by E. M. Kokie
I don’t ask for clarification on whether Mr. Heinman is dead, dying, or merely off getting probed. I hope it’s the last one, but I don’t want the details.
Uncle Skip calls around to track down a part, and then he hands the phone off to me, “his girl,” to handle the order and shipping details. We have a deal: I don’t give him shit about being “his girl,” and I get to learn something new every time he says it. By then Mike has some things that need to be ordered, too, but those we get from a supplier. He and I work the computer for a while, reading part numbers and checking prices.
By noon things quiet down out front. Uncle Skip and Mike are both working on cars, but nothing I can help with. There are too many cars and trucks and customers waiting to hang back there and watch. I snag my lunch from the office and settle in to play around online for a while. I check for any good rebuild prospects. I need my own truck, especially now that we’re all the way out here. Uncle Skip promised to help me fix one up. I have to find the truck, pay for it, and learn how to do all the work. He’ll supervise. But so far I’ve found nothing remotely interesting in my price range.
Then I check into my usual sites and forums. The group in Washington has their new training schedule up and a recap of their latest event. If they were closer, we could join them. They already have their shit together. The Second Amendment newsgroup has a few new posts. I copy one and e-mail it to myself to read later. I check into my message boards, at least the few left that haven’t gotten all riled up about gay marriage. They don’t know about me, but I don’t need to read their bullshit. I leave a reply to one of the guys looking for info on a site in Michigan and the new permitting requirements here. Yet another argument over prepper versus survivalist versus whatever. And it’s the usual suspects, too. I sign in so I can quote the main arguments and respond, “Who cares what people call themselves? I’m not a prepper. I’m not a survivalist. I’m a realist who plans to survive.” I post replies in a few other threads, and then I check the chat rooms, but no one is around. There’s a new post up from the guy in Virginia recruiting for his Mutual Assistance Group. If I were closer, I’d be tempted to apply. Of course, I’d have to fudge the application, at least as to age. And getting from Michigan to Virginia, or the meet sites, would be near impossible in a grid-down situation. I’ve thought about suggesting a few northern sites as their backups, but it’s not worth disclosing them to a MAG I’m unlikely to join.
I answer a few direct messages and e-mails. Delete a few without answering, like Kelly back home, wondering what I’ve been up to. Last time we hung out, she played hot and cold all night, and then the next day tried to pretend the hot was all because of half a can of beer.
More calls. Then I ring up a few gas customers. By the time I check back on the forum, there are several responses to one of my posts. Some agreeing with me, but a few calling me a bitch or stupid, sometimes both.
Another customer comes in, and so does Uncle Skip, so I close the browser.
“Did you get ahold of Mrs. Presley?” Uncle Skip asks, flipping through the work orders. He runs his hand through his graying hair and then puts his cap back on. Salt-and-pepper stubble dusts his chin and upper lip, standing out on his red-tanned face.
“Yeah.” I hand the customer his change. “She’s going to bring it in Wednesday, when her daughter can follow her and take her home.”
The alert dings, and I glance out the door to the pumps.
“Best thing I ever did was getting those new pumps,” Uncle Skip says behind me.
We both watch a guy in expensive clothes and expensive glasses wash the windows of his expensive car. Guys like that don’t bring their cars here for service unless they have no other choice. Especially now that the fancy dealerships and big places are expanding out this way. When I was little, I wanted to work here when I grew up. Now I just hope it’s around long enough for Uncle Skip to follow through on teaching me how to do rebuilds and restores, and to keep me employed until I figure out something else to do. Long enough for Uncle Skip to work as long as he wants, then sell it and retire. Maybe someday I can still have my own place, even if cars are different in the future.
I watch the guy buff a spot on the side of his shiny car. Will you need a college degree to work on cars when they’re all electric, or whatever else they think up? Assuming the world hasn’t imploded before then.
Some of the guys on the forums think you should avoid newer cars — too many computer components in newer models make them hackable and susceptible to electromagnetic pulse. And soon there may even be non-nuke EMP weapons. Safer to stick with an older model.
“Where’s your brother?” Uncle Skip asks. “He said he wanted to barter for some work on his truck today. I was going to have him run into town to pick up a few things.”
“He went out to Clearview.”
“Right.” A lot of meaning in that one word. I don’t comment.
It’s not like I have anything to say. Dad and Mark have been out there a bunch of times since we visited, acting all father-son chummy, like they are so proud of themselves. For what, a club and some part-time work? Every time I ask when I get to go back, Dad makes excuses or says not today. I’m not going to stop asking, but I have to be careful about Mom. If I push the issue at the wrong time, Mom will dig in her heels on taking me to the city. I need to strike at the right time so that Dad is willing to back me up, or else I need to make Mom change her mind.
“How’s he swinging that, without a truck or cash?”
“Daniel Trace, I guess.”
I can feel him wanting to say something. I know how Uncle Skip feels about “the militia stuff.” Even if this isn’t anything close to militia, it’s close enough for Uncle Skip.
He rubs his jaw, a scratchy sound of contemplation, and the look on his face gets the better of me.
“What?”
“Seems like a bad time to be spending money,” he says.
We’re staying in his house, mostly for free, so I guess he gets to have a say, but it doesn’t mean I have to like the criticism.
The alert dings again. Customer. I move over to the intercom so I can turn on the pump if it’s a regular who wants to pay cash.
The oldest piece-of-shit station wagon I’ve ever seen actually running is parked at pump two. Old wood panels and so much rust and primer and splotchy paint, I have no idea what color it’s supposed to be. But next to it is a girl. Dark hair, dark sunglasses, red T. She pushes her sunglasses into her hair and leans over to pop the hood. Perfect-fitting jeans. Denim faded in all the best ways. Even better from the front. I watch her walk across the lot.
“Bex.” Uncle Skip waits for me to look at him. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Whatever.
“Just forget I said anything, okay?”
“Sure.”
She blocks the sun through the door for a moment, and then she’s inside, blinking in the dimness, looking around. “Oil?” she asks.
“Shelf,” Uncle Skip and I say in unison, both pointing.
“Well, I’m going to run into town and get the parts, then,” Uncle Skip says.
“Yeah.”
The girl ducks down to look at containers of oil. Uncle Skip’s keys jangle. I look at him.
“Mike’s in back if you need him,” he says.
“Sure.”
She’s got some oil and is moving toward the drink case.
Maybe she’ll need help. I stand up a little taller.
She has the oil in the crook of her arm, a bottle of something in one hand, and a bag of sunflower seeds in her other hand.
She looks up. Dark eyes. A birthmark near her jaw. One corner of her mouth turns up, and I slouch against the counter, playing it cool, waiting to see if I get a smile.
She puts the oil on the counter and digs her hand into her jeans pocket, looking for cash, smiling up at me while she does.
I’m free to look, and she takes her time.
She can dig all day as far as I�
�m concerned. Her breasts push in, her T caught between them, lifting her shirt. Her waistband’s fraying above the button, soft threads begging to be touched against soft belly.
“Anything else?” I try to sound cool.
“Yeah,” she says. She counts her money. “Twelve, no, thirteen, on pump two.” Her voice is like honey.
She can have twenty dollars on the house. She looks older than me but not by much. She has to be at least sixteen to drive alone, but I doubt she’s much more than eighteen. Straight girls sometimes think I’m younger than I am. Queer girls usually get me on sight. Not that I see a lot of queer girls out this way. Or any, really.
She sorts through the lollipops in the bin on the counter.
I would sell her anything. Even some of the local booze Uncle Skip doesn’t know I know he has in back. But I stop myself from telling her that.
“Um.” She doesn’t laugh, but it’s close. She’s staring at me, at my face. She has a great smile. Her lollipop’s already on the counter next to the rest.
“Sorry.” But I’m not. Is she actually flirting with me, or just being friendly? Or does she think I’m acting weird? I ring up the oil. “And . . . thirteen dollars in gas?”
“Yup,” she says, playing with the pens in the cup on the counter, trying to look so cool.
I take her money. Count out her change. Hope I got it right.
When I hand it to her, my fingers touch her skin and I drop the coins.
She laughs and covers her mouth with her balled-up hand.
“Sorry,” I mumble. I can’t get the dime off the counter. It slides. My nails are too short to get under it. “Sorry.”
She laughs harder and leans over, pushing my hand in an exaggerated way.
“Ha! I’ve got it,” she says, jumping back with the dime pinched between her fingers.
She smells good, like oranges and something spicy. Her lips look soft, not bare but none of that thick, sticky gloss.
“You need any help with that?”
Her eyes crinkle, confused, and I point at the oil. “Ah, no,” she says. “This I can handle all on my own. But thanks.” She gathers up her stuff and swings toward the door. One more look over her shoulder. I want to freeze that look for later.
Outside she gasses up and then uncaps the bottle of oil and pours it in, bending over, her shirt pulling tight across her back.
She tosses the empty bottle into the trash, replaces the cap where she poured in the oil, turns it tight, then a little more for sure, and then closes the hood. She wipes her hands down her thighs. I watch her get into the wagon and then pull away.
One taillight blinks into the turn.
The afternoon is so slow, I have plenty of time to think about her — if she was just passing through, and where she might be staying, since she didn’t sound local. And if she was actually, seriously flirting with me.
“Hiya, Bex,” Mr. Henderson says, coming in carrying his wife’s old vacuum cleaner. “Mary says it’s got that smell again, the burnt-rubber smell, and is hardly sucking up anything. Can you take a look at it?”
“Sure. I’ll take a look now. Want me to call when I’m done?”
“Nah, I’ll be here Wednesday, and she can live two days without vacuuming.”
I check with Mike, and then pull the folding table out from the back so I have room to work. As soon as I’ve got it pulled apart, I can see the issue. I call Mr. Henderson, and then get Mike’s okay to order the new belt and another part that is looking ready to go. Then I put it mostly back together and store it in back until the parts arrive. Mr. Henderson will reimburse us for the parts, and then we’ll go through our usual dance of him offering me money in addition to the brownies from Mrs. Henderson, and I’ll decline, and he’ll eventually shove it into my hand. Much less than a pro would charge, but fun money for me. I always use the repair money for a splurge.
At five thirty, Uncle Skip turns off the pumps and locks the door. But he has a few things to do, so I snag some more computer time.
I run another search on Clearview. Not much online, not even a website yet. Just a few hits on land auction and public notices. I watch a few videos of tactical courses and competitions, thinking about what Dad might build for them. He should make sure they can reconfigure regularly or the course will lose effectiveness. And if he does an indoor course, he should do more than the boxy rooms most of these courses use. He should make one at least that looks like what we would see. Farmhouses and trailers and schools and warehouses. Stores, with glass and shelves and crazy sight lines. Factories. How much land do they have?
Not that he’s asked what I think.
I check out the dykes who hike site. I like to read their trail reports, but I don’t post there. Too crunchy and liberal. And the queer sites are even worse. A lot of the teens are obsessed with proms and GSAs, school stuff. And they’re going out, to clubs and on dates. I don’t get that stuff, and they’d never get me. But I can’t stop myself from reading, even if I don’t post. I feel like I know some of them. I like the pictures. One girl in particular is always posting pics of her and her friends. I like to look at those. I really like the one she posted today. But every time there’s a shooting in the news — so, like, every week — doesn’t matter the circumstances, every thread on every site becomes about how guns are bad and people who disagree with them are bad or crazy, too.
I clear the browser history, and then sign in to YouTube and check my videos. There are some more comments. Most of them junk and assholes, guys who only want to see a girl shoot if she’s Militia Babe Barbie in Daisy Dukes and a threadbare tank, showing off her boobs. A few of the regulars left encouraging comments. BigBob critiques my grip, like always, but he does it with love. The video of the pipe bomb is up to two thousand likes. The girl in the Philippines has a new video up. She’s getting good. The sidebar shows a new video labeled “Urban Bugout Simulation.” I click on it, but before the intro ad even finishes, my phone buzzes with a text.
You around? Boyd. Haven’t heard from him in a while.
I text back, Yes but leaving soon.
ETA 3.
In back.
I pick up the trash that was waiting to go out with us and head for the door.
“Where you going?” Uncle Skip asks from his office.
“Taking the trash out. There’s two trips’ worth.”
“I’ll be ready in about ten minutes.”
“Okay.”
I close the door behind me and take the trash over to the Dumpster, pulling open the gate to heave it in just as Boyd’s car pulls up.
“Hey,” he says, not even bothering to shut it off.
“What’s up?” I ask, because this doesn’t feel like he’s just dropping by to chat.
“Not much,” he says, but he’s looking around, squinting. Boyd, his brother Willie, and his dad used to be part of the deep-camping crew. But then his parents got divorced and his dad moved away. Boyd came with us on his own once, but then he stopped.
He’s still looking around, like he’s watching for an attack. More paranoid than usual.
“I heard about Willie,” I say. “Sorry.” I knew Willie was messed up, but I didn’t think he was stupid enough to start cooking meth.
Boyd shrugs. “Bound to happen. Listen.” He clears his throat. “I’m thinking of taking off for a while. Going out to Montana to see my dad, maybe see if he can get me a job.” He looks away from me. “I need to get out of here for a while.” I can imagine things are shitty at home without Willie around to run interference with his mom’s boyfriend. “But I need cash.”
I like Boyd. And he’s always been good about helping me out and not charging a crazy markup when I need ammo on the sly. But I’m not just giving him money. I’m starting to shake my head when he says, “You still interested in a Bobcat?”
“You serious?” I ask, already picturing how the subcompact pistol fits in my hand.
“Willie’s not going to be using his, and I can’t leave it behi
nd.” Not with his younger brothers still at home and his mom a mess. “You always loved to shoot mine, so I thought maybe you’d want it.”
Dad would kill me, but . . . “How much?”
We haggle for a while and then arrange a time for him to come by. He’ll get his quick cash, less than he’d get from a proper dealer, but he knows me and can trust me and I won’t be recording the sale anywhere. I’ll get the Bobcat, holster, and whatever he’s not taking of his ammo, mostly .22s, the ones the Bobcat likes best, but some .44 VOR-TX as a bonus, because he’s not going to find many buyers for those. All in all, I got the better deal.
He’s barely out of the lot, and I’m already nervous, thinking about where I’ll hide the Bobcat and extra ammo, especially the .44s — Dad will know he didn’t buy those. Dad would kill me for real. I almost call Boyd to tell him I’ve changed my mind. But I don’t. I want that Bobcat.
I go back to the office, but Uncle Skip is shutting down his computer and packing up. He’s already turned off the lights and computer out front. “You ready?” Uncle Skip asks, but he seems weird.
It’s normal for him to be quiet. Sometime we don’t talk at all in the truck. But today it’s like I can hear him trying not to talk.
“You know,” he finally says, trying to be all casual, “those guys who are always obsessing over the doomsday scenarios, you know most of them aren’t playing with a full deck, right? It’s fear talking. Paranoia.” He glances at me before turning. “It’s not real.”
Crap. I must have left the video up.
“No wonder you’re freaked out all the time,” he says, sighing like I’m not even here.
“I’m not freaked out.” He looks at me. “I’m focused.”
“Those videos, those men —”
“Not just men.”
“People,” he corrects. “All those people, posting those videos . . .” He seems to try to figure out what to say and then gives up. “Nothing is going to happen, Bex.”
I wonder how many times in history people have said that, right before the shit hit the fan.
“Something always happens.” I look at him, wanting him to understand. “You can choose to be ready or not.”