Jon Fixx

by Jason Squire Fluck

  “But don’t get any ideas, Jon.”

  I shook my head vigorously. Luci stood up, picking up the plates and silverware off the table. I followed suit, with Izzy right behind me. Together, we moved our discussion into the kitchen and washed the dishes. Luci informed Izzy he’d be going to New York with me. Her response was short and simple.

  “Then, be careful. Jon, bring him back in one piece.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  I made plans with Luci to check in with him on Sunday and gave Izzy a hug. They were standing on their porch, watching me drive away. I headed back up Sunset Boulevard through Echo Park, driving past the Spanish and English billboards. Sunset carried me over to Vermont, which I took north to Franklin Street. I could have hopped on the freeway and gotten home quicker, but I was enjoying being outside again. I’d been cooped up physically and emotionally for so long that it felt good just to be outside without an agenda connected to Sara. The weight on my shoulders had lessened. I felt lighter in spirit. For the first time, I knew I’d be able to move on, that I was going to make it. I made a left turn from Vermont onto Franklin, the street narrowing as I did so. The sun was riding low in the sky. It would be dark soon. With my windows down, I felt the hint of evening on my face, the air cool and crisp, the smell of fall in the wind.

  I reached the 101 North exchange at Franklin and Argyle, again debating freeway versus surface but decided against it. I drove below the freeway underpass, continuing on Franklin and crossing over Cahuenga Boulevard, old brick and block apartment buildings lining both sides of the street. I reached the Highland exchange, where the traffic picked up, large shops and stores to the south bordering the eastern crush of the famous section of Hollywood Boulevard. The Hollywood Bowl sprawled out just to the north and west of me, invisible from the street, and only the wide, long driveway indicated its existence. I’m sure from above it looked like a bottleneck, Highland narrowing from several lanes as it merged northward onto the 101 Freeway. I was glad it was the weekend, because during the week this entire area was chaos. I jogged on Highland for a moment, cutting across a couple of lanes, watching a BMW, then a Lexus, scurry out of the way of my oncoming, gangbanger Buick. I’d become accustomed to this reaction by other drivers when they saw my car in the rearview, an unexpected benefit I never would have imagined when I reluctantly purchased it soon after I arrived in Los Angeles.

  The Buick was a gas guzzler and not the most reliable car, but it had a unique style and the smoothest ride I’d ever experienced. The suspension system was fine-tuned to make passengers feel like they were floating down the road. The car, however, provided a misleading indicator of who I was. In Los Angeles, probably the most car-dependent, car-obsessed culture in the world, your car defined you. Many people spent more time in their cars, driving to and from work, running errands, and going to recreational activities than they spent sleeping. A person’s first impression of you was often based on the car you drove, not on the clothes you wore or the first words you spoke. Considering I was a writer by trade, a geek in most circles, a matching car would have been a Toyota Camry, a Ford Escort, or a Honda Accord. But as fate would have it, I didn’t choose my car. It was chosen for me.

  When I first moved to L.A., I rolled into the city on the train at Union Station downtown, with two large suitcases and a destination to Hollywood. At the time, I believed everyone who was anyone lived in Hollywood. No one was there to pick me up—I didn’t know a soul—so I jumped on a bus. The Los Angeles public transportation system is not known for its efficiency or user-friendly ways, as I quickly discovered on my trip to Hollywood. By the time I reached my destination, I’d been on six buses and missed my connecting bus three times. Five hours later, after getting a good tour of the east side of Los Angeles, I decided that getting a car was the first order of business. Back in Pennsylvania, during college and after I dropped out, I’d gotten along without a car, but here in L.A., my needs had clearly changed. I spent the night at a cheap motel in Hollywood on Santa Monica Boulevard east of Vine, watching transvestites trawl the streets for business.

  In the morning, I went looking for a car. As far as I was concerned, a car should be inexpensive and effectively get me from point A to point B. A few blocks past the motel, I came to a small mom and pop car dealership, tucked in beside a mobile phone shop on one side and an electronics shop on the other. There were only about forty cars on the lot, but I knew I’d rather give a small business my money than some large corporate-owned dealership. As soon as I crossed from the sidewalk onto the lot, a squat, round Mexican woman rushed out to meet me. She had a flat, wide nose, her hair poking out from her head in all directions, making it unclear whether her hair did that of its own accord or if she intentionally styled it that way. Her eyes sparkled. “Hola buenos dios, mijo! Come in.” She smiled at me, and though I was on guard having just arrived in the city, I immediately liked her.

  “Hola,” I said with a heavy gringo accent. I do speak Spanish. It was one of the few truly utilitarian values my education had left me with.

  “Usted es nuevo en la ciudad?”

  I cocked my head to one side, surprised. How did she know I was new to town?

  She smiled a little brighter at me. “Se sienta en su cara, mijo.”

  I nodded.

  “Usted necesita un coche.”

  “Yes, I just want something that won’t break down and is safe.”

  “Of course, mijo, of course. Mi marido tiene el coche perfecto para ti. Usted va a encantar. Mi nombre es Maribel.” She looked over her shoulder, whistling, and then turned back to me. “Mi marido se fuera derecho.”

  Taking a quick glance around the lot, I noticed the cars appeared at least a few years old, nothing new, but the price tags on them were what got my attention. All were within my financial grasp. I spotted a light-blue four-door Honda Accord a few cars over that looked manageable, respectable, and reliable. My eyes moved away from the Honda down the line, but not seeing any other options, I looked to the other side of the lot and spotted a couple of older model Toyota Camry’s that would suit me just fine—dependable, reliable, unflashy.

  “Mijo, aqui esta mi marido,” Maribel said.

  For a moment, I was confused. I didn’t see a man anywhere. Then my eardrums were hit with a deep bass voice.

  “Down here,” the voice instructed.

  I looked down to see a Mexican dwarf standing beside the woman, his eyes sizing me up. I did my best to hide my surprise. He did his best not to notice my unintended bewilderment. He addressed me in English.

  “You want a car?”

  “Yes,” I answered. His voice seemed to come from deep within, as if he had a voice synthesizer box strapped somewhere to his body. His gaze fell down to my shoes, slowly moving up my body to my face. I grew uncomfortable as he sized me up. I glanced nervously at Maribel. She gave me a reassuring smile.

  “Don’t worry, darling. Stan es muy bueno en juego la gente con los coches,” she said.

  I looked back down but Stan was gone. His deep bass traveled at me from my side, so close I jumped. He was standing on the hood of a Ford Taurus just behind my right ear. He stared at me intently.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Uh, Jon. Jon Fixx.”

  “All right, Jon Fixx, I’m going to hook you up with a car that will change your life. It will fill in the holes of your existence. It will take away any inadequacies you have, imagined or real. It will make you feel like a real man for the first time in your life.”

  I almost asked him if he was a friend of Tony Robbins. I couldn’t hide the doubt on my face. “Mr. Stan, I’m just looking for a car.’

  “Drop the mister, just call me Stan.” He studied my face, his eyes digging deep into my gaze. “You don’t know anything about cars, do you?”

  I hesitated. Horror stories about used car dealerships and the immoral snakes that ran them began f
looding my mind. I guess my thoughts seeped over into Stan’s mind as well because his voice took on an edge of tired irritation.

  “Son, stop worrying. I’m not going to screw you with some piece of shit that breaks down on you two days later. You ever want to bring the car back, bring it back to me and I’ll hand you exactly what you paid for it. I’ll put that in writing.”

  I nodded, confused. I wasn’t sure exactly what was going on. Maribel was beaming.

  “Follow me.” Stan jumped off the hood of the Ford. “Show me what you think you’d like,” he said. “Every car on the lot has been tweaked to meet the state smog standards, so you won’t have to do that.”

  “Well, I’d like something that will get me around without much trouble, reliable, dependable,” I told him. Now that the words were out in the open, not in my mind, they sounded kind of geeky. I glanced at Stan to see his reaction, a look of stern dismissal lingering on his face, as if at any moment he might decide I was too nerdy to even sell a car to. I stopped him at the Toyota Camry. “I like this one.”

  Stan’s face broke out in an amused smile. “Jon Fixx, you don’t have the cojones to drive this car. Forget it. Let’s keep moving.”

  What the hell did that mean? Wasn’t I the one buying the car? I had never encountered this sales tactic before. I wasn’t sure I liked it very much. As we walked down the line of cars in the small lot, I noticed another Honda Accord I hadn’t seen at first. It was in my price range, looked to be in good shape, so I stopped in front of it. Stan was ahead of me but didn’t stop. I called to him, “Uh, Stan, sir, I like this one.”

  Stan didn’t even turn around. He just waved me forward with his right arm in the air, motioning me to follow. I looked over my shoulder at Maribel, hoping she could talk some sense into her husband. She shooed me forward with her hands to keep me moving. I turned back, reluctantly following Stan down the line of cars to the back end of the lot near a small, single story house cum office. Having reached the end of the line, Stan didn’t stop. He kept moving, disappearing through the office door. I stopped underneath the tin overhang, covering what would have been the porch. Unsure what to do, I stood at the office door considering my options. What if this dwarf Stan and his wife Maribel were serial killers? What if they had a basement underneath their office space where they kept prospective buyers they didn’t like and locked them down there, stole their possessions, stripped them of their clothes, tortured them? My overly dramatic, fearful thoughts were interrupted by Stan’s abrupt entrance back through the front door.

  “Do you want your car or not?” Stan demanded, as he reentered the house. “Like I said, white boy. Cojones, that’s what you’re missing.”

  I glanced over my shoulder one last time at Maribel. Her soft smile reassured me, so I steeled myself and followed Stan into the house. The living room had been converted into an office space with two desks, a fax machine, computers, a large printer, and marketing-related literature covering the wall behind it. A life-size portrait of Maribel and Stan on their wedding day, both wearing mariachi outfits, hung prominently to my left. An entryway in the wall to my right presumably led back to the bedrooms. There was a small archway directly across from where I had entered, leading into the kitchen. I could see the backyard from my vantage point, apparently filled with more cars. I saw the screen door at the back of the kitchen slamming shut just as I entered. My nostrils were overcome with the pungent smell of Mexican cooking. My mouth started watering. The smell of cooking food relaxed me a bit, allowing me to drop my guard. I hesitated briefly as I took in my surroundings, then followed Stan out to the back. As I passed through the kitchen, I could see that the gas stovetop was covered with frying pans and steaming pots. I slowed as I passed, realizing I’d been traveling for the last several days and hadn’t had a good meal in over a week.

  Stepping into the backyard, I immediately noticed the cars were more expensive. The yard was at least one thousand feet deep, all cement, and surrounded by a six-foot stonewall. The wall was topped off by rounded, intimidating barbed wire two feet in diameter. There was a large metal gate leading out to an alley in the back corner of the lot. There were Porsches and muscle cars and Mercedes. Stan was standing in front of an old Buick Regal that had been refurbished into something considerably more interesting than it would have been when first coming off the lot back in its production year. The paint job wasn’t original. It looked as if someone had stripped the car down, lifted the frame up with a crane, and dropped it into a large bucket of black paint. It was jacked up in the back, with extra wide tires, and the windows were tinted so dark I couldn’t see inside from where I was standing. The car looked tough. However, no matter how interesting the car appeared, it was missing the qualifiers I was looking for: reliability, dependability, and efficiency.

  Stan reached up, slapped his hand down on the front hood, and announced, “This is your car.”

  I started laughing self-consciously, shaking my head. “Stan, I’m sorry, I can’t buy that car. That’s not right for me. I need a Honda or a Toyota. I need something that won’t break down, that—”

  Stan stared at me, disgusted with my reaction, his face stern. “What did I tell you, Jon? If the car doesn’t work for you, bring it back. Come over and take a look at it.”

  Hesitant, but not wanting to make him angry, I did as he asked, crossing ten feet of cement to the driver’s side door. I opened it up. It was long and heavy.

  Stan smiled, obviously enjoying himself as he described the car. “It’s got an 8.0L quad-turbo W16 engine with 1001 break horsepower.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about. I just nodded my head so I wouldn’t look too ignorant.

  “This is as powerful as a Bugatti Veyron without the cost. You could race this thing if you wanted to.” Stan stopped speaking, staring at me, then added, “You, of course, would never do that, but the option’s still there. Plus, it has one of the best suspension systems ever built.”

  All I could do was stare at the car, unsure how to respond. I had no idea what a Bugatti Veyron was, but I figured it must be something powerful.

  Noticing the doubt on my face, Stan added, “Look, Jon, I specifically hunted this car down for you.”

  I stared at him in disbelief, smiling uncomfortably. “How can you say that? You just met me ten minutes ago.”

  “Maribel is psychic,” Stan said with obvious pride. “She described you to me last week, told me you’d be coming soon. So I went out looking for this car. It matches your needs.”

  I’ve never been one to go for that psychic stuff, but I’ve always been of the mind that if you can’t disprove something, then the possibility that it exists can’t be dismissed. So whether Maribel was truly psychic or not, I had no opinion, but standing in the middle of Hollywood on the day after my arrival with a Mexican dwarf used-car salesman telling me he specifically went looking for a car for me prior to my arrival was far more than I could swallow. Dumbfounded, I tried to find the words that would extricate me from the situation as quickly and easily as possible. “You’re telling me that you’ve known I was coming so you went and located this car for me before I even walked onto the lot?”

  Stan nodded with pleasure. “That’s right.”

  I stared at the car, trying to buy a little time, not sure what to do. This was getting far too weird for me. I just wanted to leave, mostly because I knew that if I stuck around much longer I’d end up buying the car because I liked Stan and his wife Maribel. My feelings would override any good sense I had. “I think I’m going to have to think about this,” I said. I stepped back from the Buick. I turned to go back inside.

  “Let me tell you something, son. If you don’t buy this car, then you don’t buy a car here.” Stan waddled over to me, looking up at my face. “Jon, you think you’re the first guy off the boat that’s been through here, rolls into town looking for that intangible something they think will make their
life worth living? At least with the right car, part of the search becomes tangible.”

  I looked back at the Buick. The interior was a dark brown and in good shape. I asked, “Why this car?”

  “Cojones, son. Cojones. You got ‘em. You just don’t know it. This car will help you find ‘em.”

  Behind me, I heard the screen door open. Maribel was carrying a large tray full of tacos and quesadillas and salad. “Jon, will you join us for an early dinner?” she asked.

  Two hours later I drove off the lot in my new used Buick Regal with a full stomach and new friends. I discovered over time what Stan had meant. Driving on the L.A. freeways and streets, I never had trouble making a lane switch or pulling into a long line of traffic. Drivers usually conceded space to my car with very little protest. I rarely got cut off. However, the routine police stops got to be annoying after a while. The first came about a month into my ownership. I’d been going forty-one miles per hour in a thirty-five mile speed zone. After pulling over, I sat at the side of the road, watching the police sit in their car behind me for several minutes. What they were doing I couldn’t tell, but then suddenly, all hell broke loose. Three more LAPD cars pulled up on the opposite side of the street. I guessed this was not routine protocol for a traffic stop. I began to wonder if Stan had sold me a stolen car. Flashes of Rodney King getting beaten flashed across my mind. The officer on the passenger side of the cruiser got out but hung back, his hand on his gun. In my side-view mirror, I watched the other officer slowly approach my driver’s side door. To show them I was friendly, I figured maybe I should get out of the car so they could see me. I reached for my doorknob, opening my door. The motion of the door swinging open ignited a firestorm of activity around me. As if a starter gun had fired, the police officers reacted simultaneously.

  The officer closest to me shouted, “He’s moving!” A split second later his gun was pointing at me.

  The officers across the street were scrambling out of their car, guns drawn in my direction. I froze. I saw movement out of the corner of my right eye. The officer on my passenger side was squatting down with his gun pointed directly at my head.