Jesus Boy
Page 31
The student reminds me of Elaine.
Peachie opens her lips and sucks in air. Now she says in a soft voice, “In what way?”
It’s in the way she cries, she reminds me. I ripped her off, threw it in her face, and yet she doesn’t hate me.
“Turning the other cheek,” Peachie says. “So much like Christ.” Not funny, Sister McGowan.
“I couldn’t resist. Why did you rip her off?”
Blinded by greed, I guess.
“It’s not greed if they don’t pay you shit. Blinded by stupidity most likely.” Peachie kisses me on the forehead. “Go after her.”
Yeah. I’m thinking the same thing.
“And make amends.”
I no longer subscribe to the concept of guilt. It is not by your works that ye are saved, Peachie. But I’m thinking the same thing.
“And get out of the car business. It’s taking your soul.”
I no longer subscribe to the concept of a soul or a God, Peachie, but I’m thinking the same thing.
Peachie slaps my mouth playfully. “Liar, liar, liar. You’re just as much a Christian as you’ve ever been.”
What proof do you have that this is so?
“Your life, in fact, is shit, but you’re still able to love.”
I think about this for a few moments, then I say, Good answer, Peachie. Good answer.
“God is love,” Peachie says. “God is here with us right now.”
So here I am the next morning, fighting with Lou the service writer. First he tells me the Lord of Travel is going to have to wait its turn in line. The mechanics won’t get to it until late tomorrow. They won’t finish it until late the day after that. It’s going to cost at least $400.
Four bills? I know you can fix it for less than four bills, I say. The car is for my mother, Lou. I’m sure you can do it for less than four bills, and don’t give me that crap about waiting in line. We work together, Lou.
Lou says, “What can I do? I don’t own the business. I don’t make the rules.”
I know, I know. But remember, Lou, I covered for you on that tires and batteries thing, and all I asked for was a measly twenty when I could’ve asked for fifty or a hundred. Remember, Lou, one hand washes the other.
Lou remembers the tires and batteries thing. “I’ll see what I can do,” he says, “for your mother.”
At 1 p.m., Lou calls me.
I run to the service area and pay my “mother’s” tab, fifty dollars in cash, which I hand Lou and which he puts in his wallet.
The Lord of Travel does not emit smoke nor spray water anymore, but I notice it pulls too much to the left. When it runs, I can hear its belts grinding. It stalls, once in a while, in idle. I worry about the brakes, which are slow to respond. I take it back to Lou, who is not happy to see me but smiles anyway.
My mother says the car needs a tune-up, new belts, a new battery, new brake shoes, I tell him. She travels out of town a lot and wants to feel secure on the road. By the way, she was wondering if you could check the alignment and, if it’s not too much trouble, throw a couple tires in the trunk. The ones in back are just about worn out.
“Your mother is a thief,” Lou says.
And she needs it by 5 … today.
“My God.”
It’s just a little favor, Lou.
He whispers, “Okay. But after this, no more. We’re even.”
Sure, Lou.
“No. To hell with that. Now you owe me.”
I’ll take care of you, I say. I know a few people who could use a discounted set of tires, no questions asked.
They finish the Lord of Travel just after 4 p.m. I take it for a test drive, and I am impressed. Lou had them put over a thousand dollars worth of parts and labor into the car in less than seven hours. And all for fifty dollars and a smile! The car wasn’t so bad after all. It just needed to have a few specific parts repaired.
I take it across the street to the Amoco station where I fill it with gas using the dealership’s credit card. Then I slide Miguel five dollars, and he washes and waxes it until I can see my reflection—I am framed in a shave, a haircut, a new tie. I’m not so bad either.
Curly pats me on the back. “Lookin good. I hope the sex is worth all this.”
I’m not after sex this time.
“Is she rich?” asks the Arab.
It’s not like that. This is my last day.
“Yeah?” says the Arab. “Where you headed this time? Buick? Isuzu? Honda?” He reads something in my expression that is not there. “Aha, so big-bonus Mike over at Honda got your attention again.”
Curly says, “It’s not a bad idea. They pay 30 percent after the tenth car.”
“Thirty percent?” says the Arab. “Really?” He licks his lips, looks at me.
I have no idea, I say. I’m not going to Honda. I’m not going anywhere. One good deed for this woman and then I’m gone. I’m getting out of the business.
“Out of the business? No way,” says the Arab. “Once a car salesman, always a car salesman. It’s like religion.”
“What will you do for money?” asks Curly.
Anything but this. I’ll flip hamburgers. I’ll paint houses. I need a real job. I’ll sell Amway.
“No way,” says the Arab. “You’ll never quit.”
“And why would you want to quit?” adds Curly. I am sandwiched between them. A determined hand on each of my shoulders keeps me from moving. “Why quit after you made so much money? Is it this girl?”
Of course. It’s always a girl.
When Ida arrives, she does so in a car driven by a large, hairy man whose face is a mask of hatefulness. As the car rolls by, she points to me and the angry man gives me a look that leaves no doubt he wants to hurt me, so I toss Miguel the keys and run inside the showroom.
Take care of her, I say. Tell her I’m in a meeting and can’t be disturbed.
Inside I watch, hidden behind the Arab, who always carries a can of Mace, and big Curly, who was on his college wrestling team before he flunked out.
Ida and the man park next to the Lord of Travel. They get out and slam their doors. The man runs his hands over the car. He seems pleased with what he discovers, and his expression softens somewhat. He looks at Ida, who shrugs her shoulders. She grabs the keys from Miguel, and she and the large man hop into the Lord of Travel and spin off for a test drive. Nearly an hour later, they return. The large man gets into his car and drives away without a word to Ida.
Ida stands beside the Lord of Travel, perplexed. I walk out to meet her.
“He likes the car,” she says. “He had one like it when he was younger.”
(Probably the same one.)
I told you it was a nice car, I say. You see, I am a nice guy. I had them fix it up for you and everything. And I paid for it out of my own pocket.
“I bet you did.”
I really did.
“But you overcharged me for it in the first place.”
I tried to get you the best deal I could.
“I bet you did.”
I really did.
“Doesn’t matter. If he says it’s a nice car, it’s a nice car.”
He’s your … mechanic?
“My boyfriend.”
Lucky guy, I say.
“He came to get my money back. And, if necessary,” she says, her eyes narrowing to slits, “to beat the hell out of you.”
Lucky me, I think. But I know she would never let him hurt me, this hairy man she claims is her boyfriend. She brought him because she knows what I am capable of, and she wanted a fair fight this time. Smart.
Ida is beautiful. I want to hear her say that I’m not like the rest of them. I want another hug. I want to love her.
So I say, Well you got yourself a nice car, though, didn’t you?
I nod my head. She nods hers.
All your friends will be impressed, won’t they?
I nod my head. She nods hers.
And, I add, you made a new friend, didn’t y
ou?
I nod my head and extend my hand, but she only looks at me and laughs.
She says, “It never ends with you people, does it?”
No, I answer. I’m not like that anymore. I quit. I really did.
“Lucky you,” she says, and then she gets into the refurbished Lord of Travel and drives away, leaving me standing there with my hand extended.
I think, God is love, God is love, God is love.
I am so choked up that the Arab almost beats me to the next customer who pulls up on the lot. But I can tell by the cut of the man’s double-breasted jacket and his confident, purposeful stride that he’s on a mission. That he’s a preacher. The poor Arab doesn’t have a chance.
I move so fast I must have wings.
HERE ENDETH THE TESTAMENT OF FIRE AND LAMENTATIONS
HERE ENDETH THE ENTIRE TESTAMENTS OF THE FAITHFUL OF THE CHURCH OF OUR BLESSED REDEEMER WHO WALKED UPON THE WATERS
HERE ENDETH THE CAUTION AND THE TALE
Amen