by B. B. Hamel
We don’t talk about what happened in the car, and she doesn’t seem like she wants it to happen again.
We just do our jobs. We go from business to business after the next few weeks, meeting with tons of people and driving endless midwestern miles. We don’t close any more deals, and I can feel her tension growing, and the nagging doubts forming in my own mind.
I’m not normally like this. Doubt isn’t something I let myself feel. I’ve always moved through life with perfect confidence, assured in my own abilities and positive that the world will bend and give me what I want. It’s always been like that for as long as I can remember. The world bends, and women bend, and I always get it. Except with Riley. Except for this trip.
Things felt so promising in those first two weeks. But as the days and the miles rack up, I can feel her getting more and more anxious. I try to flirt with her, try to replicate that moment in the car, but she always pushes me away. I can’t ever seem to get closer to her than when I started, despite everything, and I’m starting to entertain doubts for the first time in my life.
Maybe it’s the endless highways. They all seem to blend together. Farms on either side, fields of golden wheat, all very American shit. Crumbling barns, tractors gone to rust, a few abandoned cars, and the two of us speeding through it all in one new rental after another. I guess there’s no real reason to keep switching rental cars but I figure it’s more fun to change it up every once in a while, and Riley doesn’t seem to care either way.
It’s easy to get lost in yourself when you’re driving for hours on end, day after day. I start to feel like we’re standing still, even if the speedometer says we’re nearing ninety in the fast lane. The white lines tick past, one after another, blurring into a single stream. I start to follow random cars, just because, and Riley has to tell me to slow the fuck down.
We’re starting to grate on each other. I think she’s sick of my clearly phony optimism, and I’m sick of how much she still hates me.
With a week left to go, we have a particularly brutal meeting Thursday morning. The guy clearly wasn’t interested at all in what we were saying, and even had the fucking balls to try arguing about technical shit with Riley. She wasn’t having it, and I basically had to pull her away before she started cursing the guy out.
“I wanted to cut that asshole’s throat,” she grumbles at me as we drive away from the place.
“He would’ve had it coming,” I agree.
“Except, you know, murder sucks.”
“Sure,” I agree. “Murder totally sucks.”
“Still.” She sighs. “You know how much it fucking sucks being a female engineer?”
I glance at her then back to the road. “I can guess,” I say. “Doesn’t it suck being a woman overall?”
“No,” she says. “Being a woman isn’t so bad. I mean, periods stink, and society is pretty much sexist as hell, but it’s not so bad.”
“What makes engineering so much worse?”
“It’s the egos,” she says right away. “It’s a bunch of boys with big egos that don’t think woman can do the math. Just because I’m small and have boobs, they think my numbers don’t add up.”
I smile a little bit. “You do have nice boobs.”
“You’re not helping.” She gives me a flat stare.
“How do you think we can change it?”
“Over time, it’ll change,” she says. “I mean, society is less sexist than it used to be, believe it or not. We’re not actual property anymore, so hooray progress, I guess.”
I laugh a little bit. This is the best we’ve gotten along in a few days, and I want to grab onto it. As we keep going, a sign flashes past on the side of the road. “Did you see that?”
She looks out the window. “See what?”
“Carhenge,” I say.
She raises an eyebrow. “What now?”
“It’s an attraction called Carhenge. I have no clue what it is, but I can guess. Let’s go check it out.”
“Don’t we have a meeting in,” she checks her watch, “two hours?”
“Fuck it. Let’s go see Carhenge.”
She hesitates. “I don’t know.”
“Too late,” I say, turning off at the next exit. “We’re doing it.”
I think I see a little smile on her face as I follow the signs for Carhenge. It’s a bunch of backroads through farms and plains, since there’s not much else out here in Nebraska. The road for Carhenge turns to dirt, and we’re kicking up dust as we slowly pull into a gravel parking lot with a little visitor’s center at the end. In the distance, Carhenge sits in the middle of a field in all its glory.
We get out of the car. There’s one other truck here, parked off in the corner, and I’m guessing that’s whoever is in the visitor’s center.
“This looks amazing,” I say, shielding my eyes from the sun.
“This looks horrifying,” Riley responds.
I grin at her. “Come on. What else is there to do in Nebraska?”
She sighs. “Good point.”
I lead her over to the visitor’s center. There’s a little sign above the blue door. “Car Art Reserve,” I read out loud, and glance back at Riley. “There’s more than just Carhenge here!”
“Hooray,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.
We head inside. There’s one man behind the desk, reading a paperback novel as we enter. It’s cool and dry in there, which is great, since it’s hot outside. The place is full of Carhenge merchandise, like t-shirts and postcards. Riley immediately flips through a few as I approach the guy.
“Hey there,” I say, smiling at him. He’s maybe fifty, balding on top, wearing glasses and sporting a goatee that’s graying at the bottom.
“Hi, folks,” he says. “Welcome.”
“We were hoping we could go out and see the henge,” I say.
“Oh, sure, you can go see it,” he answers. “Suggested donation is ten dollars.”
He smiles placidly and I glance back at Riley. Her face is flat but I can tell she’s annoyed. I fish a twenty from my wallet and hand it over.
“Great!” he guy says. “I’m Jim, if you need anything. Here, take this little map and this brochure. Try not to touch anything.” He shoves two old-looking pamphlets into my hands. “Enjoy!”
I can tell Jim isn’t interested in chatting, so I grab Riley and we head back out into the hot afternoon. “Nice guy,” Riley says.
“Guess I can’t blame him. I’d be cranky if I were stuck in there all day.”
She nudges me. “I got something for you.”
I raise my eyebrow at her. “What did you do?”
She grins and opens her hand. In her palm is a little toy car, painted completely gray, with “CARHENGE” in black on the top.
“You shouldn’t have,” I say, pretending to have my breath taken away.
“You’re worth it.” She hands the toy over and I laugh as I slip it into my pocket. “That ‘suggested donation’ was bullshit anyway.”
“Can’t argue that,” I say, heading out into the field. “Come on, let’s look around and get our money’s worth.”
She follows me toward the henge. On the way over are a few other car sculptures. There’s a group of four cars, teal, purple, yellow, and white, although the yellow one has two cars stacked on top. They’re covered in graffiti and half buried in the ground, jutting out like rock formations.
“Cool,” Riley says, her tone totally flat and bored-sounding.
“Oh, come on, it is kind of cool.”
She grins as we pass by another buried car, sticking up from the dirt. There’s a station wagon all rusted over and brown with loops coming out the top, what looks like a giant fish coming out of the ground, a dinosaur creature standing on two legs with a super long torso made up of car parts, and, finally, the main attraction.
Carhenge looks just like Stonehenge, but instead of stones, it’s made out of cars.
“Pretty self-explanatory,” Riley remarks.
“G
uess they weren’t kidding.” I open up the pamphlet about the piece and read as Riley wanders through the partially buried cars.
“It was built in 1987 by a guy named Jim Reinders, apparently as an homage to his dad. There are thirty-eight cars in total.”
“It’s actually pretty neat.” Riley pokes out from behind a pair of upright cars. “Can’t deny it.”
I grin at her. “I knew you’d love it.”
“I mean, it’s so weird, right? Someone put a lot of time into this.”
“A ton of time,” I agree. “I mean, it couldn’t have been easy to make.”
“Nope. And here it is anyway.” Riley wanders through the site and I follow her, keeping a respectful distance. She looks over her shoulder and grins at me as she weaves through the vehicles.
“I can almost feel the ancient history,” she says, sighing. “So beautiful.”
“Incredible,” I agree. Off to my right is a sign in the ground, and I walk over to it, reading it out loud. “Here lie three bones of foreign cars. They serve our purpose while Detroit slept. Now Detroit is awake and America’s great.” I look over at Riley and laugh. “Guess that’s not quite true anymore.”
“Just a touch outdated.”
We wander through the structure again, taking our time. The cars are stacked on each other, welded together where they need to be. They’re all painted gray, just like stones. It’s actually impressive, the way they’re buried and balanced and bent. Riley keeps pushing against them, testing their weight, and they all seem solid.
I sigh, stretching in the shadow of one double car. Riley comes over and leans up against it, cocking her head at me.
“Been a long trip,” she says.
“Yeah.” I run my fingers down the textured paint, feeling the old steel beneath it, warm from the sun. “Lots of miles under our belt now.”
“We’re so close, too,” she says softly.
“I know.” I sigh and lean against the car next to her. “But we can still do it. We got more time.”
“Yeah, guess so. I was so optimistic after we closed those early deals, but now…”
“I know. I’m not the kind of guy to worry about anything, but this, I don’t know. It’s getting to me.”
She cocks her head, a little smile on her face. “Really?”
“Really,” I admit. “I haven’t wanted to tell you that, though. Don’t want to upset you.”
“Honestly, that makes me feel better.”
I pause. “Really?”
“Really. Honestly, your optimism was starting to get on my nerves.”
I laugh softly. “Okay, I can get that.”
“I mean, we might fail at this, right? We might go back home with nothing to show for it.”
I hesitate a second. I fight back the urge to say that won’t happen, that I won’t let it happen. Instead, I do what’s against my nature.
I tell her the truth.
“We might be fucked.”
She grins a little, almost sheepish. “Yep, we might be fucked.”
“I mean, god damn. We’ve been driving all over this fucking country, meeting with tons of assholes, and none of them can see that what we’re offering them is the next best thing. We’re offering them the fucking future and all they want is…”
“They want what’s familiar.”
“Exactly.” I smack the car behind me. “Stupid fucking assholes. I mean, Riley, your designs are amazing. You deserve to get rich off this.”
“I know,” she says softly. “But it might not happen.”
“It might not,” I agree, and we lapse into silence for a second. “And if it doesn’t, what then?”
“I don’t know,” she admits. “I’ll be angry, disappointed, but…” She trails off, looking out into the distance at the flat field stretching around in front of us.
“But what?”
“But this was fun,” she says finally. “I mean, okay, it wasn’t the most fun thing in the world, so relax. But I had some fun, saw some stuff I never would have before.”
“You saw Carhenge,” I say, nodding.
“Right, I saw this piece of junk.”
“Worth the trip right there.”
“Totally.” She takes a breath. “So what I’m saying is, I guess it won’t have been a total waste. I guess I can live with it, if we don’t close any more deals.”
I want to tell her that it’s going to be okay, but I can tell that’s not what she wants or needs. She wants the truth, and the truth is, I’m not confident. We already saw some of the best leads, and everything left from here on out are all iffy and questionable. I wouldn’t be surprised if half of them cancel on us at the last minute.
“Come on,” I say, pushing off the car. “Let’s hit the road again.”
“Yeah. Guess we should.” She follows me and we walk back down the path toward the car. A family’s parking as we get to the rental and Riley watches them, a strange look on her face.
“You okay?” I ask her.
“Fine,” she says. She looks at me, a grin on her face. “Let’s go fuck this up together.”
“Sounds good to me.”
We climb into the car, I start the engine, and we head out. I keep that little toy in my pocket for the rest of the trip, my fingers curling around its plastic whenever I feel alone.
17
Riley
Things get easier after Carhenge.
I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s because I know we only have a week left, or maybe we just really needed a break from the constant driving and pitching grind. Either way, we’re not exactly best friends, but things aren’t quite so icy between us anymore.
We even talk a little bit in the car instead of sitting in total silence watching farms flow past. We talk about the old days, about high school and pop culture back then. We talk about Cookie Crisp and TRL and my brother’s obsession with Pokémon.
“He was too old,” Aaron says, shaking his head. “I mean, shit, come on. That was a game for little kids.”
“Red and blue were pretty cool,” I say.
Aaron gives me a look. “He had posters, Riley. Posters.”
“What sort of posters was he supposed to have, naked girls?”
“Exactly,” he says, nodding his head. “Or cars if your mom wouldn’t let him have girls.”
I roll my eyes but he’s making me laugh more and more as I slowly start to loosen up a little bit.
We pass a week like that, meeting after meeting, keeping it friendly. Suddenly one day it’s Friday, and we pull into the parking lot of an industrial park. Aaron turns to me, a little sad smile on his face.
“Well, this is it.”
I blink at him. “Really? This is the last one?”
“Really,” he says.
“Wow.” I take a breath and let it out. “I’m not going to be rich.”
His sad smile says everything. “Come on, let’s go knock this shit out of the park and then go the fuck home.”
“Yeah,” I say softly.
I follow behind him as we go into the offices of Renew Panels. I actually feel a little bittersweet as he gives the receptionist our names and we sit down together in what feels like the exact same chairs we’re always sitting in while we wait for the manager.
“Think we’ll ever do this again?” I ask him softly.
“Probably not,” he says back, and smirks at me. “Excited to be done?”
“Yeah,” I say, forcing a little smile. “Sure.”
He nods, frowning slightly, but we don’t get to talk anymore. The owner comes out, a short guy with dark hair and blue eyes. He shakes our hands and leads us back into the conference room at a brisk walk, talking fast about the company’s history the whole time. I’m not listening, since I can already tell this jerk isn’t buying a thing from us anytime soon. They’re all alike, disinterested but friendly, and I have no clue why they even took a meeting with us if they just want to sit down, listen to the pitch, and then ignore us later. Pr
obably because we typically buy them lunch.
We get set up as the owner keeps talking. I think his name is Larry, or Bob, or something like that. I can’t remember, actually, and it doesn’t matter. Aaron’s buttering him up like always, laughing at his jokes, asking about his family, pretending like they’re best friends. I get the computer booted and the presentation loaded up, and Aaron dives in, doing his well-rehearsed thing.
We’re a pretty good team, I reflect as we go through the presentation. We’ve done this enough at this point that we have it down to a science. I take over, standing in front of the bored-looking owner as I start in with my usual dumbed-down explanation of how the solar panels work. The fluorescent lights above us drone and buzz and the beige walls make the room look like a prison, which isn’t exactly surprising. So many businesses look like prisons, probably since they all get their furniture from the same manufacturers.
The owner looks at his watch, exaggerating the gesture, and I stop talking. He looks at me with this jerk-off smile, like he’s grinning at his two-year-old niece that just dropped her favorite toy.
“Something wrong, hon?”
I wince at that. I fucking hate when they call me hon, or baby, or sweetie, or any other number of diminutive little nicknames. I’m not their baby or their sweet cheeks, I’m a fucking engineer tasked with explaining how a very complicated machine works. But no, because I don’t have a dick flopping around between my legs, I’m somehow not that important.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say, trying to keep my face straight. Aaron fidgets in his seat, tossing me a look. “Any questions?”
The owner shrugs. “Just one.” He leans forward, that smile turning into a fucking leer. “How’d you get so damn pretty?”
I take a sharp breath. Aaron’s about to say something, but I don’t need him to defend me. I can feel the anger spike through me, and I know I’m about to lose my temper like a moron, but I can’t help it. I lean forward, grabbing the table, and meet he asshole’s gaze.
“And how’d you get so fucking stupid?” I ask.
He has the gall to actually look surprised. “Excuse me?” he sputters, looking at Aaron. “What did she just say?”