Free Christine by Steven King

if you don’t want to go, it takes you anyway.
    Seeing that the be-bop queen’s husband had indeed arrived home, and that he and Arnie were standing almost nose to nose, apparently ready to start mixing it up at any second, didn’t help my mood at all.
    The two little kids still sat solemnly astride their Big Wheels, their eyes shifting back and forth from Arnie to Daddy and back again to Arnie like spectators at some apocalyptic tennis match where the ref would cheerfully shoot the loser. They seemed to be waiting for the moment of combustion when Daddy would flatten my skinny friend and do the Cool Jerk all the way up and down his broken body.
    I pulled over quickly and got out, almost running over to them.
    â€œI’m done talkin atcha face!” Dads bellowed. “I’m telling you I want it out and I want it out right now!” He had a big flattened nose full of burst veins. His cheeks were flushed to the color of new brick, and above his gray twill workshirt, corded veins stood out on his neck.
    â€œI’m not going to drive it on the rim,” Arnie said. “I told you that. You wouldn’t do it if it was yours.”
    â€œI’ll drive you on the rim, Pizza-Face,” Daddy said, apparently intent on showing his children how big people solve their problems in the Real World. “You ain’t parking your cruddy hotrod in front of my house. Don’t you aggravate me, kiddo, or you’re gonna get hurt.”
    â€œNobody’s going to get hurt,” I said. “Come on, mister. Give us a break.”
    Arnie’s eyes shifted gratefully to me, and I saw how scared he had been—how scared he still was. Always an out, he knew there was something about him, God knew what, that made a certain type of guy want to pound the living shit out of him. He must have been pretty well convinced it was going to happen again—but this time he wasn’t backing down.
    The man’s eyes shifted to me. “Another one,” he said, as if marveling that there could be so many assholes in the world. “You want me to take you both on? Is that what you want? Believe me, I can do it.”
    Yes, I knew the type. Ten years younger and he would have been one of the guys at school who thought it was terribly amusing to slam Arnie’s books out of his arms when he was on his way to class or to throw him into the shower with all his clothes on after phys ed. They never change, those guys. They just get older and develop lung cancer from smoking too many Luckies or step out with a brain embolism at fifty-three or so.
    â€œWe don’t want to take you on,” I said. “He had a flat tire, for God’s sake! Didn’t you ever have a flat?”
    â€œRalph, I want them out of here!” The porky wife was standing on the porch. Her voice was high and excited. This was better than the Phil Donahue Show. Other neighbors had come out to watch developments, and I thought again with great weariness that if someone had not called the cops already, someone soon would.
    â€œI never had a flat and left some old piece of junk sitting in front of someone’s house for three hours,” Ralph said loudly. His lips were pulled back and I could see spit shining on his teeth in the light of the setting sun.
    â€œIt’s been an hour,” I said quietly, “if that.”
    â€œDon’t give me any of your smartmouth, kid,” Ralph said. “I ain’t interested. I ain’t like you guys. I work for a living. I come home tired, I ain’t got time to argue. I want it out and I want it out now.”
    â€œI’ve got a spare right in my trunk,” I said. “If we could just put it on—”
    â€œAnd if you had any common decency—” Arnie began hotly.
    That almost did it. If there was one thing our buddy Ralph wasn’t going to have impugned in front of his kids, it was his common decency. He swung on Arnie. I