A short fiction 1979

[woodtick]

I wrote this first-person short fiction I wrote. I was hoping somebody might enjoy it. Keep in mind this is one of my first pieces and it is considered a sucess if it keeps you interested enough to read the entire thing.




Northern Minnesota was cold and snow-packed from the unusual amount of accumulation during the winter of 1979. It was a curse for homeowners who had to shovel their snow, but not for my twelve-year-old brother Bryan. Bryan had been given the privilege of unrestricted use of our father’s 1972 Artic Cat Panther snowmobile. Every afternoon that winter he would disappear on that machine after his paper route and not return until bedtime. He used and maintained it every day, and eventually deluded himself into believing the snowmobile was his. That changed one Saturday in February when my mother entered my bedroom.
“Brent honey, has your brother taken you for a ride on that snowmobile yet?�
“No ma.�
“Would you like to go?�
“You mean with Bryan driving and everything?�
“Yup.�
“He’ll let me go with him?�
“He will do what ever I tell your father to tell him to do.�
“Yeah, that would be fun!�

I had never been on the snowmobile without my father being at the helm. Doing something like snowmobiling without adults is a new concept for a nine-year-old boy. I hurried around the house looking for my warmest clothing. My mother came from her closet with a turtleneck shirt and told me to start with it. Suddenly I heard a rather heated conversation coming from our kitchen.
“Either you take your brother with or I’m taking the key.� My father said.
“I aint takin him with me.� Bryan said in response.
“Then give it to me.�
“But it’s my gas. I paid for it.�
“I don’t care. You’ve had that thing to yourself all winter. Take him with or you are done for the rest of the season.�

I emerged from my room to see my father holding out his hand and a red hue on his face. My brother was standing there with one hand on the doorknob and contemplating what to do. The thought of not having a snowmobile for the rest of the season was death in Bryan’s mind.
“Get your stuff on. I’ll be outside.� My brother said in defeat as he looked at me.

I got outside to see my brother standing next to the machine with his hand on the throttle and looking angry.
As difficult as it was with all my wrappings on and what felt like a bowling ball on my head, I mounted the seat. By the look my brother was giving me, I felt like I no business on the snowmobile. Bryan bought the gas. Bryan kept the key. Bryan was the only one who drove it. As far as Bryan was concerned, the snowmobile was his.

“Move back!� my brother said as he got on the seat.
This was going to be the greatest thing I had ever done, so I thought. We tore down the driveway with a twenty-foot rooster tail of snow coming from the track as the excitement began. I reached for the first thing I could grab as we turned the end of the driveway onto Fairview Lane.
“Get your hands off me!� My brother shouted.

I let go of him and tried to keep myself on by squeezing the seat with my knees and reaching behind to grab what I could of the backrest. We sped through town on the plowed streets at speeds suitable for a race track. My father never drove this fast, this is great I thought. I felt empowered from flying past the houses, not to mention the outlaw thrill of driving on avenues meant for cars. We drove past the skating rink and I saw several of my friends looking from the ice. I waved as if to say “look at me, I’m on a snowmobile!�

We arrived at the trail head on the north end of town and the horror began. The smooth peacefulness turned into absolute torture. The suspension on a ’72 Arctic Cat is nothing short of abusive at those speeds on a bumpy trail. Bryan couldn’t go fast enough. This was what snowmobiling was all about to him, go as fast as you can on a heaving, windy, narrow trail without hitting a poplar tree. He wasn’t going to ease up because his little brother was on back, in fact, he was going to teach me a lesson. He would lean around corners and the outside ski would come off the ground until the next bump slammed it. I flopped and floundered like an old Stretch Armstrong doll as we violently raced down the trail. I felt myself going off the back and desperately grabbed my brother.
“Get your God-dam hands off my shoulders. I can’t steer!� Bryan said in disgust.

He stopped the machine, grabbed my hands and put them on his waist.
“There. Now lean when I lean.� He hollered through his helmet.
We resumed on our path of madness. At least now I had something to lever my torso against, but the pounding only got worse and I started to get tired. Bryan drove faster, we started slamming so hard the seat cushion between my legs would compress and my shins would dig into the aluminum tunnel beneath. I had sores on my shins and every bump was sheer pain. My neck started to ache from the motion and weight of the helmet. The steel rings on the chin strap and the freezing air were biting at my face. I started to cry because I knew there was nothing I could do to stop this caveman.

Finally the trail opened up into a large field and Bryan eased up to look around. The field was coated with mostly virgin snow and had drifts that were made into jumps prevoiusly by my brother and his friends. It was relief at last, albeit short-lived.

Bryan drove to the first jump with his usual wicked intent. He sped up, we hit the drift and the Arctic Cat went airborne. I remember being slammed into my brother’s back as we hit the front side of the hill, then weightlessness. My feet came off the running boards and my hands lost hold when my brother stood up to cushion the impact for himself, a technique he failed to instruct me on. By the time we landed I was completely independent of him and the machine. I was immediately ejected as the foam seat hammered into my hip. I laid there in pain and proceeded to remove the snow inside the turtleneck my mother made me wear. My brother soon realized that he no longer had a passenger and turned around to pull up next to me.
“I’m cold and I don’t want to ride anymore.� I pouted.
“Fine, I’m leaving ya here then!�
“I hate you!� I cried.
“Then get on and shut up!�

I mounted the seat and reiterated the point that I was not having fun and wanted to go home. We went back across the field in the direction of the trail. Bryan had no mercy for me, I had to hang on desperately. I had relief and apprehension in the same breath because I thought we were going home but I also knew it was going to be a nasty ride back.

Half-way back to the trail we encountered a pond that we had circumvented on the way in. Once again my brother was going to show me what a real snowmobile ride was. He squeezed the brakes and shifted his weight as the snowmobile crossed the ice. We started to slide sideways then he pinched the throttle to the handlebars. The rubber track polished the ice as we made loops across the pond. We came to a halt as Bryan declared,
“Lets do it again!�
“Noooe, I doe wannu!� I screamed.

The engine wound up and across the pond spinning we went, this time faster and more out of control than the first. The sled was going so fast, Bryan couldn’t stop before we hit the shoreline. WHAM! The track hit the shore sideways and dug all the way to the dirt. The sled nearly tipped on it's side and once again I found myself in the snow bank with the wind knocked out of me. My brother stood on the running boards and laughed hysterically.
“I wanna go home.� I said

Without a reply he punched the throttle and shoveled snow on me then went back to work on the pond. The appeal of the ice eventually wore off, he pulled up next to me and told me to get on. The ride out was worse than the ride in. I was exhausted and now hated snowmobiles by this time. We made it home and I went directly to my room and went to sleep.

The next Saturday my mother walked into my room.
“Brent, your brother is going snowmobiling, do you want to go with him again?�
I shook my head and said, “Nah, I don’t think so.�