Pineapples, Am I Right? (Part 3)

“But it's good just to see Rachel with someone who isn't a disinterested prick. She's always ended up with these passive aggressive men who made me nervous but this guy seems to treat her well, at least. And he's very handsome.”

“You humans are silly.”

“And cat's aren't? What do you know anyway?”

Some where around this time Elizabeth began to remember that she was talking to her house cat and perhaps she'd lost her mind. Still, she marveled, it's amazing how quickly a person can get used to the surreal.

“And speaking of that, how the hell do you know about Sailor Moon?”

“Don't look at me, I'm just a cat. Probably just a figment of your quickly debilitating mind.”

“And what does that mean?”

She suddenly stood up in disgust and found her hands on her hips looking down at the tabby. Elizabeth was by nature a good-hearted and quiet person but to be insulted to so effectively was enough to give rise to even her pride.

“Again, I'm just a cat.” Piddles paused to lick his genitals again, his legs splayed in the air, “But come on. You're what, twenty eight? That's like eight million in cat years and you live alone, you work at a library, and you're talking to your goddamn cat.”

The pot of water chose that moment to boil over and Elizabeth walked over to turn the burner down, her eyes narrowed and looking towards Piddles. “Well, I don't normally do that, but you're talking back today.”

Again, she thought, it's amazing how quickly you get used to these things.

“Uh huh. Remember, I've been here the whole time. As I was saying,” Again the cat paused to lick a particularly pungent part of his bum, “You live alone, talk to your cat all damn day and, pardon my forwardness, but when's the last time you had a guy over?”

“Well, there was Brad. . .”

Brad, tall and balding and never quite sure what to do with his tongue, whether it be in his mouth or other places. Brad who came over twice and then stopped returning her calls.

“Yeah, Brad. I may be a cat but that guy was a goddamn stray. And really? How many years was that in human terms? I was still a spring chicken, is all I know.”

“It wasn't that long ago!”

“Yeah, and what about Mark?”

Mark, his broad shoulders and his hairy forearms which flexed in that special little way when he slipped her the paper with his number on it. The number she'd thrown away wondering how any man could ever be so forward as to slip his number to the librarian.

“How do you know about Mark?”

“Oh, I don't know. Maybe I heard about him from you for like two weeks and that one night when you kept moaning his name while played with that blue vibratey thing--”

“Hey!” Elizabeth stomped her foot on the ground and yelled at the cat, her anger finally up and the sound of the knife on the cutting board a resounding whack as she slammed it down. “That's none of your business! And you chewed the damn thing up anyway!”

“Eh, I was never that interested in your damn sex life anyway and I didn't chew it up for the taste. It just kept jumping around under your pillow.”

“You little ungrateful. . . Turd!” She waved the knife at him then, slinging it around like a pointer as she yelled. “I feed you and I scoop your. . . your shit,” Elizabeth puffed her chest a little then, proud to have gotten her anger across, “and you talk to me like this.”

“Hey, I'm just a cat remember? Just a figment of your imagination, but I'm just saying maybe you should get out more. Maybe call your friends occasionally when you're not just desperate for help.”

*** All around me are familiar faces; Worn out places, worn out faces ***

“And stop listening to such depressing music!”

Hearing the ring-tone Elizabeth picked up her phone and saw Rachel's face on the screen again but this time it was her and Ian looking longfully at one another, Rachel's lips a bright red and his cheek wearing a crimson imprint. Of course she changed her Facebook picture to some sappy crap like that, she couldn't help but think as she picked up the phone and looked at the little icon, wondering if she should answer.

Looking at Piddles again, licking his privates once more, she idly picked a piece of the pineapple from its can and started to munch on it before she finally swiped the “answer” icon to the right.

“Meeoorrww?”

When It Rains (Part 3)

The cafe down the street is called Lox and Love and it's part of the reason we loved this apartment so much when we were looking for a place. David's Jewish and he said that only this place had any decent lox in the whole city but really I just liked the quirky décor and the odd people that came here. Of course I haven't been since he left. It's only been two months but I might as well have never been here. The tables are different and everything seems way more modern. It's funny how things change so quickly—all you have to do is look away for an instant and it's a different world.

The puddles on the street are still giving off that kind of happy aroma and I'm almost smiling while I walk. Almost, even though I'm screaming and crying and gnashing my teach on the inside. Almost, even though I know that what's about to happen could overcome the happiest thunderstorm ever. I have to focus on the anger to keep it pure so I don't even begin to think of forgiveness.

But there he is, sitting at our old table in the corner. He's wearing a beard and I've never seen him with one. When we were living together I always marveled that I'd never seen a man who was so fastidious about shaving. There was never a stray stubble before but now he's sitting there and he looks like Grizzly Adams. He's a mountain man with bags under his eyes and shaggy hair. Just look away and maybe he'll change back.

I stop of course before I walk over to him and go to the counter, each step up the funny little ramp they have hitting with a loud report, I'm putting so much force into them. Everyone looks up but him. The few people who are in the shop today have smiles on their faces left over from the rain and my anger seems to quell that a little, even as silent as I am. David though, is just staring down into his coffee.

He looks up though when I walk over and I see that his hand is shaking a little as he holds his half empty cup of black coffee. Black coffee. He used to always fill it full of so much soy milk it looked like a vanilla latte but now, it's black.

“You're looking good.” The words kind of croak out of him like he's been silent for a long time but I know that we just spoke on the phone.

“You're not.”

“I know. Listen, I--”

“No!” I slam my cup down on the table hard enough that in a different state of mind I might be shocked it didn't shatter. Instead I stare at him with fire in my eyes and I sit down, willing him to silence with my mind. “You listen.”

My voice is low but I know he can hear every word; his eye twitches that way that it always did when we were having one of our rare, really viscous arguments. “I woke up alone on a Tuesday morning with a cold bed and two cats scratching at my face to be fed. I called you and called you and went to your work and looked for you and called every goddamn person we knew and screamed and cried and punched holes in the walls and had to take fucking Milo to the vet because he ate a bunch of hair ties and when they asked where you were 'cause they remembered you from before I had to say I didn't know and then I burst out crying and my mom told me to go see a therapist and they put me on meds and then I tried to fucking overdose and had to get my stomach pumped and,” I take a deep breath and start to go on but the fire has died inside me and suddenly I don't have anything to say.

“How are Bootsy and Milo? Is he okay?”

“They're fine, but no thanks to you. The surgery cost $2500 that I didn't have. I had to get a credit card. They have these special ones just for pet emergencies and. . .”

Suddenly I'm tired and I just wish this was over. He looks so sad and it's even worse than it would've been if he were angry. I can see in his eyes that this is as hard for him as it is for me. He's also silent and suddenly I remember that he called me here, not the other way around.

“What do you have to say to me?”

“It's a long story.”

“No, it's not. Now tell it.”

“That morning--”

“It was a Tuesday. The twenty fifth of March. I woke up at 9:27. That morning?”

“Yes. I left early for work because I was trying to beat the rain. They were calling for a lethargic shower and I didn't want to get caught in it. I was still trying to impress them at the firm and I thought if I showed up and got a lot of work done when everyone else was listless then they would--”

“Shut up!” Suddenly the fire is back, for an instant, and I notice that clouds are turning dark again outside. “Just tell me what happened.”

“I was hurrying down the street; hell, I was practically running because the sky looked so terrible and you know what the rain does to me. I've always been sensitive to it.”

“Then why the fuck did you want us to move up here where it rains every fucking two days?”

“Please?” He's begging me with his eyes and no matter how much I want to stop it I feel bad for him. “Thanks. I was running and when I was going past the front of the Starbucks a girl came out with a coffee and I ran right into her. We both fell on the ground, our arms and legs all tangled up like something out of a movie. When I looked up and started babbling apologies she screamed and I realized it was Monica.”

“Monica?” I don't know a Monica and I've never known a Monica. What the hell is he talking about?

“I never told you about Monica. It's a long story.”

“I've got time.”

“Monica and I were. . . We were engaged. We lived together for a while. I never told you but she was part of why I wanted to move far away. I hadn't seen her in years but she looked exactly the same and then well, it started to rain. Hard.”

The tears are running down my cheeks and if I were paying attention I'd be able to see the faces looking over at me and the rain pattering on the windows outside.

“It wasn't a lethargic rain that day. You know how the news people always get it wrong. It was a nostalgic, hopeful rain. Do you remember? It probably passed by the time you woke up but for a while there it just poured and poured and well, you know how it is here.”

“You both got caught in it?”

“We were soaked. I don't remember it all but then we were in her car. She was here for a conference. She had no idea I'd moved here. We went back to her hotel and . . . We caught up. There was another rain later that day. Do you remember?”

“Yes, I do. I'll never forget that day, even if you do.”

“I know. The weather was bad that week. It came and went so fast and it was so hard in little down pours. First it was nostalgia and then hope and then that strange sense of adventure that sometimes comes and then--”

“You fucked.”

He looks at me and he's crying too. I know what I said is true and all he can do is look at me with those sad eyes that have so many more wrinkles than they did just a few months ago.

“Where have you been since then? Your job, our cats, everything. I thought you were dead.”

“She. . . We both just kind of took off. She was leaving that night and I just left. All this seemed so mundane and I just kept thinking about--”

“Stop it.” The rain is coming down harder outside and I'm so wrapped up in my own emotions I'm impervious to it, whatever it may be. “I'm going to leave now and I don't ever want to see you again.”

“But, my things, Bootsy and Milo. Listen, I'm sorry, that's why I came here, to say I'm sorry.”

“No. It's not that easy.” And it's not. Everything makes sense now and it's all over. “You ran off with her and then she dumped you again, right? And now you've come back and you're going to tell me it was all the goddamn weather's fault and you're not to blame. You're going to say you couldn't help it and you'll try your damnedest to beg me back.”

I look him in the eyes and I can see it all acting out between us. I can see all the different ways it might go and I know I have to leave now. “Well, no. I'm leaving now and if you want any of your stuff I'll tell you were you can find it. I put it all in a storage unit on the south side of town a month ago.” I grab in my purse for a pen and while he's still looking at me in shock I jot down the address on a napkin. “I'll call them and tell them it's yours. The cats are mine.”

And then I'm walking out of the cafe and I'm not looking back. The rain is falling, of course, and it hits me in heavy drops that cascade off my hair and my shoulders. I know by the time I make it home I'll be soaked but I don't care.

Thank god the rain, for the first time since we moved here, since I moved here, doesn't bring anything with it but water and it feels so nice to be washed clean.

When It Rains (Part 2)

A happy rain falls on the day David calls. Like everyone else, I’m outside, though unlike the rest I take cover under an awning; even just being outside in a downpour like this is enough to catch the buzz of euphoria caused by the rain. There’s a warm thermos of tea in my hand to ward off the chill, but it looks like I’m the only one who cares. The kids are honest-to-god frolicking in the streets, their peels of laughter ringing through the neighborhood. Their parents mill about on their front porches or on the sidewalks, chatting and joking, and every once in a while a group will erupt in laughter loud and wild enough to match the kids’. Everyone’s in too good a mood to care about politics or petty neighborhood fights.

We all know the joy isn’t any more real and lasting than a drug high. The real world and all its grand troubles and little anxieties will come rushing back with the sun, and with a downpour like this coming back down to reality is going to be pretty miserable. Still, it’s hard to resist the draw of a dose of happiness, even a shallow one like this. And it’s a strong rain, too; I feel myself grinning even though I’m mostly dry. I don’t even check the number on my phone before answering it.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.”

My heart freezes, and everything around me – the patter of rain and the confused hum of voices – slowed to a crawl, and all I can hear is the roar of my blood rushing to my head.

On the outside, of course, I’m still smiling. The happy feeling hasn’t gone away even as David’s voice dredges up every last minute of sorrow and rage and despair I’ve felt in the last six months. The emotions rage like a storm inside me. One second, I’m on cloud nine, the next I want to run screaming through the streets. The world goes lopsided as my head spins and takes my stomach with it. They call it Precipitation-Induced Emotional Conflict Syndrome; the rest of us call is rain shock, when someone has an extreme emotional shock that conflicts with whatever feeling the rain is causing that day. Learning your dad died on a happy day, for example, or getting that promotion you’ve been working toward for years on a melancholy day. The conflicting messages sends the brain into a panic.

I tear open the door to my building and stumble up the stairs to my apartment . I slam my door shut and lean against it. The only thing you can really do is get out of the rain and wait for it to go away.

“Are you there?”

The urge to scream at him bubbles up in my throat like bile, and with it comes another wave of dizziness. I half-stumble, half-fall onto my couch before my knees do something foolish like buckle. The euphoria feeling’s fading, thank Christ. My stomach’s still tearing itself apart, but my mind is clear and anger is slowly winning out against the effects of the rain. Thank god I wasn’t actually out in the rain, or otherwise I’d have had an aneurism.

“What do you want?”

My voice is steady, but it still lacks venom. Still, I figure even David’s bright enough to know I’m furious at him.

“That’s harsh.”

Or not.

“I don’t want to hear that from you.”

“Look, I want to talk.”

“For fuck’s sake, David.” Now exasperation joins the mix of emotions swirling in my breast. He wanted to talk? Now? After leaving with no note and disappearing? I tell him as much, and I hear him sigh over the other end of the phone.

“It’s…Look, it’s not something I want to tell you over the phone.”

“It’s something you should have told me before you left, David. You left me in a strange city in an apartment I couldn’t afford by myself with no note, no notice…Shit, I thought you were dead until you bothered with the courtesy of a voice-mail message telling me you were alive.”

“I understand – “

“No, you don’t.”

“Alright, fine. Look, I want to talk. If you want to talk to me, I’ll meet you at the cafe down by the intersection.”

“And why should I?”

“Because I owe you an explanation. And because I want to tell you I’m sorry. Meet me there after the rain stops.”

The phone goes dead. I nearly chuck the thing out the window; my arm actually rears back before I come back to my senses. Of all the presumptuous, uncaring, bastard things a person could do. Where did he find the gumption to call me out of the blue and say he wants to talk?

Outside, the clouds move on to reveal the sun, and the rain slows to a slow drizzle. I grab my coat and slam the door behind me.

When It Rains (Part 1)

“Rain drops keep fallin' on my head. Just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed. Nothing seems to fit. Oh, raindrops keep fallin' on my head Keep a-fallin' . . .”

It's always a gamble when the weather calls for rain. Regardless of what the weather man says, you never quite know what it's going to do to the world or what it's going to do to you. Of all the things we claim to be masters over, it's the weather we still haven't figured out how to control.

What was it Mark Twain said, something about everyone complaining but no one doing anything about it? That's about right. Everyone complains and every time the skies are dark and the little pitter patter of rain drops start the DJ's all over the world play that damn song.

And until those raindrops come you never know what it'll be; never know how you'll feel. No matter how much you look at the weather reports, it never seems to matter and it's infuriating. It's like they just can't figure it out. They just can't tell you what the rain drops are bringing with them today, or if they're coming at all.

And even when they're happy it's still the darkness, the dreariness, that gets to you. When they're happy it's like you're on Zoloft, like under the skin you can feel that you're sad but on the surface everything is fine. It's just like a it was a sun shiny day. Only it's not.

The medicated rainbow of weather, that's what they call it, and it's pretty close to the truth. But I guess that's what I get for moving to the North West and making it worse, here where it rains every day. I thought it would be exciting and God knows David was into it. He said it would be wonderful here, even with the rain and everything, and lord knows I'd believe anything he says. Or did, back when he was still here. Back when our little picturesque apartment, the one that was “perfect for a young couple who works from home,” was still the home for a couple. Not just me and the cats.

Funny, it never occurred to me to wonder if the cats get affected by the rain. They only have two emotions anyway, hungry and sleepy. I envy them. Instead I get to run the whole gamut, even though I stay inside, and especially when it rains. Maybe this one will bring something exciting like the other day when the president got caught in some of it on the way to a press conference and it was an angry day. I'll never forget him screaming at the camera, usually so composed, and hoping against all hope that he wasn't about to start world war three.

“I don't give a fuck what they say! They fucking invaded Ukraine and that's what it is, their goddamned ballots be damned. We'll bomb the shit out 'em and for fucks sake I don't give a shit what the EU thinks. Bunch of pansy assed fuckers trying to boss us around.”

Of course about then, a Secret Service guy swept him off the podium, bringing him down as he yelled for a “god damned, mother fucking” cigarette. It's funny how we build up safety valves. Funny how we adapt. The press secretary begged for forgiveness after that and I guess it came. People kind of get it I guess; I mean, everybody gets rained on occasionally. Luckily Moscow was being hit by a melancholic sort of rain and they didn't feel like they could fight back. Things have a tendency of working out that way.

An angry rain might not be so bad anyway. At least it might let me get out some of my anger at David. Anger at him bringing me here, where I don't know anyone and then leaving me with the cats and the bills. Leaving me all alone. The angry rain wouldn't be so bad and anything would be better than another horny rain. God that's worse than any other, especially when you're alone. It does make me glad that I can just stay inside though, that I can just sit here squirming and work in PhotoShop. Those aren't good days to go out in the cities, that's for sure.

“Raindrops keep fallin' on my head. But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red. Crying's not for me. Cause I ain't gonna stop the rain by complaining.”

A Cold Night (Pt. 3)

Well, there goes any chance of him being interested in me. Look at the crazy Asian snooping through the photos under the mirror while he hooks up the car, desperate to see if he's a keeper because that's a valid concern before I ask him to fuck me in the backseat. Okay, maybe he doesn’t know all that. Stop it, Rachel.

“Sorry, they all kind of fell out and I was trying to put them all back but they . . .”

Goddamn it, now I just sound more crazy.

“Um . . . Ok. Here, I'll just throw them in the glove box.”

Of course when he takes the pictures from me, while I sit there hoping he doesn't notice how red my face is, I mean really, it's just the cold, I notice he's got big hands. You know what they say about that. Gotta keep it together. Must be the cold getting to me. That and the full moon. It's a full moon right?

“I got the car all hooked up. Dispatch said your address was over in Marietta? 2150 Indiana Ave, right?”

“Yes. I mean, yeah that's it. I can give you directions.”

“Thanks, but I know that side of town pretty well. I had an ex-girlfriend that lived over there. I mean, a long time ago. It might've changed. Yeah, you should give me directions. Yeah.”

Is he stammering? He is. Maybe he thinks I'm cute. I mean, I am pretty cute. And he's a tow truck driver so his standards are probably pretty low.

“So what's the thing with pineapples?”

* * *

“Maam? Can I help you?”

The hell? She may be cute but maybe this girl is a nut job. What the hell is she doing looking through my photos. I mean, they may just be random crap but really. . . Maybe she's a psycho who pretends to break down and then fucks with the tow guy. But I did see that busted radiator house when I popped the hood and damn if there wasn't antifreeze all over the place.

“Sorry, they all kind of fell out and I was trying to put them all back but they . . .”

Oh. Why am I over thinking all this so much? Just a simple mistake. She was probably just curious anyway and that means that she's curious about me. Good sign. Means maybe she's interested after all. And a possible nut job. Oh well, they're usually better in the sack anyway. Not that that's all I'm thinking about. And now I've just been staring at her for like a whole minute.

“Um . . . Ok. Here, I'll just throw them in the glove box.”

But her knees are in the way of the glove box and when she pulls them away I see that she's blushing like crazy. It's really cute on her though and I have to admit I get a little tingle when I reach past her knees in those skinny leg pants and see that underneath all those layers she's actually pretty petite. Man, I hope she's not a nut job. Let's see what she says on the ride.

“I got the car all hooked up. Dispatch said your address was over in Marietta? 2150 Indiana Ave, right?”

“Yes. I mean, yeah that's it. I can give you directions.”

“Thanks, but I know that side of town pretty well. I had an ex-girlfriend that lived over there.” Goddamn it, Ian! Never bring up an ex girlfriend when you're talking to a new girl! I mean, she's just a AAA pick up but fuck now I sound like I'm not interested and fucking A. Fix it. “I mean, a long time ago. It might've changed. Yeah, you should give me directions. Yeah.”

Bad save but at least we both sound like nut jobs now. She's still blushing over there at any rate, and now we're driving off with that yellow Mercedes bouncing around on the flatbed out back. Still curious about that.

“So what's the thing with pineapples?”

“Um, what?”

* * *

“I mean, when all the pictures fell out and I picked them up and I saw a picture of this couple and at the bottom it said, 'Pineapples, am I right?' and I just wondered what that meant. I mean, I was curious.”

Like I don't sound like a retard now with all that pouring out of me. Good going. Guess I won't get to squeeze that cute butt after all.

“Oh,” He's laughing though. It sounds nice, like it comes from deep in his chest and somehow it accents his manliness when it does. Or maybe it's just the mountain man beard. “It's just this thing we had back in college, me and Eric. My friend in the picture I mean.”

He's looking at me and he's smiling and maybe he doesn't think I'm weird after all. “It's kind of juvenile I guess, but we used to joke about calling tits, err breasts, pineapples, and when he met Carol we were at a bar and when she walked by he said 'Nice pineapples on that one, eh?' So when they got married it was just kind of silly, you know? Just college stuff.”

“No, it's cute. She did have nice pineapples, anyway. I'll start calling them that too.”

Of course mine are more the size of tangerines but hey, girls from China can only ask for so much. Maybe he'll like 'em anyway. Brian never did so it'd be nice if someone appreciated them. He always wanted me to buy a bigger pair of pineapples but this guy, I don't think he'd be that way. Especially since I keep catching him checking me out and trying to hide it.

“So, you like knitting?”

“Not that I was spying on your or anything. I just noticed the stuff in the back seat when I was hooking the truck up to that pretty ass of yours.”

Did he really just say that? Yes he did.

“I mean, your car. Hooking the truck up to your car. Your Mercedes I mean, I like your car. It's really cool. I mean I like old Mercedes, and it's a cool color and--” And I'm laughing my ass off.

“It's okay. I'll take that as a compliment. Yours is pretty nice too, you know.”

And of course we're there before we know it. I guess I didn't realize how close I was to home when I broke down. I almost could have walked here.

* * *

“Um, is this the address?”

“Yeah, that's my house. I didn't realize we were so close though. And conversation was just getting interesting too.”

Interesting? Yeah, embarrassing too. This girl is getting me all mixed up, but I kind of like it.

“Yeah, yeah it was.” I smile at her but that's about all I can do. This is the part where I usually fail miserably anyway. “Let me just go unload the car.”

And there went my chance. And now I have to go back out into the freezing ass cold and undo her car so she can go do whatever it is she does and I can go home alone. Good one, Ian. Good one.

“All done. I managed to get the car in the driveway pretty well for you, hope it's alright.”

“Yeah, it looks good.” I guess she took off another layer while I was getting the car undone. I swear I couldn't see cleavage before. “Ian, I know this must be a long terrible night for you. Would you like to come up and I'll make you some hot tea? We can talk about pineapples some more. . .”

Wait, what? Is this really happening . . . Maybe being a tow truck driver isn't so bad after all.

“That would be amazing! God knows I love Chinese teas too. I mean, I'm just coming off shift too.”

Woah, curb your enthusiasm there boy. And of course I'm scheduled another four hours but damn, I'll make something up tomorrow. Fuck Bubba anyway, I swear she just winked when she got down out of the truck.

* * *

I promise I don't do this all the time. Inviting tow truck drivers up to my apartment, I mean, but really he seems like such a nice guy. And that thing they say about big hands . . . Well, let's just say that in Ian Boyd's case, they're right.

A Cold Night (Pt. 2)

We’re gonna do it. Goddammit. Why is that that first thing I think of? Alright, I’m being too hard on myself; it’s not the first thing I think of but it’s one of them. But man I have a thing for well taken care of beards. And beautiful blue eyes…

And I mean really. Why? Why did an image of him plowing into me real hard in my back seat seem the least bit sexy? Because it does. Girls who go at it in the back seat of their cars are pretty skanky. Unless they’ve been with the guy… or girl, I don’t judge… for a while. If you’ve stuck it out long enough, go forth and christen every surface of your home or motor vehicle.

He raises an eyebrow. I must have been spacing out. I roll down the window. “Um, yeah, I’m Rachel. You the AAA guy?”

He smiles and nods. Damn. Nice teeth. That’s a plus. “Yes. My name is Ian Boyd…”

Hm, Rachel Boyd has a nice ring to it…

“… err, you’ve had some engine trouble tonight, right?”

“Yes, that’s right.” The layers of clothing might make me appear fatter than I am. My sister said eating too much salt makes the skin under your chin hang longer making it look like you’ve got a double chin. Do I look like that right now? I am not obese. I may not like the way I look in a bikini but I rock a halter one-piece like it’s no one’s business.

“Alright I’m going to pull up the truck and hook you up- err hook up your car that is and get us out of here.”

Wait, did he say hook me up?

“If you’ll step out, ‘maam, you can sit in the truck with me to get you all settled tonight.”
I smile. “Oh, okay.”

I’m sitting in the front seat of his tow truck, heat blasting because stepping outside for one second felt like being a member of the Polar Bear club. Still, it’s a nice view because I’m not-so-shamelessly checking out his butt.

I look around the dash of his truck. There’s a photo sticking out of the pull down mirror. He’s not looking and I pull it down. A bunch of other photos come spilling out too of course. I gather them up and check again. Good, he’s not looking.

Aw, there’s a few with a dog. Looks like a mutt- maybe a rescue. Good, animal lover. One with an older gentlemen. They look alike. Guessing that’s his dad or his uncle. Full head of hair that’s nice. Bald wouldn’t be a deal breaker, but nothing to shake a stick at either. Then there’s a wedding thank you card. Ian’s all dressed up with rolled up sleeves and a grey tweed vest next to a black couple, the bride and groom. ‘Best. Best-Man. Ever. Thanks so much from Carol and me. Love ya Ian … PS Pineapples, am I right?!‘ Aw that’s so cute! Wait! That is one sick Tibetan tiger tattoo he’s got branded on his arm!

I’m beginning to rethink my stance on back-seat hook-ups. Heh. Hey, but you never know. He’s looking like a keeper…

“‘Maam? Can I help you?” Fuck, he’s in the car and his photos are in my hand.

***

Man, she’s pretty. But, ha, she kind of looks like Nana’s cat all bundled up in layers like that. Yup, that just happened. I just compared this girl to my Nana’s cat. Smooth. Does she bring all those clothes with her just in case or what? I mean being prepared is a good thing. It would have been terrifying to come here and find a woman in hypothermia.

I’m not sure which would have made me more upset. Finding an old bat frozen in her car or Rachel here. That’s a terrible thought. I’m going to stop right there.

“Um, yeah, I’m Rachel. You the AAA guy?” Man, I have a thing for Asian girls. It’s not like I’m not attracted to other women but Asian women. It’s not a fetish, guys that fantasize about geishas and shit are pretty gross. But I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s their eyes. They are kind of beautiful.

“Yes. My name is Ian Boyd… ” I smile, awkwardly I think because I pause almost waiting for a reaction but I don’t get any. “…err, you’ve had some engine trouble tonight, right?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Rachel’s eyes are kind of beautiful. Jerome says it’s not racist to like one kind of woman over another. It’s like saying you’re racist because you like women with big tits. It’s just a preference. And he’s black so that means… no. That’s not right…

“Alright I’m going to pull up the truck and hook you up- err hook up your car that is and get us out of here.” Fuck. Fucking mouth. With your stupid fuck ups. Now she’s going to think all I want to do is hook up with her.

I think I see her smirk. Not sure if that’s a sympathy smirk…

The cold is getting to me. Alright, stop day dreaming and get to work. “If you’ll step out, ‘maam, you can sit in the truck with me to get you all settled tonight.”

“Oh, okay.”

Oh, okay? That’s not a good sign. She doesn’t seem interested. I don’t think. I help her into the truck and turn up the heat and get back to work. Turning around again and getting another look at her ride, yeah. It’s a nice car. She has nice taste. I could have figured out just looking at her. She left all her extra layers in her back seat, only taking her blanket into the truck.

In the back seat of her car is a bouquet of flowers. Fuck, she has a man. Oh, wait a minute. There’s a photo of Rachel with a baby and another woman in a hospital gown. ‘Thanks Auntie Rachel! Xoxo Your Favorite Nephew, William‘ These flowers are fresh. Her sister must have had a kid. Well congrats!

There’s also a tote bag tucked away in the back seat with a bunch of yarn and some knitting needles. There’s a long scarf folded and stuck into the bag. It’s got this nifty braided thing going on with neon yarn. Huh, she’s crafty. That’s nice. I’ve always found women who create something are of a better caliber than those that just buy everything. Maybe I’m making that shit up but my ex didn’t make anything. Not even toast. Just ate cold Pop Tarts every morning for breakfast. Kind of like how she ate our my heart in cold blood.

I’m feeling like a cold Pop Tart myself so I finish up my work and head over to the car. Maybe start up a conversation or something. Rachel seems like a nice person… a nice, cute person…

I open the driver’s seat door and Rachel’s looking at my photos. “‘Maam? Can I help you?”

A Cold Night (Pt. 1)

Of course my car broke down tonight, when the temperature sets a new record low. It's five degrees and snowing and of course that's when the thing decides to overheat. What kind of logic is that? Stupid Mercedes.

Of course it was my choice to buy a thirty year old car, but it's so trendy, it has so much soul. Not that it does me any good right now on the side of the road with the snow falling and hot water dripping out of the radiator and hissing on the pavement. After only a couple of weeks and this happens. At least I have AAA and an iPhone to keep me busy in the meantime.

And scarves. Crazy me who has to always be prepared for everything, I have a blanket, an extra jacket, and don't think I'm crazy but three extra scarves in the backseat along with a cute beanie cap. That's me, always prepared. The hat and one of the scarves even match the color of the car. Always fashionable so I don't embarrass myself in front of the tow truck guy. That's me.

Not like it would matter anyway since I'm sure he'll be some fat, ugly redneck bumpkin. Sometimes I forget I'm in Georgia living in Atlanta but trust me, when you need a mechanic or a tow truck driver, you remember you're in Georgia. That or a Huddle House. That reminds you where you are too.

I guess tonight everyone's broken down though, because the tow truck guy is running an hour late. Not that I'm cold or anything. Five degrees isn't exactly super comfy inside a drafty old Mercedes and those trendy ass yellow hubcaps aren't doing me any good either. The idiot probably got lost and can't find the right road. I'm sure AAA only hires the best of the best. Goddammit, why does Angry Birds have to get so hard after a while?

“Excuse me, 'maam? Are you Rachel?”

“Ah!”

Of course he sneaks up on me! Of course now I see the headlights back there but Jesus, just sneaking up on me out of the dark and tapping on the window with his voice all muffled through the glass. And me a young girl stranded on the side of the road late at night! Like it wouldn't scare the shit out of me.

Can't see him out the window anyway with the frost and of course I have to start the car up to do that. Stupid jerk, taking so long. Probably some dumb fucking yokel with a beer gut and buck teeth. God why do I live in Georgia?

“Yes, I'm Rachel.”

Oh . . . He's cute. And a ginger. Kind of looks like a hipster too. . .

* * *

I admit being a tow truck driver isn't exactly my dream job but you know, having a degree in Liberal Arts doesn't always turn out so well. Still, it's not exactly what I had planned when I went to Tulane. I kind of hoped I'd be doing something a little more rewarding than finding idiot old women with blown engines for AAA.

But I had to find something. It was either this or go back to live with my parents and fuck that. Decatur can kiss my ass and there's no way I'm going back there as long as I have a pulse. Still the job isn't always so bad at that. It pays enough for me to not worry too much about the rent and it keeps me in PBRs with a little left over to work on my bike.

Nights like this though, it's hard to figure out why I'm doing it. Of course my shift pops up on the coldest night in Atlanta in twenty years and of course it's the late shift. It always is. Will be for a while too, me being the new guy. Heaven forbid we take Bubba's prized 8-4 shifts. No, give the shitty ones to the new fish. Nobody likes that “red head smart ass” anyway. Let him work the night when the weather is so cold everyone's breaking down and there's a two hour wait. Let him deal with the fussy old women yelling at him for being behind schedule.

Oh, who am I kidding? This life sucks. I'm single and I live alone and I drive a tow truck. Just guess how easy it is to find dates when your answer to that old “And what do you do?” question is this. The only women who'll talk to you after that work at gas stations or late night diners. Not that there's anything wrong with those people, mind you, but I don't quite jive with the “I have two kids from two other guys” thing. Guess I'm just closed minded.

Maybe one night I'll be towing some woman and get run over on the side of the road. That's the best case scenario these days.

And then tonight, after all these fussy old bitties and grumpy old men with squinty little glasses and holier than thou bullshit, I realize I forgot one of the pick ups. And of course she's called the dispatch like four times and I'm two hours late from what they told her. Guess who gets docked for that? Answer: It ain't Bubba.

Probably some shriveled up old shrew who hasn't checked the oil on her 10 year old Hyundai since Bush was president and can't understand why the engine suddenly shits the bed. Either that or an asshole in a business suit who left his over head light on and the battery's dead so he's going to yell at me about how these “new cars” are such pieces of shit. Yep, you can see how excited I am about the next pick up. Goddamn cold weather. . .

Huh. Dispatch says it's an '83 Mercedes 300 though. That's kind of interesting. Probably some geezer who bought it new.

There it is. Cool shade of yellow too. And a diesel. Always thought those were pretty cool since I had a friend convert one to veggie oil. Oh, and those hub cabs are pretty bitching too. That's a pretty cool car. Of course it'll have some stuck up old bitch in it, so who cares.

Can't see anything through the window though. Maybe the person already got tired and left. Oh, I guess there is someone in there. . . Hope they're warm.

“Excuse me, 'maam” Are you Rachel?”

“Ah!”

Ha, must've startled the old bitch. Let's see if she can figure out how to get the window open.

“Yes, I'm Rachel.”

Oh. . . She’s Asian. And cute. Really cute. . .

You Get Used to It (Pt. 3)

So of course I try to act real quiet and hope they'll think I'm not home but then they just keep banging louder and now they're threatening to smash the door so I go open it and there, sure enough, are six fucking cops on my doorstep and all of 'em angry.

They get all crazy shouty and one of 'em puts me up against the wall and starts asking me questions like, “Where is Danny Mendoza?” and “Where are you hiding the cocaine?” and other crazy things. I've never heard of Danny Mendoza and I doubt they mean the cocaine in the box at work so I just kind of go all bug eyed and tell them that while I try not to piss myself.

Not very dignified, I'll admit.

Then I see that all the other cops are kind of confused looking and then right in the middle of the big cop shouting so loud I think my ear'll burst and his face so close I can count his nose hairs, one of the other ones taps him on the shoulder and he screams at him now, “What?”

So he tells the big guy they're supposed to be at 2150 and this is 2148. Then the main cop gets upset and starts swearing and apologizing and they're all like, please and thank you and we don't want to get sued and then guess what.

Victoria shows up in the doorway asking what's up and goddamn it if she's not holding a foot. Just playing with it like it's a toy and I'm all like, oh shit and suddenly the cops are very interested in me again.

So of course I tell 'em it's a Halloween prop. Of course, we're just getting ready for Halloween and little Victoria loves Halloween. I'm just baby-sitting, you know and I thought it would be fun to make props and I'm all mumbling and stuttering.

And then I remember it's the middle of April.

Needless to say they have a few more questions but then oddly enough, they kind of stop caring because they see the door fly open at the house next door and this Hispanic guy go running out to a car with big rims parked out front.

As soon as all the angry cops are gone I push Victoria inside and slam the door and go into my own little yelling match and of course the little girl laughs and laughs and goes prancing around the house, a foot in each hand just laughing at me until we hear a gunshot outside and we both run to the front window.

Sure enough, they got the Hispanic guy in the leg and they're dragging him back to the cop cars in front of my house and I'm praying the whole time they just go away and then, like a freaking Christmas miracle, they do. Funny thing though, when they're pulling the guy in the car he starts screaming and I can hear him from inside. He's just screaming and yelling about how his next door neighbor narced him out and how he's gonna fucking kill him and shit like that. I kind of feel bad for whoever's got that kind of shit coming down on him, but I've never met the people in the house on the other side, so who knows.

I push Victoria out as fast as I can but I grab the feet from her before she can take 'em with her and she doesn't put up much of a fight. I think of something when she's leaving though and I ask her about that thing she said about girls with low self esteem, why only they'd like me. The little shit just says, “I'll tell you when you grow up,” and laughs.

Little brat.

So anyway, I go back to play Madden but then I remember the feet again sitting there on the table, just staring me in the face like two boat anchors. Then I get an idea and I pick 'em up, go to the back alley and sneak down the street to the house on the other side of 'ol Danny Mendoza. I put the feet in that guys trashcan 'cuz hell, if he's a narc he deserves to deal with this kind of shit. Probably a giant dick too.

But yeah, after all that shit, I guess today wasn't so bad. I got some new boots, some dating advice, and I got a good feeling about tomorrow. Hope they get that cocaine thing at work figured out by then.