It was the first of December, and a cold wind blew off Erie. Frank pushed his skateboard into the wind, cursing it dispassionately, almost by rote so that the curses marked the rhythm of his momentum, driving him forward. Fuckin’ wind—, fuckin’ wind—, and on the fuck his foot hit the ground, and on the in’ it kicked off and came back onto the board, and he was able to glide for the duration of the wind, sometimes drawing the word out longer when he hit a rare patch of smooth asphalt, clear of potholes and gravel. The frontage road was for shit, but at four-thirty in the morning, riding his skateboard under the hazy orange glow of the road lights, Frank had the whole place to himself, and the wind was freedom.
Over beyond on the highway, the big semis careened past with a whine that sounded like missile fire, and who could blame them for not stopping in this shithole suburb of Ashtabula? Like, how could you even have a suburb of nothing? Even his McDonald’s wasn’t twenty-four hours.
Mist from the lake dulled the golden arches. Frank ollied up on the curb, then, just for practice, he jumped and ground out against the cement pylon that supported the sign, flipping the board and coming down hard. The board got away from him. He caught it and tried again, making the landing this time. It was going to be a great day. When he rounded the corner to the service entrance, he stopped short, slamming his foot into the ground.
Something was parked way back in the lot, over by the Dumpster. It was centered in the circle of light from the security lamp, but shrouded in mist. Frank skated in closer. It had the unmistakable shape of a Winnebago, boxy and inelegant, but the body of the vehicle was covered with pop-riveted patches of tin and aluminum, like scales, while its roof had been shingled with some sort of dark, rectangular paneling. A conning tower rose from the roof. It looked like a robotic armadillo, a road-warrior tank, a huge armored beetle—it was the most radical thing Frank Perdue had ever seen.
He veered around to the front. The conning tower clocked around to follow him.
“Hey!” he called out, getting ready to fly.
A door on the side of the vehicle creaked opened, and a figure emerged. He was skinny, wearing army-surplus pants and a ragged sweater with a knitted vest on top. His dirty blond hair was matted into finger-thick dreadlocks that hung down the middle of his back. His ears were pierced with a cluster of silver earrings. Frank relaxed. The guy wasn’t old. Not a kid. Maybe in his twenties.
“Hey,” the guy said. “Peace.”
Frank shrugged. Hippie retard.
“You work here?”
Frankie shrugged again.
The guy looked around, stomping his feet to keep them warm and blowing into his cupped hands. His gloves were missing all the fingertips. His breath turned the air into clouds. “I’m Y,” he offered.
But Frankie heard “I’m why?” and he couldn’t answer that.
“Y,” the guy repeated. “Y’s my name.”
Frankie shoved his hands in his pockets. Why’s his name what?
“You know,” the guy persisted. “Y. Like the letter. Like the chromosome. What’s your name?”
“Frank Perdue.” He heard the words of his name come out of his mouth.
“Frank Perdue! You mean like the chicken dude?”
Here we go, Frank thought, gritting his teeth. It usually ended in a fight.
But the creep wasn’t laughing. “Way cool. You his kid or something?”
“No way,” Frank said. “My parents are dead. No relation to the chickens.”
Y nodded. “Too bad. That guy’s a rich motherfucker.” His eyes narrowed, and he seemed about to say something more, but then he stopped. “Sorry about your parents. So you work here or what?”
“I’m the janitor.”
“Awesome. We’ve been waiting for you.”
He pounded on the side of the vehicle. The door opened again, and another guy stepped out. He must have just gotten up, because he was digging his fingers around in his eye sockets behind his glasses. The thick lenses bobbed up and down. A woman followed, wrapped in a long printed skirt and bundled like the others in layers of sweaters. She had wavy brown hair and a silver ring through her nose. “Hey,” she said, smiling.
“Well?” the guy with the glasses asked. “Have we reached an agreement?”
Y shook his head. The guy looked at Frank. “We want your oil.”
“Huh?”
“Your french-fry oil. The old stuff from the deep fryer that you throw away.”
“What for?”
“It’s our fuel, dude. Biodiesel. We run off it.” The guy turned to the vehicle and raised his arm like a used-car salesman in a lot full of cream puffs. “This,” he said, beaming, “is the Spudnik!” He lumbered down the steps and stood next to Frank. “It’s a common diesel engine, modified to run on vegetable oil. Quite elegant, if I do say so myself. Fuel’s free. She gets twenty-one miles to the gallon on the highway, and on the interstates of America you’re never too far from a fuel source. Seems to prefer McDonald’s to KFC, but she’ll run on just about anything, even Dunkin’ Donuts. Been across the country twice now.”
Frank blew air. “Awesome.”
“You said it.”
The guy held out his hand. Frankie shook it.
“Name’s Geek, by the way. Kind of goes without saying. That’s Lilith. You met Y. What’s your name?”
“Frank,” said Frank.
“Not just Frank,” said Y. “Not just any old Frank. This here’s Frank Perdue, but he’s no relation to the chickens.”
“Glad to hear it,” said Geek. “So, Frank Perdue, how about the oil, then?”
“It doesn’t get changed until tomorrow.”
Geek looked at Y, who cocked his head toward the door. Lilith banged on the side of the vehicle. “Char, le rat, s’il tu plaît!”
A matted head poked out, covered with wild black hair that looked like it had been chopped with a hacksaw. Chunks of it curtained a small, pointed face. Dark brows. Large, animal eyes, liquid and quick. Looked to be about twelve or thirteen years old, Frank figured. Spooky.
“This is Char,” said Lilith.
The kid peeled open the seal on a plastic freezer bag and pulled out something fur covered and dead.
“Voilà.”
It swung back and forth from a stiffened tail. Frank watched it, transfixed. He didn’t get it.
“C’est un rat.”
