Kumquat

by Jeff Strand

  "It is, but it's also not quite as bad as it sounds. I mean, it is as bad as it sounds; there's just more to it. There were a lot of pieces I hadn't put together, but once I was able to think logically about the situation, I realized, oh, duh, he was cheating on me. It used to be that he would answer his cell phone any time it rang, right in the middle of dinner or whenever--it drove me crazy--but suddenly he was getting calls, checking the number, and saying 'It can wait.' And even though he was always a morning shower person, every once in a while he'd come home in the evening and jump right into the shower. Nothing ridiculously suspicious, no lipstick stains or perfume or anything, but enough to mess with my mind after the fact. Once everything started to click, I did some research, scary stalker shit, and, oh yeah, he had himself a girlfriend. He didn't even trade me in for a younger model; she was older and not all that hot. I didn't confront them, but I confronted her, and she confessed. And by 'confessed' I mean she literally fell to the ground sobbing."

  "Did you do anything to her?"

  "No, no, no. Didn't even threaten her. But she admitted that she'd been trying for a year to get him to leave me. And once I got my bad news, he finally did." Amy has not yet shed a tear, but her eyes glisten.

  "The timing on that doesn't make sense," I say. "Why would he...I mean, wouldn't he...?"

  "I know, right? If the bitch wife you want to leave is going to die, why not wait it out? Let the world think you're the tragic widower instead of a cheating bastard who'd leave a dying wife."

  "Yeah. I mean, everybody hated him after that, right?"

  Amy nods. "He was not the most popular person in his family. I think he still loved me, still loves me, and couldn't handle the thought of living with me and knowing that I was going to die. It absolutely terrified him. He always took sort of an 'out of sight, out of mind' approach to his problems, and if he didn't have to look at me every day, he could deal with the idea of me dying. Combine that with the affair, and you have a very confused, scared, messed-up man making a horrible decision that he couldn't take back."

  "Did he try to take it back?"

  "Oh, yeah."

  "I'm sorry," I tell her. It sounds so stupid when I say it. But I don't know what else to say.

  "Anyway, that's why I haven't been living life to the fullest."

  "You've got a pretty damn good excuse."

  "Maybe. I don't know. Either way, I'm done with that. And I'm also done talking about my mortality for a while, if that's okay."

  "Definitely."

  Twenty to thirty minutes later, the auto repair guy lets me know that my car is fucked.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  "I don't care how many places my hand has been; it's not going in there."

  --Exit Red, Season 5, Episode 1

  The repair guy, Jakey, has got the hood open, and he's pointing to various parts and saying things that I don't really understand, but ultimately it comes down to this: the guy who did my oil change was right.

  Jakey can fix it, probably, but it's going to take three days, minimum, and cost almost as much as the car is worth. If he was in my shoes, he would cut his losses, sell this thing for whatever I can get, and buy a new vehicle.

  I thank him for this information.

  We haven't even made it out of Florida yet. We haven't even made it halfway out. This really, truly sucks.

  "I'll give you a thousand for it, cash," Jakey says. "That's not quite the blue book value, but it saves you a tow."

  "I'm not sure. I wasn't planning to make any decisions like this today. We're supposed to be on vacation."

  "Oh, yeah, there's nothing worse than car problems while you're on vacation. Takes all the fun right out of it."

  I have no idea what to do. We can't hang out here for three days, and I don't want to waste time towing the car around trying to get a second opinion. Should I just sell him the car? Does that make me wild and impulsive like a dangerous bad boy, or does it make me a complete dumbass? I don't want Amy to think I'm a complete dumbass.

  "Is there a car rental place anywhere around here?" I ask.

  Jakey nods. "About six miles."

  "Can I leave the car here while I think about it?"

  "You can leave it here overnight, no problem."

  I desperately wish I could figure out what Amy would want me to do, without looking weak and asking Amy what she wants me to do. I need to be decisive. Dangerous bad boy or dumbass? Dangerous bad boy or dumbass?

  Why am I driving myself insane trying to figure out how Amy will judge me for my decision? I want to resolve this car issue as soon as possible and get back on the road, even if it means that I'm kicking myself after the weekend is over. I need to go with my instinct.

  "Eleven hundred and a ride to the car rental place," I say.

  "Done."

  "Are you sure you shouldn't think about this?" Amy asks me.

  "I'm sure."

  Jakey counts out eleven hundred dollars, which makes me feel absurdly rich even though I'm technically much poorer. As I tuck the bills into my wallet, there is admittedly a slight feeling of Aaack! What have I done? What have I done? What madness have I unleashed upon my life? but I'm sure I'm doing the right thing.

  He tells us to sit down and relax for a few minutes until his mom gets here to give us a ride.

  "I guess we should have taken my car," Amy says.

  "Yes. That probably would have been better."

  "I'm sorry."

  "It's okay. We'll just rent a car and keep going."

  "Are you sure we shouldn't turn back?"

  I shake my head. "No way in hell are we turning back. We're going to Rhode frickin' Island. We're getting that hot dog if we have to crawl there."

  "But you weren't expecting it to cost this much."

  "I don't care. This is a quest now. Maybe it's not the holiest quest ever, but it's a quest. We're doing this. Assuming you still want to...?"

  "Yes, I do."

  "Good. So it's a quest."

  "We could also hitchhike."

  "No, no, it's not a quest worth getting murdered for. I'll just rent us a car."

  Jakey's mom, Vivian, arrives. She's probably about seventy. She's wearing gray sweatpants and a pink T-shirt, and she's not very happy that she has to be our chauffeur service. I know this because the first thing she says is, "Just so you know, I'm not very happy that I have to be your chauffeur service." We apologize to her, throw our bags in the trunk, and get in the back seat of her car.

  Vivian gets in and looks at us in the rearview mirror. "One of you needs to sit in the front. This isn't a limo."

  I hurriedly get in the front seat.

  "Are you a writer?" she asks me.

  "No, ma'am."

  "I am. Working on my first novel. Let me emphasize one of the words I just said: working. I'm not at home goofing off. Do you think my son respects that?"

  "I'm guessing he doesn't."

  "You're right. 'Oh, Mom's retired, she's not doing anything, I'll just have her be my errand girl.' Do you think I can just turn my muse on and off whenever I want?"

  "I really do apologize for this. If I'd known you were busy, we would have taken a cab."

  "He doesn't understand at all. Do you know what he says to me?"

  "What?"

  "'I don't hear any typing.' He thinks that writing is just typing. I have to write in my head, first."

  "We'll be quiet if you want to keep writing in your head while you drive us."

  "Are you patronizing me?"

  "No, ma'am."

  "I can't write while I'm driving. I need complete silence and I need to look at the pond in my backyard. That's where my inspiration comes from. But it's all ruined today. I might as well just watch soap operas like any other retired lady with nothing else to do."

  "What's your book about?" Amy asks.

  From the way Vivian's face lights up, I think this may be the first time she was ever asked this question. "Do you like romance novels?"

  "O
f course," says Amy, though I don't think she's telling the truth.

  "What does every woman want in a man?"

  "I don't know. Sense of humor?"

  Vivian lets out a derisive snort. "You don't have to perpetuate that lie just because your boyfriend's in the car. Seriously, what does every woman want in a man?"

  "Loyalty?"

  "I'm talking about an occupation."

  "Cowboy?"

  "Cowboy! Exactly! And...?"

  "Doctor?"

  "No."

  "Lawyer."

  "No."

  "I'm not sure."

  Vivian sighs with exasperation. "A fireman! Every woman who reads a romance novel wants a cowboy or a fireman. You don't have to admit it out loud, but you know perfectly well that if a fireman asked you out, you'd leave your boyfriend right there on the side of the road. Every other romance novel has a cowboy or a fireman. So do you know what my hero is?"

  "A cowboy or a fireman?" Amy asks.

  "Close."

  "Ummmm..."

  "A cowboy and a fireman. He's a cowboy by day and a fireman by night."

  "Does that leave him with any free time for romance?"

  "That's the whole conflict! You can't be a cowboy, a fireman, and a lover, so he has to choose!"

  "Which one does he choose?" I ask.

  Vivian scowls at me. "Do you really think I'm going to give away the ending of my book before you buy it?"

  "No, ma'am. I'm sorry."

  "Women will go nuts for this. If I could ever get some uninterrupted writing time, I'd be rich."

  "You'd probably make even more money if she dated a fireman and a cowboy," Amy says.

  "I'm not writing some kinky smut book. If you want to pander to the lowest common denominator, you go right ahead."

  "What's your title?" I ask.

  "Cowboy on Fire."

  "That's actually pretty awesome."

  "I spoke to an actual firefighter to do some research. He was very knowledgeable, for a Negro."

  Amy and I go very, very silent.

  "I didn't speak to him alone, of course. I made sure Jakey was right there, just in case. But he did have some interesting things to say about his job. Do you know how much their equipment weighs?"

  I shake my head.

  "Seventy pounds. Think about that the next time you're climbing some stairs and you're not carrying seventy pounds of equipment."

  "I will."

  "Of course, the hero of my book won't be a Negro. I'm certainly not going to limit my potential audience that way. But he did have a surprising amount of information to share."

  "I don't mean to be rude," said Amy, "but I wish you wouldn't say the n-word."

  "That wasn't the n-word. The n-word is--"

  "I know, I know. It just makes me uncomfortable."

  "Should I sound like an inbred hick and say he was 'colored'?"

  "No. You could say 'African American.'"

  "I don't know for sure that he was American. What if he was Canadian? Should I insult an entire country just to avoid calling somebody a Negro?"

  "We should let this drop."

  "Don't think for one moment that he wouldn't have called me 'whitey' if he could do it without disciplinary action."

  "Letting it drop now."

  "Have you ever seen the brain of a colored person? The number of wrinkles in your brain are what determine your intelligence level, and studies have proven that colored people have fewer wrinkles."

  "That's extremely untrue," says Amy.

  "It's science. I believe in God as much as the next person, but it's foolish to ignore science."

  "So what kind of cowboy research did you do?" I ask.

  Vivian continues to glare at Amy in the rearview mirror. "I bet if I'd said he was a Spaniard you wouldn't have been offended."

  "Not if he was from Spain, no," says Amy.

  "I didn't say that we should reinstitute slavery."

  "I understand that."

  "You'd think I said we should go lynch us a darkie."

  "Still trying to let this drop."

  "I can't believe this. I'm doing you a favor, giving you a ride, and you act like I'm a member of the Klu Klux Klan."

  "It's Ku Klux Klan, not Klu."

  "No, it's Klu Klux Klan."

  "Okay."

  "Don't go acting all superior, young lady. You're a hypocrite. If I dropped you off in the middle of a crowd of Negroes, you'd be sweating bullets."

  "How many chapters have you written so far?" I ask.

  "Why don't we do that? Why don't we drive around until we see a gathering of Negroes and then I'll let you out of the car to fend for yourselves? Does that idea worry you? Does it make you feel a bit unsafe?"

  "I think you should let us out of the car now," Amy says.

  "Why? Because we're not in a poor neighborhood? Negroes can acquire wealth too, Little Miss Racist. You're not safe anywhere. Oh, look, there's a Negro over there! Let's ask him for directions!"

  The man she's pointing to is actually Latino, but I don't correct her. I wonder if we're going to need to leap out of a speeding vehicle. I hope not.

  "Right here is fine," says Amy.

  Vivian pulls into the parking lot of a Laundromat. We get out of the car, and Vivian drives off before Amy has even closed the back door.

  "Our stuff!" Amy shouts.

  I take off after Vivian. Vivian, who no doubt believes that I mean to cause her physical harm, speeds up.

  "No!" I shout after her. "Our bags are in your trunk!"

  I catch up to the car and pound on her trunk, but she doesn't stop. Now I have to make a crucial decision: do I jump onto the back of her car, which I assume will persuade her to apply the brakes, or do I let her get away?

  I should jump.

  No, I shouldn't jump.

  Jump, I tell myself. Just do it. Unless she suddenly goes into reverse, you're not going to get hurt.

  I reach for the trunk and jump.

  It's a pretty damn good jump, much better than I would have expected from myself. Clearly my adrenaline is pumping. That said, I still miss the car completely and crash to the pavement.

  Vivian speeds off, taking our stuff with her.

  I let out a nice little bellow, one that expresses both my disappointment that our possessions are gone and how much my knees hurt.

  Amy crouches down beside me. "Are you okay?"

  "I think so."

  "Can you stand up?"

  "I don't think so."

  Amy helps me up. My knees do not appreciate her assistance. I can see through my torn jeans that I've scraped them all up. With my arm on Amy's shoulder, I limp out of the parking lot and sit down next to the building.

  "Todd, I am so sorry about that. I'm usually good at ignoring dumb things that people say, but I couldn't keep my mouth shut."

  "It's fine."

  "It's not fine! We lost our bags."

  "Worse than that," I tell her. "My wallet fell out of my pocket in the car."

  "Oh my God."

  "No, I'm kidding." I tap my back pocket. "I've got my wallet, you've got your purse...was there anything really important in there?"

  Amy thinks for a moment, then shakes her head. "Just clothes and my toothbrush and stuff. Well, no, also my CDs."

  "We should get your CDs back."

  "Yeah. Actually, no. Screw 'em. They're all on my iPod. Until this weekend I hadn't listened to the actual discs in years."

  "Are you sure? I can call Jakey and get it back."

  "No, let's just forget about it. I can buy new clothes. It's not like I lost a formal gown."

  "Okay. Good."

  "How are your knees?"

  "In excruciating pain."

  "Do you want to wait here? I'll find a store and get some antiseptic."

  "No, you might need somebody to protect you from the African Canadians."

  Amy helps me back up. It hurts, but I'm pretty sure that the pain is only from the several layers of skin
that have been removed, and not any broken bones. After a few wobbly steps, I'm able to walk on my own.

  "Is this still a quest?" Amy asks.

  "More than ever."

  "Because we could find a movie theater or something, do a double feature."

  "Absolutely not. Hot dog or death."

  "We should put that on a T-shirt."

  "We will. We need new shirts anyway. I am not giving up on this." I ignore the pain in my knees and walk with purpose. Or at least as much purpose I can muster on legs that aren't functioning at their maximum potential.

  Then I wonder if Amy is still into this. If I'm dragging her along on a trip that she doesn't want to take anymore, then this sort of wrecks the whole point.

  "You're still into the quest, right?" I ask. "If this isn't fun for you anymore, we can go home."

  "I'm still all in."

  "Sweet." Sure, maybe this means there's something deeply wrong with her, but I don't care.

  We manage to walk to the car rental place without incident.

  At the car rental place, there's a minor incident related to the fact that they don't have any cars available. We're polite about it, of course. I think about sliding a couple of twenties across the counter, giving the guy a knowing look, and saying "Are you sure you don't have anything for us?" but I don't follow through.

  There's another car rental place right next door. We walk there without incident. We are helped by a man whose breath is far from spectacular, but we don't count that as an incident. I let him sell me an upgrade and the full insurance package.

  * * *

  "Ohhhhhh," I say, sinking into the seat. "It's like sitting on chocolate cake."

  "With extra frosting."

  We both just sit there for a moment, eyes closed, enjoying the luxury of these car seats. I don't care that it cost too much. Why were we ever driving around in a twelve-year-old car? Newer is better. I feel like I could pull up a blanket filled with angel feathers and sleep until dawn.

  The car has a built-in GPS. No more relying on my phone like some sort of primate. And the windshield wipers don't make a sound like a pterodactyl. This is paradise. I want to make love to this automobile, but Amy would probably frown upon that, so I don't even try.

  How about I just rub your feet instead? the car asks. I know how to take care of you. I'll make you feel sooooo good.