Perfectly Ridiculous

by Kristin Billerbeck

  “Max! That was totally rude. I’m trying to help.”

  He exhales. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to be late for work, and now I have to pay for this tire. This is a sign I need a damsel with less distress.”

  “So you’ve told me. I’ll pay for the dang tire, all right? I’m sorry I asked for your help. I won’t do it again.”

  He picks up some of the shredded tire and tosses it back on the dirt in a puff of dust. “You’ll pay for my tire so you can get your boyfriend to the airport on time?”

  “Lower the drama, shall we? I’m not anyone’s girlfriend. I’m not yours and I’m not his. I’m just a fired missionary with a mission to get friend number two back to Buenos Aires in friend number one’s car so that the man who beat him up doesn’t come after him again, and so that the missionary who hates me is safe from danger. Make sense?”

  “Not a bit.”

  “Just push.” I lean behind the car.

  “Do you have it in neutral?” Max yells.

  “Go!” J.C. yells out the window.

  “One.” Max looks at me from across the bumper, and there’s just a glimmer of a smile on his face. “Two. Three. Push!”

  I grunt and use everything I’ve got in my legs and hips, but the car goes nowhere.

  “Sorry!” J.C. looks out the window. “Sorry, I thought it was in neutral, but I read it wrong. It’s in neutral now!”

  “Where did you find this guy?”

  “It’s probably different here. The markings on the car, I mean.”

  “N is the same in your language, no?”

  “Can we just push?”

  He does the count again and we push, and this time we get about halfway up the ditch before the car falls backwards and lands deeper than where it was originally.

  “Maybe we can get a taxi and come back for the car?”

  “Daisy, do you know what would happen if you left your car back home on the east side of town overnight?”

  “It would be pieced out and sold as parts by the next morning?”

  “Exactly. This may not be much, but it’s all I’ve got, so we’re not leaving it here.”

  “I have my mom’s cell phone. Do you have Triple A or whatever the equivalent is here?”

  “I’m going to ignore that question. You ready to push? Or have you solved it all now?”

  I stick my tongue out at him. “I’m ready.”

  “After we push and the car rolls, let it come all the way back and then we’ll use the downward motion to push again. Got it?”

  “I took physics.”

  “Just not geography that tells you you’re not in America and the tow truck will be along any second now.”

  “There are tow trucks in Argentina, Max. You make me sound ignorant.”

  “There are. Just not here and just not any I can afford.”

  “I can call a taxi for J.C. and me.” I realize how incredibly selfish that sounds the minute I say it.

  “All right, let’s go!” J.C. yells out the window.

  Max holds his arm out as if to say “go ahead.” I keep my eyes focused on Max but speak to J.C. “We’re not leaving without Max.”

  J.C. eyes me and follows my gaze. I can see him out of the corner of my eye, and we both know I’m not as over Max as I’d like to be. Why do I have to be so fiercely loyal? Max lives halfway across the world. J.C. is going to my college. Max has commitment issues. J.C. lets a girl know when it’s over.

  I wish I was like my mother and could love practically. I swear, my life would be ten times easier.

  13

  Max counts to three again, and we heave the car slightly up the small hill. It rolls back, and we rush out of the way and break into laughter, even though the car is farther in the rut than when we started this process.

  “That didn’t work,” I say. “Maybe J.C. should get out. The extra weight can’t help.”

  Max shoots me a look. “He needs to put on the brake when we get it to the top of the ditch or we’ll roll back down again. Come on, again. One, two, three!”

  We grunt and strain and end up with the two left tires on the road, and J.C. jams the car into park and tightens the emergency brake. How he did that without full use of his limbs I’ll never understand, but we’ve made progress, and the three of us smile.

  “Now what?” I ask.

  “Let me think a minute,” Max says, his thumb and bent forefinger rubbing at his chin.

  J.C. leans out the car’s window. “If I get the car turned to the left, do you think you two can make one more go of it?”

  Max and I look at each other, and our eyes linger in the decision. “We can try,” he says.

  A beat-up truck barrels down the road, drives beyond us, and pulls to the side. Two guys wearing jeans and cowboy hats jump out, and I don’t know whether to be happy we’ve been rescued or anxious that we’re all out in the middle of nowhere. The two guys slam the truck’s doors and approach the car. The closer they get, the more the idea they’re here to help gives way to anxiety that we’re so vulnerable.

  The two men are slender and tan though it’s the middle of winter, and they too look like they belong in a boy band. With the exception that this is a rougher band. Maybe they’re playing bars at night and spitting out chewing tobacco before the performance. I’d say they appear to be in their late twenties. I don’t know what they’re feeding the guys down here—maybe it’s an extra dose of sunshine or the southern hemisphere’s exposure—but we seriously need to import some to America. It’s better than any antiaging crème Nordstrom is selling.

  The two men say something in Spanish to Max, and all I can make out is car and yes from Max, but I watch the exchange closely to see if I should still be more fearful than relieved.

  “Hola,” one of the guys says to me and tips his hat. I’m telling you, I am Scarlett Johansson down here. I’m never going back. It’s settled. It’s not me. It’s the guys of America. My rejection here was short-lived. Now my dance card is full.

  “Hola,” I say back.

  “Get out of the way, Daisy,” Max shouts at me, as though I’ve offended him somehow. “We’re going to push the car the rest of the way out.”

  I stand to the field side of the rut and let the guys take over. I brush my hands off, glad to be done with manual labor for the day. “I’m so hungry,” I grumble. “I can’t wait to get to town, and I’m going to eat a massive Argentine steak.”

  No one’s listening to me, but that hardly affects me. I’m just happy that the country is full of strapping men ready to do the hard labor and get me to the spa as soon as possible. The fact is, if you’re going to fail at mission work, there are worse ways to go.

  Max shouts at J.C. to let the brake go, and the three guys heave the car onto the road with one swift push. Max didn’t even count.

  I clap. “Yay! Now we just need to change the tire and we’re on our way to town!”

  The two good Samaritans open the trunk without a word, whisk out the tools, and toss them on the road with a clang. They pull up the pathetic spare tire that doesn’t look like it has enough legs to get us to the next town, much less Buenos Aires, but I keep my mouth shut. Max is already irritated beyond belief at me, and his pointed glares make no secret of the idea. In a few hours I’ll never have to see him again, I remind myself.

  J.C. hobbles out of the car, his blond hair and tan skin looking remarkably Californian for a guy from Arizona. He limps over to see if he can help the guys, but they act as if they can’t understand his Spanish. Max shoos him off with a brush of his fingers. I may not know a lot about guys, but that’s the ultimate dis. To emasculate a guy like he can’t change a tire, in front of a woman, is not cool. Truthfully, I don’t know if J.C. or Max can change a tire, but I know man-speak for “go away,” and that was it.

  I tap my foot, convinced there’s nothing more I can do until we’re back on the road, when my job will be getting J.C. off into the wild blue yonder and getting myself a carnivorous meal.
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  J.C. has his backpack with him, and he pulls out a bottled soda. “You thirsty?” he asks me. “You don’t want to get dehydrated out here. I know it doesn’t feel warm, but you’re not used to the atmosphere.”

  “Do you carry a grocery store in that thing?” I raise my brows at Mr. Boy Scout, who seems to be ready for anything.

  “Apple?” He holds out a piece of green fruit, and I take it from him. His hand brushes mine, and it forces my eyes to his.

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ve got an extra candy bar too. You want one?”

  “No thanks.” I take a bite from the apple.

  “Sorry I made things uncomfortable for you and Max. I didn’t think about that aspect of it.”

  “I did that all by myself. I shouldn’t have come down here in the first place. He probably felt stalked, and clearly the mission didn’t go as planned. Claire and I should have gone to Hawaii like every other graduating senior on a trip.”

  “Then you wouldn’t have met me,” he says with a warm smile.

  “You’re right.”

  We hear a loud clang and look up to see the car buzzing away from us, the tools left in a heap next to the old tire’s remains. Max is on the ground at the bottom of the ditch.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “My car!” Max wails with his hands in the air. “My car!” His hands grip his head, then raise to the sky again. He starts to speak rapidly in Spanish, and J.C. and I stare at each other in disbelief.

  “Did his car just get stolen?” I ask J.C. “He’s going to kill me.”

  “I guess God doesn’t want me to get home.” J.C. shrugs, and I do wish I could have his attitude.

  “All my stuff was in there!” I say, promptly realizing my selfishness when Max comes toward me wielding Spanish words like verbal swords. He’s waving his arms to punctuate the jabs. “Max, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry! I don’t know what to say.” I look past him and see the tail end of his car disappearing along the beaten road. “We can take their truck!” I point to the jalopy slumped on the side of the road.

  “You don’t think there’s a reason they took my car?” Max stares at the truck. It’s obvious he has no faith in its ability to get us anywhere.

  “Just to the next town until we can call the police. What choice do we have?”

  “Do you have your wallets on you at least?”

  J.C. and I nod.

  “Passports?”

  “Yeah,” we both answer.

  “Let’s take the truck. We don’t have much choice,” Max says, but I feel guilt to my toes. He turns to me. “And you. You were flirting with the guys who stole my car!”

  “Max, you don’t have to blame me for everything that’s gone wrong. I get it, all right? And I wasn’t flirting, I said ‘hola.’ The only Spanish word I know with confidence, besides bathroom, which didn’t seem appropriate for the moment.”

  “It was the way you said hola.”

  “In other words, the way I said hola invited them to steal the car. Don’t you think they meant to steal the car in the first place or they wouldn’t have stopped?”

  He pauses at this, and I’m grateful for the reprieve. I don’t know if he’s jealous or, as J.C. indicated, just an all-around jerk, but I’m beginning to think the latter.

  “Just let me think a minute,” Max snaps.

  “Cut it out!” J.C. hobbles on his crutch with his backpack heaved over the shoulder of his broken arm. “If you want to yell at someone, yell at me. Daisy’s not even supposed to be here, and she wouldn’t be if Libby were any kind of decent person. She’s taken enough on this trip, and if you can’t be kind to her, just get out of the way. Didn’t your mother teach you how to treat a lady?” he snipes. “Did it ever occur to you that those guys could have hurt her? Quit thinking about yourself and get us to the next town. I’ll take care of your stupid car! I’m sorry I involved either one of you in this mess, but blame the right person.”

  “That stupid car is how I earn my living,” Max says. “It’s how I get elderly people where they need to go to buy food and medicine. It’s not a joyride, okay?”

  “I said I’d take care of it. Apologize to Daisy!” J.C.’s voice leaves little room for argument, and even though he’s beat to heck, his tone invokes respect.

  “I’m sorry, Daisy. I’m going to be late, and I hadn’t planned on any of this. There are people back home counting on me.”

  “Shouldn’t we call the police about the car?” I take out my parents’ cell phone, grateful I kept it in my pocket and not in my handbag, which is long gone. “You could call your friends, Max.”

  “My friends don’t have a cell phone. And put that away before it gets stolen as well. I know where the police station is in the next town. Just get in the truck and let’s pray it starts.” Max runs ahead, but I stay back to walk with J.C.

  “Everything I touch turns to disaster.”

  J.C. stops walking and leans on his crutch. “Maybe it’s not you. I prayed this morning that I’d have more time with you. Who am I to question how God gives it to me?”

  “Are you for real?”

  “I felt called down here, and for what? To get stung by a scorpion, beaten by a thug, and rejected by my mission field? I have to think God had something in mind when he called me down here. You can look at all the negatives, or you can look at the fact that I’m walking along a country road with the most beautiful girl, inside and out.”

  “I have never met anyone quite like you, J.C.”

  Up ahead, we hear Max fire up the truck, and we can be grateful for that. J.C. smiles at the sound of the engine, and I help him climb into the cab of the truck. He slyly takes my hand in his own while Max lets the hand brake go and pushes the crank into gear. We’re rumbling toward town when the sounds of sirens pierce our ears. Behind us are several police cars with lights flashing. Max pulls the truck over to the side again.

  “I don’t think you’re going to make your plane,” I say to J.C. I’ll admit, I said it so he’d look at me with those luscious gray-green eyes.

  “I’ll call my grandmother when we get into town.” J.C. turns and looks at the police cars (three of them) behind us. “If we make it to town.”

  Max is looking in his rearview mirror, or whoever’s rearview mirror this is, and I clutch J.C.’s hand tighter and feel a pulse of electricity shoot up my arm.

  “My mom’s going to kill me!” I say.

  How on earth did I get here? And why? Why do I always get myself into these situations? I must look into this pattern. I just hope I’ll have the time and not be stuck in an Argentine jail.

  14

  My Life: Stop—July 9

  My travel journal was stolen with my stuff, so I’m writing on scrap paper. I was tempted to use my passport, since I doubt it will get much more in the way of stamps, but I refrained. Clearly all the hope hasn’t gone out of me yet.

  Factoid: Too much optimism can render you unprepared to handle life’s traumas. That’s not my issue, though I am feeling unprepared for today’s traumas.

  Life seems to be one step forward, two steps backward:

  1. Meet a guy who is not afraid to share his feelings and always has food close by.

  A. Max is here making me question if any guy will ever actually like me for me.

  B. Since I’m going to be late, my parents will never, ever trust me again to date until I’m at least thirty.

  2. Find a way to get J.C. to the airport on time and not let Libby be blamed for Pablo’s disappearance by Child Protective Services.

  A. Max’s car is stolen.

  B. The truck we managed to pick up was used in a bank robbery. We spent all afternoon being questioned for a federal crime and are now involved in an international incident. The American embassy (and my parents) have been notified. I am going to be grounded until my deathbed.

  I never thought I’d write this: I know what the inside of an Argentine jail looks like! Granted, I didn’t have to actually stay
in one, and all I can say is thank GOODNESS that Max was along for translation because I don’t know that J.C., with his blond good looks and spotty Spanish, would have gotten us out of trouble.

  Max explained our story, and eventually it checked out, thanks to a few phone calls to the American embassy. But Max’s car is officially gone.

  We sit outside this one-horse town discussing our options, since my parents were not at the hotel and will arrive to notification from the American embassy. Ah, I wonder what the lucky people are doing today.

  “How long are you going to write on garbage?” Max asks me. “The police said we’re free to go. It doesn’t look like my car is showing up anytime soon, so we might as well get back to town. Do you have money for a cab?”

  “You know, you were a lot nicer in America.” I shove the scrap of paper into the passport pouch I have around my neck and put it under my shirt again. “I was just going to describe the police station. My adventure with the law in Argentina. Maybe I can use it for a paper when I get to Pepperdine.”

  “If we get to Pepperdine,” J.C. says. “At this rate, we’ll be lucky to get back to America.”

  “That doesn’t sound like you, J.C.”

  “My leg hurts and all my pain meds were attached to my bedroll.”

  “I don’t see why you have to write it down. This isn’t the first time you’ve been to the police station.” Max seems to say this for J.C.’s benefit.

  J.C. stares at me and I feel the need to explain. “I had a stalker in high school. Claire’s older half brother. I just had to go to the station and explain because it was sort of a kidnapping. Like today, you know? The police just wanted to check out my story.”

  “The point is, to have two run-ins with the law when you go to a Christian high school—wait a minute, the party you had in high school.” Max points at me. “Three! Three run-ins with the law! I should have known your visit would end in trouble for me.”

  “I’m bad luck, I get it.”

  J.C. starts to laugh. “Look at me. I think we were made for each other.” He kisses me on the cheek.

  Max stands up abruptly. “If you two want to spend your life trying to stay alive, you need to leave me out of it. Bonnie and Clyde didn’t need a third wheel. I’ll hitch a ride back to town.”