by H. M. Mann
“But it’s TV night!” Hector yelled. “Look at the phone!”
Johnny smiled. All lit up like the Christmas I didn’t get to have again this year. “Your fame must be spreading.”
“If you don’t take those pies out of here right now—”
“What are you gonna do, Hector?” Johnny interrupted. “Fire me?”
Hector’s mouth opened and shut several times. “I should.”
“You don’t have the backbone to fire me, Hector,” Johnny said. He smiled. Ah. Here’s a dramatic moment that I must exploit. Exit, stage left! “Anyway, I quit.”
“You’re quitting?”
You’re deaf? “I’m getting a real job, Hector. I’m going into management.” Just not sure where at the moment.
Hector laughed. “You? Who would hire you? You are a daydreamer, a slacker. Your head is full of air. You are too lazy to be a manager. I will not give you a good reference.”
Johnny towered over Hector. “I don’t want any kind of reference from you, little man.” He checked the pizza. Almost done here. He looked around at all he wouldn’t miss. Okay, I’ll miss the mop. That mop was a good dancer at two in the morning. Sure, she had stringy hair and danced woodenly, but man could she get horizontal! “By the way, Hector, if you really want your fame to spread, you should spread more sauce on your pizza. It’s actually pretty good with extra sauce. As it is, your pizzas are dry as desert sand, as dry as the moon, as dry as a cotton ball, as dry as stale saltines …”
“I use enough sauce!”
Johnny checked the pizza, smiled, and removed the metal tray from the oven. He flattened out two large boxes and slid the pizza on top. He popped up what edges he could, covered as much as he could with the lids, and cocooned the entire assembly with plastic wrap. I have just made the world’s first pizza chrysalis. I wonder what this pizza will become once it hatches in my stomach.
“You must pay me for this … mouse pizza!”
“Take it out of my next pay,” Johnny said. “On second thought, keep it.” My money is not going to match my receipts tonight anyway thanks to Randy and the sock lady.
The phone rang, and Johnny beat Hector to the phone. “Ola, this is Hector!”
“I want you to fire that driver of yours,” Randy said.
“Oh, but why?” Johnny asked using a terrible imitation of Hector. “He is my best driver!”
“He lied and told me he was you,” Randy said. “And he hurt my feelings.”
“I am me, Randy.” This is so existential. “Nice towel tonight, by the way. What hotel did you steal it from?” Johnny handed the phone to Hector. “It’s for you.”
Johnny collected his pizza, heard Hector say, “But I am Guatemalan, not Spanish,” and left Señor Pizza forever.
He didn’t look back or have even the glimmer of regret.
If Lot’s wife turned into a pillar of salt when she looked back at Sodom and Gomorrah, would I turn into a pillar of oregano if I looked back now?
Johnny decided not to chance it.
He sat in the Vega and smiled at the last pizza he would ever deliver. He didn’t care that he was unemployed or that he wouldn’t have enough money to pay all his bills this month. He didn’t care that he only had one hundred dollars and some change to his name. He even didn’t care that the Vega made no sounds when he turned the ignition key thirty-four times.
I wonder if the warranty is still good …
It was a long walk after that, but Johnny held his head up high. Here he was, jobless, girl-less, and nearly penniless, yet he carried a huge Mickey Mouse pizza that steamed so beautifully in the cold January night.
At his apartment door, he knocked, just for fits and giggles, unlocked the door, entered, took the gargantuan pizza to his kitchen table, refrained from wiping a booger on the box, toasted Randy with some sugary grape Kool-Aid, ignored the ringing phone on the wall, and ate the entire pizza in one sitting.
He didn’t even ask himself for the coupon.
37
Meanwhile across town, Gloria Minnick was learning exactly what angst felt like, and it didn’t feel good.
She stayed up all night lying on the loveseat. She tried to call her man, wondering what had gotten into him during their earlier conversation, worrying that he was in some sort of danger, angry that he wouldn’t let her explain anything.
She called his cell. “The AT and T customer …”
She called his apartment phone, and it rang and rang.
He must still be working. Duh. It’s TV night. He always works late on TV nights.
She called Señor Pizza.
“May I speak to Johnny, please?”
“Pickup only tonight,” Hector said breathlessly. “You still wish to order?”
Pickup only … “Where’s Johnny?”
“He quit.”
“What?”
“He quit. You know him?”
I thought I did. “Yes.”
“If you see him, you tell him to come get his car. It is outside in my lot and must be moved. If it is still here in the morning, you tell him I will have it towed.”
Gloria relaxed somewhat. He quit that stupid job and his stupid car broke down—finally!—that’s all! And he called me earlier from a payphone, so he doesn’t have his cell with him. Maybe he’s just not home yet.
Gloria kept trying Johnny’s apartment phone … until the sun came up and she fell asleep.
Gloria awoke when her arm began to quiver. Johnny?
“Mama,” Angel said.
Gloria squinted at the sunrise streaming through the front window. “What time is it?”
“Seven. I have to get ready for school.”
Gloria saw Marion standing in the hallway. “Can you …”
Marion nodded. “Come on, Angel. Let’s get you ready for school.”
And what am I supposed to get ready for? Gloria thought. Who am I supposed to get ready for?
Where the freak is Johnny?
38
Even Johnny didn’t know where he was, metaphysically speaking.
To be sure, he was in his apartment with its Swiss cheese walls and adoring mice, and he even half-recognized the laptop on the table in his bedroom. He felt he was in a “bad place.” His adoptive mother had often said, “I see you’re in a bad way, Johnny.”
No. She said I had bad ways. What did dear old Dad say? Oh yes. “You’re going through a bad patch, Johnny.”
Johnny mulled over these phrases and decided he needed to patch up his bad ways and leave this place.
But it’s Friday, he thought. No one wants to cook on Fridays, and Hector will expect me—
Wait.
Johnny’s mind waited.
I don’t have a job, which would mean that every day is Saturday for me from now on and no one will expect anything of me. Cool. Thank God it’s Friday!
Cell phone charged, in hand, but not turned on, Johnny walked off about one ear of his mousy pizza on his return to Señor Pizza to rescue the Vega. When he hopped on the hood and turned on his Firefly, he immediately noticed quite a few missed calls from Gloria, some over a month old. Good thing I don’t have voice mail, Johnny thought. I doubt I could apply any patches to my life after hearing her voice.
Since Johnny had no phone book handy, he dialed information and asked for a towing company.
“Which one, sir?” the operator asked.
“I don’t know,” Johnny said. “The first one.”
“That’s Triple-A Wrecker Service.”
Wrecker? I may be a wreck, but the Vega is not a wreck. “No. What about the next one?”
“AB Auto Repair and Towing.”
“Fine.”
“Would you like me to dial the number for you? There will be an additional charge.”
“Why not?” Johnny said. I can afford to act rich now that I’m unemployed. I may later buy … a donut … hole.
“Hold, please, while I connect your call.”
Johnny held onto the
Vega’s bent antenna. “Holding.”
A single ring later … “AB Auto, Armstrong speaking.”
Johnny liked the timbre of Armstrong’s voice, deep and soulful. “Hi. I need to have my car towed to your shop for some repairs.” He gave Armstrong the address.
“I’ll be there in a few.”
On a whim, Johnny tried to start the Vega. Nothing happened. He tried again. More nothing happened. He patted the dash. “That’s okay,” he said. “You’re just going through a bad patch, too.” He popped the hood and saw nothing unusual. He smiled at the usual rust, grease, dirt, dust, and corrosion. All as it should be, so why isn’t she working today? Maybe she needed a vacation from life, too.
When the tow truck arrived fifteen minutes later, a bearded, bald black man the size of New Hampshire wearing blue jeans, boots, and a hoody the size of Rhode Island stepped nimbly out of the truck.
He’s been misnamed, Johnny thought. He should be called “Bodystrong.” My whole self could fit into one of his pant legs.
Armstrong smiled at Johnny, smiled at the risen sun, and doubled over laughing.
I never laugh when I stare at the sun, Johnny thought. I sneeze.
“Forgive me, man,” Armstrong said. “You said you had a car. This is a Vega.”
Johnny nodded, grateful to have found a man who knew the value and significance of a Vega. “Original everything.”
Armstrong took a clipboard from his truck and handed it and a pen to Johnny. “Sign at the bottom.”
Johnny scanned the document, which basically said that if AB Auto Repair and Towing damaged his Vega in any way on the tow, AB Auto Repair and Towing, its subsidiaries, next-of-kin, and future generations were not responsible in any way, shape, or form for said damages, so help them God, Pete, and Mike.
Johnny signed it with a flourish.
Armstrong attached hooks and chains to the back of the Vega, and soon the Vega rose until its snout was dangerously close to the ground. Johnny got in the tow truck beside Armstrong, and off they went.
“So … what happened?” Armstrong asked.
Johnny hesitated. So much had happened. How much should he tell?
“Engine just die on you?” Armstrong added.
Johnny hesitated again. His own engine—his heart—had sort of died on him.
“Surprised it lasted this long,” Armstrong said.
Me, too. Four months is a long time for me. Johnny found his voice. “Um, yeah.”
Johnny also wondered how much the tow was going to cost him, but he didn’t bring it up. Maybe they’ll just add it to the cost of the repairs, or, even better, they’ll just throw in the tow for free since I’m having them repair it at their shop. Armstrong seems like a nice, reasonable man, a man who would be glad to help out his fellow man and owner of such a rare car as the Vega.
Johnny was deader than dead wrong—again.
The tow truck took them up Williamson Road to a large, green corrugated metal building squatting next to WR Brews and within view of Breckinridge Middle School. Armstrong backed the Vega through a huge parking lot of cars and trucks, many of them no longer manufactured, into the left garage, stopping the tow truck by the only door, another huge garage door open on the other side, cars up on lifts all around them, several mechanics toiling underneath each car, truck, or SUV.
Johnny declared it “a happening place” even though none of the vehicles were actually moving.
Armstrong got out and was met by another black man carrying, of all things, a white electric bass.
“No … way,” said the other man, who was as small as Armstrong was large. No more than five-four, the man circled the Vega wearing faded black jeans, black leather boots, and a multicolored sweater. “This is what I think it is, right?”
Armstrong nodded. “We don’t have a manual for this one.”
The other man smiled. “Nope.” He looked in through the driver’s side window and whistled. “A quarter million.” He whistled again.
“Mostly hard, delivery mileage,” Johnny said without whistling. “Never took her on the highway. All stop and go traffic. Never took her above forty.” I didn’t want her to explode.
The other man blinked at Armstrong. “And he wants us to save her?”
Armstrong shrugged. “It’s his nickel, Byron.”
So, Johnny thought, this is the B in AB Auto Repair and Towing. Nice baritone in his voice and a nicer bass in his hands. Beautiful fretwork. “That’s a Fender, right?” Johnny asked, pointing at the bass.
“Yeah,” Byron said. He wrinkled up his nose. “What’s that smell?”
“Probably pizza,” Johnny said. “I delivered for Señor Pizza for three years.”
Byron nodded. “Y’all deliver to Northwest, right? I knew I had seen this car somewhere before. It isn’t likely one I’d ever forget.”
“I used to work there,” Johnny said, “I quit last night. I don’t know if the owner will continue to deliver to Northwest or not.”
“C’mon inside the office,” Byron said, and Johnny followed him into a nook between all the lifts where posters of Dizzy Gillespie, Fats Waller, and Cab Calloway hung above a glass counter. Byron sat on a high stool behind the counter, plugged his bass into a small amplifier on the floor, and worked the strings. “Know this one?”
Johnny listened to the thump and bump, Byron’s fingers flaying the strings. “Sounds a lot like … Bootsy Collins. ‘One Nation Under A Groove’?”
Byron’s fingers froze. “That’s right. How you know that?”
“The Vega only has an AM radio,” Johnny said, “so I usually listen to six-ten.” Tom Joyner and I are good friends. He talks, and I smile. He laughs, and I laugh inside my head.
Byron played another bass riff. “Name that one.”
“‘Dock of the Bay’ by Otis Redding.” He scratched his head. “Don’t know the bass player.”
“I’ll give you a hint,” Byron said. “Donald …”
“Duck,” Johnny said. “Duck Dunn.”
Byron set down the bass. “Man knows his bass players.”
I’m just full of useful information. Just don’t ask me for any money. “You still play?” Johnny asked.
“Yeah.” Byron held out the bass.
Johnny wanted to kick himself for asking the obvious. “Well yeah, I mean, do you still play professionally?”
“Used to. Band named By and the Gones.” He chuckled. “Ridiculous name, right? Sang lead vocals most of the time, too. Now I just play in churches whenever they need to wake up the congregation. The one church gave me a nickname a few years ago. They called me ‘Turn It Down,’ cuz that’s all they ever said to me.” He grimaced. “Why do I still smell that pizza?”
Johnny sniffed himself. “It’s me. I worked my last shift till late last night.” And how can he smell me through all the grease, oil, and exhaust smoke hanging in the air around us?
“Your old boss could have a monopoly if he kept delivering to Northwest,” Byron said. “No pizzas are being delivered to the ‘hood anymore.”
Johnny nodded, and when he nodded, several brain cells collided and formed an idea. You need a shower, his brain commanded. Johnny nodded again at his brain’s wise suggestion, and several more brain cells bumped into each other forming an even better idea: Johnny Holiday would open his own pizza joint in the ‘hood. He could make Mickey Mouse pizzas and sell Marion’s famous lemonade. He would be a one-man show, making and delivering every pizza he created in oversized, mouse-shaped boxes covered with—
“So you don’t have a job now,” Byron was saying.
Johnny shook off his daydream and focused again on Byron. “No sir. Broke as Detroit.”
Byron laughed. “Broke as Detroit. Good one. So … how do you expect to pay for the repairs?” He pointed to the nearest lift.
Johnny smiled at the Vega now six feet in the air. “I was hoping that you could …” He looked at the other workers, who were sweaty and either standing and banging or walking briskl
y from the car they were working on to get tools … That looks so familiar. Put pizza boxes in their hands, and they could be pizza delivery men. “I was hoping I could work it off.”
“You were hoping to do what?” Byron asked as he stood.
“Come here, By,” Armstrong said, saving Johnny from repeating himself. “You have to see this mess.”
Johnny soon noticed that Armstrong and Byron liked to whistle—a lot. They whistled at the tail pipe and muffler, one long congealed collection of rust and even a few singed leaves and a melted plastic Kroger bag. They whistled at Johnny’s only usable brake pad. They whistled at all the drips from the oil pump, the radiator, and even from places where drips weren’t supposed to drip.
“This ain’t good,” Armstrong said to Johnny as the lift brought the Vega to the floor.
Armstrong popped the hood and rubbed his eyes. “Probably needs a new … everything, man. Carburetor, oil pump, fuel pump, radiator, starter, alternator, belts, fans, battery, spark plugs …” He sighed. “Repairing it will cost you a bundle even if you only use rebuilt parts.” He shut the hood. “Only thing you got going with this car is the paint job, and this paint is too loud for my eyes.”
Byron cleared his throat. “Ask him how he’s going to pay for all these repairs.”
“How you gonna pay?” Armstrong asked.
“I’d like to work here until it’s paid off,” Johnny said.
Byron nodded at Armstrong.
Armstrong wiped his hands on a towel. “You crazy?”
Johnny stuck out his hand. “Sometimes.” Mainly at night. “Name’s Johnny Holiday.”
Armstrong cut his eyes to Byron. “This ain’t some joke, is it, By?”
Byron shook his head. “Man seems pretty serious.”
Armstrong whistled again. “Man, I wish I could help you. We ain’t hiring. Your best bet with this is to part it out, maybe take it to a junkyard. They might give you a few hundred for it if they’re drunk enough. Body is in surprisingly decent shape. Not much rust.”
“Or,” Johnny said, “you could buy it from me for … some information.”
Armstrong blinked at Byron.