by Naomi Niles
Customers began slowly trickling in at around lunchtime. A guy in his mid-twenties wearing a red sleeveless t-shirt with grease stains on his arms and forehead came up to the counter and asked for Nic. She was upstairs in the office ordering new air compressors; I waved and signaled for her to come down.
“What I’ve been wondering,” he said, leaning his elbows on the counter and speaking in a serious tone, “is whether you prefer the Aerosmith version of ‘Come Together’ or the Beatles version?”
“Do you need something,” asked Nic, surveying his broad chest and lean but muscular arms, “or are you just going to waste my time?”
“Must a man do only one?”
“And for the record,” she added, “I question the judgment of anyone who prefers Aerosmith over the Beatles. That’s like preferring a spicy chicken sandwich from Chik-fil-a over a savory boneless ribeye.”
“Or preferring a can of tuna over an actual tuna steak,” I said.
“Right. Or preferring boiled hot dogs over smoked wurst and sauerkraut.”
“Eww!” I waved a hand in front of my nose. “Oh, and for the record, the best version of ‘Come Together’ is the Joe Cocker version.”
“I don’t know about that. I think Lennon is hard to beat. Plus, Ringo does some of his finest work on that song. Are you sure you’re not thinking of ‘With a Little Help from My Friends’?”
“Oh, maybe I am. Which one was used on The Wonder Years?”
We went on arguing over the merits of different versions while our hunky customer stood there forgotten. Eventually, he crept away to the front of the store, and was browsing through the windshield wipers when the door opened again, and Darren entered.
My heart gave a flutter as he stood there glancing shyly around. The confident swagger he had shown on the previous day was gone, replaced by a trepidation that was adorable to watch. Slowly, he made his way over to the counter.
“Hey, Darren, I’ve got a question for you,” said Nic. “Who do you prefer: Aerosmith or the Beatles?”
Darren scoffed as if he couldn’t believe what he was being asked. “A better question would be which Beatle do I prefer. John and Paul—hell, Ringo by himself had more talent than everyone in Aerosmith together. What I don’t understand is why they get their own roller coaster at Disney World when they’re like the… twelve-hundredth best band of all time.”
Drawn by our discussion, the ripped guy came walking out from among the heater hoses. “Okay, but you have to admit Steve Tyler demonstrated some phenomenal talent on their early ‘70s LPs. The fact that he then went and blew it all on drugs and shitty Michael Bay soundtracks shouldn’t obscure the raw power of that early work.”
“I don’t care, man,” said Darren with a roll of his eyes. “The Beatles and the Beach Boys are the only two bands from that era I even care to talk about. You can take your weak-ass, tea-sipping Herman’s Hermits and your string-haired neo-confederate Lynyrd Skynyrd or whatever and get out of here.”
The ripped guy winced as though he had just been hit in the jaw. Nic and I exchanged covert glances with mouths agape; I had never witnessed an actual fist fight, but now one seemed imminent.
“Okay,” said Nic, “but if you had to pick just one band to have their own roller coaster at Disney World, which one would you pick?”
“Fleetwood Mac!” shouted Darren, while at the same moment his companion yelled, “Pearl Jam!” They both turned to glare at each other with bemused expressions.
“Anyway,” said Darren, drumming his fingers on the counter, “this wasn’t what I came in here for.” Like most guys in rural Texas he pronounced “wasn’t” with a d instead of an s.
“If you came to get your spark plug, I’m afraid you showed up about two hours too early,” I told him. “I just checked and it’s en route, but it probably won’t be here until this afternoon.”
“Ah, dang,” Darren said with a grimace. “Well, at least I got to see a couple pretty faces.”
“Yeah, and it gives you an excuse to come back later and see us again,” added Nic.
“Any time you have the chance to look at a couple of beautiful women,” I said in a very serious tone, “you must take it. Although Nic is way cuter, and you’re probably better off just looking at her.”
“You’re cute!” Nic exclaimed, although she grinned in a pleased sort of way.
“If I could come back and spend the rest of the afternoon checking you girls out, I would, believe me,” said Darren. “Unfortunately, I gotta be back at the shop getting ready for the big race. I may have to send someone down here to get it for me.”
“I think I heard about this big race,” said Nic. “Is it like an underground street racing sort of thing?” She shimmied her shoulders slightly.
“See, that’s why I thought they were called street cars!” I pointed an emphatic finger in Nic’s direction. “Because they compete in street races!”
“Oh, honey,” Nic said again. “If we get there tomorrow and there’s a trolley gliding down the strip, I’ll buy you dinner.”
“Y’all gonna come?” asked Darren, a keen look of excitement in his eyes.
“Technically I guess all cars are street cars,” I went on, even though by this point no one was listening. “Because they all drive on the street.”
“Yeah, we’d love to come,” said Nic. “I was actually thinking about going just to scare that kid we met last night.”
Darren drummed on the counter a final time and left looking pleased with himself. The moment he was gone, Nic turned to me and said in a burst of excitement, “Did you see that? He was totally flirting with us!”
“With you, maybe,” I replied. “Boys don’t flirt with me, and even if they did, I would never know because I’m not completely sure what flirting looks like.”
“Okay, well, we can deal with that later, but for now, did you see the way he was looking at us? And he admitted to it. He wasn’t even shy about it!”
“Y’all are out of luck,” said the ripped guy, whose name I still didn’t know. Nic and I both leaped back, startled; we’d gotten so consumed in our conversation, we hadn’t even known he was there.
“Why? Is he married?” she asked.
“Naw, but he’s got a girlfriend, and she’s not the kind of woman who’d be interested in sharing.”
I felt my heart sink into my stomach with a wholly irrational feeling of disappointment. No way could I have been interested in Darren; I had only known him for about a day, Nic seemed to like him, and he had questionable taste in music. So where was this feeling coming from? Why was I suddenly so upset at the fact that we would probably never go out?
“Well, anyway,” said Nic, “we’re definitely going to that race tomorrow. You’re coming, too, Pen; I’m not planning on going alone.”
“I like how you just assume I didn’t already have plans for tomorrow.”
“Do you?”
“No,” I said in a quiet voice. “But what’s the point if he’s already dating someone?”
Nic shrugged and tossed her hair back. “Doesn’t stop us from looking, does it?”
“Just as long as she doesn’t catch us,” I said under my breath and went back to ordering parts.
Chapter Seven
Darren
I woke up the next morning to a knock on my front door. It was Carlotta.
“Hey, I brought you these.” She shoved a box of donuts into my arms. “I was thinking it might be nice if we had breakfast together. I know it’s not much, but it’s all I could afford.”
She walked into the house without waiting to be invited, and I followed her into the living room with a growing sense of frustration. It was hard to shake the feeling that she had only come over because she wanted something.
She sat herself down on the couch with her knees brushing up against the glass coffee table. She looked strangely out of place in her blue silk blouse and pencil skirt from Nordstrom, like a supermodel hanging out at a yard sale.
&nb
sp; “Well, are you going to eat?” she asked me, gesturing toward the open box of donuts. “You need to eat more. You are too skinny.”
I let out an exasperated sigh. “Carlotta, the only person you ever care about feeding is yourself. What do you want?”
Carlotta made a weak attempt to look hurt, but the anger shone through. “Yesterday at around lunchtime, Kimmy and I went over to Neiman Marcus. She bought herself an authentic Louis Vuitton designer handbag and I—well, I really wanted one.”
“How was Kimmy able to afford a handbag?”
“She used her boyfriend’s credit card.”
“I bet Rich wasn’t too happy about that.”
“He won’t be when he finds out, but I knew better than to take your money without asking you.”
“No, you just wanted to bribe me with food and then hit me up for money. Honestly, Carlotta, is there any end to your greed?”
“Darren, it’s not like that.” Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a monogrammed silk handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “It’s the job of a boyfriend to provide for his love.”
“Not with handbags!” I shouted. The longer this conversation went on, the more absurd it was getting. It would have been funny if she wasn’t so serious. “How much was the one you wanted, anyway?”
She sniffed and said in a quiet voice, “Only six hundred.”
“When we started going out, were you under the impression that I’m an endless money dispenser? I’m not your ATM; I’m your boyfriend. Just because my family has money doesn’t mean you can hit me up anytime you’re wandering through a store and see a thousand-dollar pair of earrings.”
Carlotta was shuddering and crying now; she had never been very convincing at it. “How dare you, sir! I’ve never once asked you for that much.”
“No, you never asked for much. Just five hundred dollars for a pair of designer sunglasses, three hundred dollars for a purse made of authentic ostrich hide, another four hundred for a hat containing a feather from the same ostrich…”
“When you put it that way, it sounds like a lot.”
“Believe me; it adds up.”
Carlotta shook her head and her legs jiggled. “I thought I knew you, but I guess I was wrong. I thought you were a kind, loving, generous man—”
“Oh, don’t give me that. Generosity means feeding the homeless, not feeding your purse addiction.”
She followed me with her eyes as I rose from my chair and walked over to the front door. “Darren, where are you going?”
I opened the door and flung out one arm. “Here’s the door. You’re welcome to use it.” When she merely went on staring, I added, “I’ve had just about enough of you and this whole discussion. Go find yourself some other man who will tolerate your whims and indulge your worst tendencies.”
Carlotta gaped incredulously, looking both hurt and offended. “What are you saying?”
“Let me put it for you in language you can understand: I’m done! I’m so done! Now get out!”
By now, it had become painfully clear to her that I wasn’t kidding. Grabbing her purse off the table, she walked slowly and with halting steps toward the door.
Once she had reached the porch step, she turned to face me. “Just one more thing before I go—”
“Goodbye, Carlotta. Please don’t come back.” I slammed the door in her face.
It was an oddly satisfying feeling, and the world had a pleasant sheen about it as I drove to work that morning. Lately, I’d been so fixated on my troubles with Carlotta that I hadn’t noticed the song of the cardinals and chickadees as they clustered in the trees along the banks of the Brazos. My delight must have been evident on my face, for Dickie commented on it when I came through the door.
“You doing alright?” he asked me. “You look…happy.”
“Better’n I’ve felt in ages,” I said with a smile.
“I can tell. There’s a glow about you.”
“If I had known breaking up with Carlotta would feel this good, I’d have done it ages ago. Somehow the world feels so big today, so much bigger than this one person.”
“So you finally went through with it? I had a feeling that was coming.”
“I guess it was about time I listened to you for once. It’s an exhilarating feeling, being single again. Maybe I’ll just stay single for a while.”
Dickie smiled and shoved a set of keys over the counter. “You know what would make you feel even better?”
There was no need to ask what that meant. I snatched up the keys with a feeling of elation. “Is the car ready, then?”
“It waits for you.”
It was hard to believe the car was finally ready. All those weeks we had been working on it, I began to think it would never be finished. And now on this fairest and clearest of mornings, I was about to take it out for a test run. “You wanna come with?”
Dickie shook his head firmly. “No, no, no. I just repair the cars, I don’t drive them.”
I laughed and tousled his hair. “Suit yourself!” And, with a feeling of excitement and pleasure such as I had not felt in ages, I dashed out of the shop toward the waiting car.
Chapter Eight
Penny
I slept in late on Saturday morning. When I awoke, I had a text from Nic.
Hey boo, I was thinking I might want to go into town today and buy some new clothes. I don’t want Darren to think I wear the same clothes every day.
To which I replied: Nic, you *do* wear the same clothes every day. You work in an auto parts store.
and Nic wrote back: I know, I know, but you know what I mean.
I sent a laugh-crying face and wrote, I do.
Plus, she wrote back, I haven’t done my laundry in about a week and I’m feeling lazy. I just would like to go shopping.
And you want me to give you permission?
No, she said, I want you to come with me.
I wanted to go, too, but I decided to string her along first. Hmmm. Let me mull that over for a bit.
Please, please. You’re the only friend I have.
That’s kind of sad, actually, I replied.
It is, but there’s not much I can do about it before the race. I can’t just go out and *buy* new friends.
Ah, if only we could.
It would be a much better world, she agreed.
But then those who had money would have all the friends. And I would have no friends at all.
I’d still be your friend, Pen.
ty, ty
When she didn’t respond for a few minutes, I added, I’d like to go out today. I’d been thinking about getting a haircut.
Nic sent a heart-eyes emoji. Oooo how short are you going to cut it?
Idk yet. I haven’t even decided if I want to get it cut.
I think it would look cute. It would make you look about ten years younger.
Boys already think I’m fifteen, Nic.
Hmmm, very true. Maybe you oughtta keep it long for now.
I sent her a sad face.
After a few minutes, she wrote back, But I think your hair looks great no matter how you wear it, and if you want to cut it you should go ahead and cut it.
It would be easier to manage, anyway. Right now, it’s all the way down to my waist, takes about an hour to wash.
It’s going to feel amazing when you finally get all that weight lifted off.
Ikr? The more I think about it the better I feel about it. Maybe I’ll keep the hair and make a nice rug out of it.
Sometimes when you say things like that, said Nic, I can’t tell whether you’re joking or not.
Why would I speak in jest? I replied.
I got up and washed my face and did my morning exercises, then threw on a pair of blue jeans and a yellow t-shirt and went out to find Dad. His nurse had brought him a light salad with almonds, pecans, cherry tomatoes, egg whites, and sliced roasted chicken. Out of solidarity, I decided to forego the waffles I had been planning on making and rummaged through the re
frigerator until I found a container of yogurt.
“What have you got going on today?” he asked me as he searched through his salad for the chicken slices.
“Well, I was thinking about going to get a haircut, and then I think Nic and I were planning on going to see some street races. They’re underground races and probably illegal, so please don’t call the police on us.”
“As long as you’ve got a good lawyer.”
“I don’t think the cops go after these guys too hard. The heading on the flyer said it was the fifth annual Dallas automobile drag race, so I assume the last four races didn’t end in mass arrests.”
“Probably not. I performed in some drag races myself back in the ‘70s, back when drag races were cool, and nobody cared whether you risked your life flying down the strip.”
“Seriously? Are you pulling my leg?” I knew Dad had done some strange things before he settled down and married my mom and became a teacher, but I had never pictured him drag-racing. It was a bit like finding out your pastor had been in a street gang and fallen in love with a girl from the wrong side of the tracks.
“No, and I would’ve kept doing it after we were married, but your mom talked me out of it. She said she didn’t want to have to bring her little girl into this world all by herself.”
He smiled at the memory, but I couldn’t help thinking about the tragic irony embedded in those last words. “Mom was probably right—you’d have broken your neck, and then I wouldn’t have had a mom or a dad.”
“You underestimate me,” Dad replied, a touch of pride in his voice. “Back in my teens, I was an excellent racer.”
“Well, I think Mom did the world a favor by keeping you alive. I bet she was relieved to get you away from all the other girls.”
“That probably had a lot to do with it,” he admitted. “Gwen always said she lucked out when she married me because there were a hundred other girls who wanted to, and she managed to snatch me away before anyone else had the chance.”
“Well, from the pictures I’ve seen of Mom, you were pretty lucky yourself.”