“Great. Now I’m going to miss my reservation.” He shakes his head, jaw clenched. “Hope you’re happy.”
“Man. Come on,” I say, tossing my hands in the air. “It was an accident. She apologized. Let’s do what we need to do here so we can all get on with our lives.”
Returning my attention to the bumper of my vintage Porsche 911T, I examine the deep scratches and blue paint remnants littering her once-pristine Carrara White bumper. As much as I, too, would like to berate this woman for forgetting how to fucking drive and denting up my most prized possession, I take a deep breath and gather myself. Last thing I want is to look like el douche bag over there in the Mercedes.
“Here you go.” The girl hands me her insurance card, and I grab my phone, taking a picture of the front and back before handing it over. Our hands graze in the process, and it’s only then that I finally get a good look at her.
Jesus Christ.
It’s the waitress.
From the pancake place.
The second our eyes lock, her expression suspends. She recognizes me too.
“You got your insurance card?” The huffy bastard interrupts us, practically yanking the little piece of paper from her hands. “You are insured, right?”
“Dude, calm the fuck down,” I tell him, head cocked.
“Don’t call me dude, you fucking prick, and don’t tell me to calm the fuck down,” he says, lips pulled into an ugly sneer. “Have you seen what your piece of shit did to my bumper?”
My “piece of shit” happens to be a 1969 Porsche 911T, of which there are only a few hundred left in the world. Actually, I found her in a junkyard years back and did the restore job myself in between deployments. She’s good as new, but if it makes him feel better to berate it, that’s on him.
“What an asshole,” the waitress whispers, hand cupping the side of her full mouth like we’re a couple of pals sharing a secret.
“You were texting and driving, weren’t you?” I ask. My hands rest at my hips and my brows furrow. Just because we’re both on the same page about this tool over here doesn’t mean we’re suddenly best friends.
She shakes her head, arms crossed. “I told you, I was looking at the wrong light.”
“My gas tank is in the front of my car,” I say. “You’re lucky you weren’t going any faster than you were.”
Dragging my palm along my jaw, I watch as the Mercedes asshat approaches a squad car pulling up to the scene. Cars that pass us honk, drivers rolling down their windows and shouting profanities at us for holding up traffic. I don’t blame them. It’s five o’clock and people are trying to get home. It’s already bad enough without some stupid collision blocking the flow.
The officer talks to the disgruntled guy for a second before strutting our way, and I duck back into my car to grab my registration.
After statements are taken and information is exchanged, the Mercedes guy gets the fuck out of there and the waitress returns to her car and I to mine. Glancing into my rearview, I see she’s texting on her phone again.
Rolling my eyes, I reach toward the ignition and turn the keys.
Nothing.
I try again.
Still nothing.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” I press my head against the steering wheel. The second she hit me the first thing I thought about was the fact that my engine is just behind my rear axle, but when I examined the damage, it only appeared to be cosmetic.
The impact must’ve knocked something vital out of place.
Climbing out, I head back to the rear and pop the hood, hunching over the engine to see if anything looks amiss.
“Everything okay?” a female voice steals my attention. When I turn around, I find the waitress again.
“Obviously not.” I turn away. “Won’t start.”
“Oh, jeez. Let me call you a tow.” She grabs her phone and begins typing furiously into a search engine. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah. You already said that. Earlier.”
I examine the distributor cap, then the fuel pump relay, which could easily trip on collision. No leaks on the ground yet and the coolant level looks good. I’m probably going to have to tear shit apart just to figure out what’s wrong—which is exactly how I wanted to spend the rest of my pre-deployment week …
“You need a ride home?” she asks.
Glancing at the mountain of grocery sacks taking up my passenger side, I know they’re all non-perishables, but I spent a pretty penny at Whole Foods and I’d like to get them to Mom’s as soon as possible on the off-chance I get hit by a bus … and judging by the way this day’s going, that’s not an unlikely possibility. I could call an Uber but I could be waiting here a while.
“Seriously, I’ll take you home,” she offers. “I feel awful about your car.” She leans closer. “I don’t feel bad about that other guy’s car though, just between us.”
The pretty waitress fights a smirk, but I don’t return one of my own. Nothing about this is funny.
“Okay, I take it back,” she says, rolling her eyes and crossing her arms. “Just trying to lighten the mood. And you have to admit that guy was a piece of work.”
A few minutes later, I close my rear hood and lean against my car. “You call a tow yet?”
She nods.
Forcing a hard breath through my nose, I shove my hands in my jeans pockets and wait. The waitress takes a seat on the hood of her Prius, her Lacoste-sneakered feet resting on the dented bumper while her chin sits in her hands. Her thick, dark hair is pulled back into a ponytail and her round, deep set eyes are an intense and distracting shade of mocha.
Despite the fact that she’s arguably drop dead gorgeous, she’s too perky for my taste, too chatty. Too effervescent.
And I’ve got more important things to worry about right now, like trying to figure out what the hell she did to my car.
“Tow will be here soon,” she calls out over a symphony of motors and horns. The weight of her stare is noticeable, but I couldn’t care less. Turning my attention to my phone, I waste the next twenty minutes on stupid internet sites and email before the tow truck arrives.
“The groceries in my front seat,” I say to her, pointing toward my car. “Grab them and put them in your trunk.”
She hops down, transferring brown paper bags to her Prius one-by-one as I eye the tow truck a few blocks away and hope to God it’s mine.
Five minutes later, I breathe a sigh of relief when he slows down and positions his truck in front of my baby.
By the time my 911T is loaded up and I hand off my key, the tension running through me is getting harder to ignore. It was easy to be cool about this shit an hour ago, when I assumed all I was dealing with were some scratches and paint. But now I’m fucking stranded in a city where everyone needs a car and my pride and joy wheels are going to sit in some oily mechanic’s parking lot overnight.
I tell the driver to haul it to my buddy’s shop in Pasadena, giving him the address, and I watch as my Porsche disappears into traffic on the back of a bright yellow truck with Tim’s Tow-n-Haul painted across the side.
“You ready?” the waitress asks, nodding toward her car.
Saying nothing, I climb into the passenger side, realizing I have no idea what her name is and fuck if I can remember what she said it was this morning at breakfast.
I had other things on my mind then.
I didn’t have time for niceties, small talk, or worrying about remembering the name of some woman I was never supposed to see again.
She flicks off her hazard lights and I retrieve my phone from my pocket, pulling up the image of her insurance card.
Maritza Claiborne.
“So where are we headed?” she asks, placing her phone in a cup holder. A palm tree air freshener hangs from her rearview and the fading scent of coconuts and pineapples fills the space.
“South-Central LA,” I say, my words dry, unapologetic.
She’s quiet at first, the silence palpable. Everyone around he
re knows you don’t go to South Central unless you have to. It isn’t the safest of places, but this time of day she should be fine as long as she’s in and out.
“Take a right at the next light,” I tell her.
It’s going to be a long hour, maybe longer depending on traffic, so I close my eyes and rest my head against the cool glass of the passenger window. Fortunately, being in the army my entire adult life has taught me how to sleep anywhere, any time with comfort being the least of my concerns.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice slicing through the quietude I was just beginning to enjoy, “for the tip earlier. It was really generous of you. I don’t always get a chance to thank people when they do that.”
I don’t open my eyes, instead I mumble a quick, “Yep.”
“Can I ask … why?” The car pulls to a sudden LA stop.
I open my eyes to make sure we’re not about to become minced meat. “Why what?”
“Why did you tip me a hundred dollars on a twenty-dollar tab?” she asks.
Shrugging, I sit up straight, accepting the fact that she’s probably one of those types who are going to want to talk the whole ride home. Some people just can’t handle silence. It’s like they don’t know what to do with it.
“Does it matter?” I ask.
Maritza turns to me, her dark eyes fanned with even darker lashes. “It’s just that you were so rude to me at first. I actually expected you to stiff me. So when you went in the complete opposite direction … it just caught me off guard.”
“I don’t know. Token of appreciation for bending the rules.”
“Not like I had a choice.” Her foot presses into the gas pedal and we start moving again. “You all but demanded I give you another pancake.”
“Turn left at the next light,” I tell her, changing the subject.
“For the record, I only caved because you were so damn persistent. And you’re military. I have a soft spot for you guys.”
People always mean well when they glorify you for serving in the military, for when they thank you for your service or offer you free things or discounts, but I’m not some saint and I don’t deserve any kind of special recognition.
I’ve only ever done what I had to do.
No credit is due.
I check the time. Forty more minutes to go.
A long forty more minutes.
“So are you still in the military?” she asks. “Active duty, I mean?”
“Yep. Going back to Afghanistan next week.”
“Do you ever get scared? Going there?” she asks. Her question feels way too personal to ask a complete stranger but I’m sort of stuck here, so …
“This is the wrong line of work if going over there scares you,” I say, releasing a hard breath. I’m not sure how this girl can crash into my Porsche and then act like we’re suddenly best friends having a heart-to-heart.
“How do you do it?” she asks, glancing my way for a second. “How do you not let it get to you?”
I’ll admit the first time was a little unnerving, not knowing what to expect, but a guy gets used to it, especially when he has no other choice.
“You block out the parts that make you feel the shit you don’t want to feel,” I say, shifting in my seat.
“Ah,” she says, hands gripping the steering wheel. “You’re one of those.”
“One of those?”
“Yeah. A macho-macho man,” she says, sinking her perfect teeth into her full lower lip as she fights a teasing smirk. “No emotion. No cares. Personality of steel.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is a bad thing. We owe it to ourselves to feel. To allow ourselves to be angry or sad or scared or whatever,” she says. “There’s beauty in feeling an entire spectrum of emotions in a world where everyone else is trying to numb themselves with drugs or alcohol or sorry excuses for love.”
If I allowed myself to feel everything all the time, it might send me on my own personal warpath and that wouldn’t be good for anyone. Been there, done that. Can’t do it again. I hurt way too many people—people that I cared about more than anything in this world.
“Take a left,” I say.
“I dated this one guy for, like, three years. Took me that long to realize he was always going to love his garage band more than me.” Maritza chuckles. It says a lot about a person who can laugh about wasting some of the best years of her life on some self-centered prick. She clicks on her turn signal and cuts off a BMW.
“I’m sorry—why are you telling me this?”
“I’m just elaborating,” she says. “On the whole letting-yourself-feel thing. If I would’ve just numbed myself off, I’d probably be knee deep in some new, shitty relationship, repeating all my old mistakes. Negative emotions have a purpose, you know?”
“Sure.” I try to shut her out but her voice is so soft and soothing, annoyingly pleasant. She’s like a real life podcast that I’m being forced to listen to but secretly think it’s not all that bad.
“I told my roommate I’m swearing off relationships for at least a year,” she continues. “I just want to find myself—which I know is completely cliché, but I don’t care. I want to say ‘yes’ more and do things I wouldn’t have done before, meet new people, make new friends. That sort of thing. You probably think I’m insane, but it just feels like the timing’s right. I kind of just want to be solo for a while, you know? Party of one.”
My lips press together. If I were in a chatty mood, I could tell her how much I appreciate that we share many of the same sentiments. There aren’t a lot of girls, especially girls who look like her, who aren’t throwing themselves at every man they meet, desperate to try to pin them down so they don’t have to spend another New Year’s, spring break, or wedding season alone.
“You said you deploy next week?” she asks. “What are you doing until then?”
My nose wrinkles and for a second, I wonder if she’s using some kind of reverse psychology or bait-and-switch tactic on me. I’ve seen girls do that before … acting disinterested or anti-love one minute because they think it makes you want them more, and the second they have you exactly where they want you, they make a move.
Too bad for them that’s the kind of shit that doesn’t work on me.
In fact, it usually tends to do the exact opposite, leaving me turned off and disgusted. Insulting my intelligence is one of the worst things a woman can do.
“Don’t worry—I’m not asking you out. I just feel bad about your car,” she says. “I’m sure you had plans and stuff. I’d hate for you to be stranded all week. If you need any rides anywhere, let me know. My number should be on that paperwork the cop gave you.”
Adjusting my seat, I pull in a deep breath. It’s the least she could do for me—driving me all over LA like my own personal chauffeur, but I refuse to rely on anyone, especially not some chick I don’t even know.
“I’ll manage,” I say.
Ma has an old Mercury Sable in storage—granted, I have no idea if it still runs—but I’ve got my fingers crossed pretty damn hard. I’ll probably spend the rest of tonight tinkering around with it and once I get that running, I’ll head to Pasadena to start fixing my Porsche.
“You think your car will be okay?” she asks.
“Hopefully.” I’m ninety percent sure it’ll be fine, but I won’t know until I take a closer look. Until then, she can continue feeling bad about it for all I care.
“It’s a cool car. Love that it’s not flashy. It’s understated,” she says. “Very classic.”
That’s exactly what I love about it, too. “Thanks.”
I spout off the next direction and we linger in silence for a solid ten minutes—a new record—before she points to a billboard above a Taco Bell.
“Oh, look! Panoramic Sunrise is playing at The Mintz tomorrow night,” she says, bouncing in her seat. “How did I not know that? I love them.”
I chuff. Me too.
“Really? I swear whenever I
talk about them people act like I’m speaking a foreign language. It’s like no one’s ever heard of them.”
I neglect to tell her the lead singer just so happens to be my brother-in-law’s cousin. “Look, can we stop the small talk? It’s nothing personal. I’m just not a fan.”
Maritza turns to me, expression falling. “Oh. Sure. I was just about to ask if you wanted to go to the concert with me but—”
I don’t have to think twice before answering her. “I’m busy.”
“Busy …” Maritza speaks slowly. She doesn’t buy it, but I don’t particularly care.
“I’ve got a car to fix,” I clarify my statement, not that I need to prove anything to her.
Her hands grip the steering wheel as she sinks into her seat and stares ahead. “All right, that’s cool. Whatevs.”
When we finally pull into my mother’s apartment complex after an enjoyable bout of silence, I step out of her Prius and begin gathering grocery bags in my arms. It’s going to be at least three trips up and down two flights of stairs, maybe four.
“Let me help,” she says, loading bags before I have a chance to tell her no.
Maritza the Waitress follows me to apartment 3C and I tell her to place everything on the kitchen table once we’re inside. We get the job done with one more trip, only this time she lingers in my mother’s doorway, her hands slipping into the back pockets of her shorts.
I realize now she’s still in her work uniform, her white button-down shirt and little black shorts. Formal but not too formal, the kind of California cool the locals eat up in droves.
Lifting a brow, I shrug. “You need something?”
“Go to the concert with me,” she says. “I’ll buy your ticket.”
I frown. “No. And no.”
“Why not?”
“Told you. I’m busy.” I keep my voice down. If Ma is sleeping and she wakes up to the sound of some strange woman’s voice in her apartment, I’ll never hear the end of it. She’ll let me have it with her last fighting breath.
“My home is not a brothel,” she’d say, teasing but also serious. “Go have your fun somewhere else.”
“Fine. It’s just that you’re the only other person I know who’s heard of this band. Thought it might be fun. And I feel like I owe you after I smashed into your car today.”
[2018] PS I Hate You Page 3