front at the office, dropped my keys off, and told Jim I was done for good. Without a word, I left.

I later heard they charged that boy in the red jacket for manslaughter. They tried to get me in to the station for a word, but I threw those letters away.

I’m thinking I ought to move to Boston.