Chapter Six
Quinn’s pulse is still racing, his fists balled, as he marches down the road. A Chevy Impala pulls up next to him. The window comes down, and Uncle Pat says, “Get in, you damn hothead.”
Quinn frowns but gets into the car. He examines Pat for a beat.
His uncle clutches the steering wheel with one hand, raises a pint of whiskey to his lips with the other.
“Should you be driving?” Quinn asks.
“Hell no.” Pat slams the gas pedal and they screech off.
Soon, they’re on the interstate. Even with several drinks in him, Pat handles the vehicle with the confidence of someone who drives for a living; he’s the factory’s wheelman for long-haul deliveries.
“Where are we going?” Quinn asks. His adrenaline is still pumping from the altercation with Randy. Why is she with such a loser? His mother could do so much better. She’s not only smart and funny; Quinn also sees the way men look at her.
“You need a night off, kid. You’re wound too tight.”
A car lays on the horn as Pat cuts it off. His uncle slicks back his hair, wet from perspiration and grease and the whiskey, then turns on the car radio. Led Zeppelin blares from the classic rock station through cheap speakers.
“Sorry,” Quinn says. “But I can’t take that guy anymore. I don’t know what she sees in him. How she can let him near George.” Quinn feels his jaw clench tight. “And I wasn’t kidding, if he touches George again, I swear…”
“See, that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Pat says, shaking his head. “And your mom’s a grown woman.”
“But George isn’t a grown man.”
“Neither are you, kid.” Pat sighs, like he regrets saying it. “Look, your mom told me that George got those marks when he had one of his episodes. That Randy was just holding him so he wouldn’t hurt himself.”
Quinn gives him a look like give me a fucking break. George suffers physical outbursts and seizures, but the marks on his arm looked like someone grabbing him roughly, not the bear hug you’re supposed to use to protect George from himself.
“If I thought Randy put a finger on either of them,” Pat says, “I’d beat the shit out of him myself.”
“You’re not there. You don’t see…”
Uncle Pat lights a cigarette and Quinn lowers the window.
“Your mom’s a tough bird; she had to be to survive our parents.” Mom never talks about Quinn’s grandparents, and he never met them before they died. Quinn thinks it’s because they were abusive.
Pat continues: “Nadine used to put your dad in his place. And he was the toughest SOB I ever met.”
Quinn stares out into the darkness. Maybe he is wound too tight. Birthdays, like so many things, make him think of Dad.
“You reminded me of him tonight,” Pat says. He looks out at the road, like he’s envisioning Quinn’s dad so long ago. “When you got in Randy’s face.” Another nostalgic smile. “I ever tell you about the time your dad saved my ass?”
Quinn doesn’t respond. He’s heard the story a hundred times. How Dad saw Pat circled by a group of toughs in the parking lot of the bowling alley about to get his ass kicked. How Dad charged in and took down the leader with one punch, causing the rest of them to retreat.
Twenty minutes later, the car eases off the interstate and they’re in downtown Omaha. Where in the hell is Pat taking him? It better not be those strip clubs he goes to. No way Quinn’s going inside.
He’s surprised when they pull up in front of the Civic Auditorium. Quinn can hear music floating in the wind, the vibration in his chest from a bass drum.
Quinn looks at Pat, his expression asking, What’s going on?
“Heads or tails, kid?” Pat balances a coin on his thumb.
“What? I’m not in the mood for—”
“Heads or tails?” Pat takes in a drag of his cigarette, signaling he’s got all night.
Since Quinn was a boy, Pat would play this dumb game. Heads or tails? Winner cleans up the dishes. Heads or tails? Loser buys beer.
“Fine,” Quinn says. “Heads.”
With the cigarette dangling from his lips, Pat flips the coin, grabs it in the air, and slaps it on his wrist. He removes his hand, displaying the coin. Heads.
Pat smiles, removes something from his shirt pocket, hands it to Quinn.
“Happy birthday, kid. From me and your mom. If you wouldn’t have run out mad as a damn hornet, we were gonna give it to you.”
It’s a ticket to the concert. Holy shit.
“Thank you,” is all Quinn can think to say.
“It’s why she wanted you home tonight. So you could make the show.” Pat pauses. “Now go get some of that aggression out in—what do they call it?—the mosh pit.”
Quinn accepts two twenty-dollar bills Pat holds out.
“For something to eat and a cab home.”
Quinn gets out of the car. Before tearing off, Pat rolls down the window and says, “Don’t do anything I would do, kid.”