The Second Jam

by Lila Felix

  “Papa, this is Cyrus. Do you remember I told you about him this morning?”

  “Someone to help me—yes mija. I’m not as stupid as you think.”

  When he was aggravated, his old self seeped in and it made my stomach nervous.

  “I’m Cyrus, nice to meet you.” The boom of his voice was enough to jolt my dad out of his spaced out stance and look in our direction.

  “Cyrus. What kind of name is Cyrus?” It was a barking kind of day—Mondays didn’t discriminate.

  “I don’t know, Sir. The people in our family have unique names. And your name?”

  I looked at Cyrus in awe. It was like he was leading my father into a regular conversation instead of the choppy, open-ended ones that he and I had. He caught me looking between him and my dad and when my father turned to shut the drawer without ever taking anything out, the boy winked at me.

  I fumbled for something to hold onto—anything. Of course, Cyrus had to notice. He grabbed my elbow and sidled up next to me, close, but not nearly close enough. “You alright there, Tiger?” My arm burned in the spot where he’d touched me, was still touching me, and I’d never felt a burn that warmed me from head to toe. He bothered me—like he knew just what to do to make me feel weak. I hated feeling weak.

  “Can’t you just call me Bea like everyone else?”

  He shrugged and studied my face. “You don’t look like a Bea to me.” His lips were pure heaven. You had to be close to really see the beauty of them, plump and kissable.

  “I thought he was here to work for me not play Cassanova.”

  “Papa, please. He is here to work. Look, why don’t you two get to know each other and I will go get the paperwork—just in case.”

  My father grunted, but it didn’t seem to faze Cyrus. Nothing seemed to faze him, as though he were in a perpetual state of chillax.

  I broke away from their stares and went to the office to get the standard new employee paperwork in the event they came to some kind of agreement. And by agreement, I meant my dad didn’t get one of his famous ‘feelings’ about people and Cyrus didn’t want to strangle my dad for constantly repeating everything fifteen times.

  I hated myself when I became annoyed with my dad. He couldn’t help it. The disease made his short term memory change his channel every few minutes to where he couldn’t remember what show he was watching. But he remembered all the old shows. He remembered how to fix cars and how things were before.

  Then there were the bad days—the days where he was in that old world—a world where I didn’t exist and my mom did. Those days happened more often than not lately.

  I wouldn’t put my dad in one of those homes—I wouldn’t.

  For nearly a half an hour I could hear those two going back and forth, along with the clanging of tools. The sound of tools was a good sign. My dad wouldn’t even have allowed him to touch his precious tools if he hadn’t passed the mojo test.

  Maybe this would exonerate all of my bad behavior toward this guy who didn’t deserve my backlash. No, it wasn’t even backlash. It was front lash—unwarranted and undeserved.

  Funny thing was—this was the first time in a long time that I felt the need to be forgiven for anything.

  The door to the shop opened with a boom. Cyrus and my dad emerged, my dad’s arm around Cyrus’ shoulders. He was like a puppy—everyone just clung to him.

  “What’s the verdict?” My voice broke them of their secret dialogue.

  My dad clapped Cyrus on the back. “I’ve needed a good mechanic around here and he knows about my viejos—these old cars. Fill out his paperwork, will you? I want to get him started on the Buick right now.”

  I slammed the papers on the desk harder than necessary. “Dad, I hardly know him. I don’t even know his last name.”

  Chapter Six

  Cyrus

  This was the part where it got hairy—hairier than even me. I knew most things well enough. I could tell the words name, address and those significant to a regular application by sight. Scout had written them down on index cards when I was sixteen and nearing the time when I was going to apply for my driver’s license. She also helped me memorize key words in the DMV’s questions and the keywords in the answers. With her help, I passed it the first time. Then the roles were reversed. I taught her how to drive and how to change her tire if one of hers ran flat and she was stranded.

  “I can fill them out later, right? I—don’t want to touch them with my dirty hands.”

  Dirty hands could be used for a myriad of excuses. When I was a kid, it was an excuse for not helping with dinner or begging Cybill to do my cleaner chores for me. Now, it could be used not to touch things that haunted me like books and papers and pens. All tools of my demise.

  “As long as they are filled out tonight and you don’t plan to sue the shop if you get hurt. Peter will need to have your tax info back soon in order to get your paycheck.”

  Beatriz’s dad’s moustache twitched and I smiled, preempting whatever bullshit he was about to pull over my head. He’d pulled the same move while we were under the hood of the Buick—trying to fool me into making a mistake.

  “You never said anything about paying this joker.”

  I looked at her dad as he spoke to Beatriz. They had some kind of secret language and were speaking it at that moment.

  “Well, if I’m working here for free, you’d better have an extra cot. My landlord is already at my throat and it’s not even the first.”

  Another look was exchanged between the two.

  “Then move into the apartment right there. There’s no rent. I lived there when I was single. Beatriz lived there when she was in college and it’s been empty since. That way if you need to stay here late, you won’t be far from home.” Jacob, he’d told me to call him Jacob, gestured toward an area above the garage but I didn’t see a way in. I looked to Beatriz, trying to gauge her reaction to the situation. For once, she didn’t look pissed off. It was like a miracle.

  “What’s the rent on it—you know, since you’re not paying me.”

  Jacob scrubbed a hand down his face in frustration. Our mutual disdain for logistics was our common bond. “Rent, paychecks, blah, blah, blah. We’ll talk about it later. Let’s go work. Mija, don’t you have somewhere to be aragana?”

  I had no idea what that word meant, but whatever it meant made Beatriz stand up in a huff and slammed the paperwork at my chest.

  “Don’t be mad. I’m just calling you lazy to make you get out of here. Are you going to be at dinner tonight? Your mother is making tamales.”

  At the mention of her mother, Beatriz stopped in her tracks. If I didn’t know better, I could’ve sworn that tears bubbled in the bottoms of her eyes. “No, I have derby practice tonight.”

  “You and your silly roller skates. Have fun. I’ll let your mother know.”

  She waved him off without any word in my direction. Not that I needed one. She was so cold that I’d never expect anything else.

  Jacob and I fell into a silent workday. He didn’t talk much while he was tinkering away, which was fine with me. I didn’t see many customers coming in and out and the phone hardly rang at all. The stillness of it all made me concerned that the ‘no pay’ joke wasn’t a joke at all. I couldn’t think about much at all as Jacob’s loud music filled the gaps between the turning of wrenches and pliers. The trumpets and accordions were hard to swallow, but I tried my best.

  I blew a stray hair out of my eyes while tightening a bolt and shook my head. My dreams of grandeur landed me right back at the beginning. I should’ve just given up on anything past a G.E.D. and just focused on fixing toasters. That’s what I was good at, tearing things apart and putting them back together.

  Except my life, that was fully taken apart and laid bare, the parts scattered and decrepit.

  “I like you.” I looked up to see Jacob smiling at me. “You take your aggressions out on your work instead of other people. I wish I could do that. Always brought my anger home with me
.”

  “It takes a lot for me to get angry. I don’t understand people, anyway. I understand machines.”

  “I hear you, there. There’s a lot of things in this world that I don’t understand.”

  We’d just gotten back to a rhythm of working when the bell on the glass door to the customer area opened. I expected the guy at the front to say something, but whoever was at the door warranted him putting on his ear-headphone thing and acting like he was on the phone. Except, like the rest of the day, the phone hadn’t rang once.

  “Is that a customer?” I asked Jacob who seemed to be oblivious to anything other than the car before him and the music around him.

  He shrugged. “Nah, it’s probably just Peter. He comes in around lunchtime and does whatever paperwork needs to be done. Plus, he’s always trying to catch Beatriz here. I don’t know why he hasn’t married her already. It feels like they’ve been engaged forever.”

  I acknowledged him speaking with a nod and then went back to my work quickly.

  It made sense now. The possessive nature of that stuck up snot when he saw us at the deli, I now understood. What I didn’t get was Beatriz clinging to me when it seemed like she was already hitched to Suit and Tie.

  Of course I was judging. He could be decent like Uncle Falcon, though his slicked back oily hair made me doubt that notion.

  “Who is this?” Speaks the Devil.

  “Peter this is…”

  “Cyrus.” Peter finished for Jacob. “We met before.”

  “Yes, how are you?” I did the working man’s polite handshake—the one where I stick out my hand and then remember that I’m dirty—as if I’d forgotten.

  “I’m fine. Thank you. I didn’t realize we had a new employee.”

  He said we like he owned stock in the place. Hell, maybe he did. I’d been there less than twelve hours.

  “Yes. He started today.”

  Peter looked at me. Though his smile read friendly, the tick of his jaw told me that an underlying irk might’ve been forming.

  “I’ll have my paperwork to you tomorrow.”

  He nodded and then clapped Jacob on the back, almost making him knock his forehead on the carburetor in front of him. “Of course. Just make sure he doesn’t get hurt. Our insurance doesn’t cover accidents with undocumented employees.”

  The smirk on his face had to go. Then again, I needed this job.

  “No problem.”

  Peter strolled out of the work area with his hands in his pockets, whistling a nursery song. It sounded like that Red Riding Hood song. Maybe he was a wolf.

  Chapter Seven

  Beatriz

  “So when do you leave?” Asking Scout Black a question was like opening Pandora’s jar. My first conversation with Scout was her correcting me about saying Pandora’s box—the myth was originally Pandora’s jar. For some reason, not only did I believe her on face value, but I repeated the tale to others like it was headline news. That was just the way Scout was. She was magnetic and adorable in her genius. She just lit up a room. Plus, she was a kick ass skater. There was a rumor that Scout started skating at the age of two—but that myth, like Pandora’s, may have been stretched. I sure as hell wasn’t going to ask her—I’d be listening for a year.

  “Well.” She looked in the air while braiding the last few strands of her tangerine hair. “I could go for the summer to catch up. Or, I could stay here, enjoy the summer and dive in head first in the fall. Although, that would mean I would be starting over like a twenty year old freshman. Then again, I do look like a kid still. I haven’t decided yet. There’s also the issue of money. I’ve got to talk to Dad about that who probably will have to consult with Uncle Falcon.”

  “When—do—you—leave?” I reiterated.

  “Oh, sorry. I’m leaning toward fall. I always wanted to see the leaves change.”

  I exhaled, but tried to cover it up. Scout tended to get her feelings hurt with the snap of a finger.

  “I’ve only ever visited Mississippi and Alabama. I bet you’re going to have the time of your life.”

  She stopped looking at the ceiling long enough to show me a glimpse of fear in her eyes. Then she smiled as a deterrent, spacing herself from the fear and my reaction.

  “I’m actually terrified. I’ve always been here—with my family—with my friends. I’m not good with…” She pointed between myself and her a couple of times. “People. I talk too much, I laugh too loud at my own nerdy jokes. I’m like a female Sheldon Cooper.”

  “What’s a Sheldon Cooper?”

  Her mouth dropped open in shock. “See? My own joke that no one gets. Perfect.”

  Scout laid out along the bench and threw a mini-fit right there, flailing her arms and legs while growling. I hadn’t even seen this much emotion from her on the rink.

  “Dude, you need to be a blocker. I know you can skate fast, but you have some serious aggression issues.”

  The locker room was mostly empty. Scout and I were usually the last ones out of practice and it was our time to talk. Our conversations were usually shallow—I got the feeling she liked it that way.

  She shot up out of nowhere and turned her gaze on me. “Do Yankees play roller derby?”

  Even geniuses were sheltered a bit.

  “Roller derby is world-wide, you goon. You’ve heard of Roller Derby World Cup?”

  Whatever I’d said wrong caused her to fling herself backwards again with a great groan.

  “Not only am I socially inept, I’m an idiot. How did Brown ever let me in?”

  The only thing I knew about Brown was that it was Ivy League and more costly than a house per semester. I’d gone to two years of community college and then packed loans onto my back for the two years of Tulane in order to get my degree in social work. It was basically two years of studying and listening to people tell me that I would never make any real money out of social work. Never once did I meet another person in my same area of study who thought they were going to get rich.

  It was like a preacher starting a church for the kickbacks and the pie. It wasn’t really the point.

  “Scout, come on, you’re a genius. They admitted you because you probably nailed the SAT and the ACT put together. They’ve probably got a Nobel Prize with your name—holding it until you’re ready.”

  “Or a pit to bury me in.”

  “You must be majoring in drama.”

  Welcome back, Bitch. I said to myself.

  She rolled off of the bench and halfway stood looking more caveman than woman. “I’m gonna go home and bury myself in Sylvia Plath and a milkshake.”

  “That sounds so good. I might pick up one myself.”

  After picking up my bag, we walked out together. After trying three times, my car finally started up. I almost thought I’d have to call someone to tow me.

  Finally, at my apartment on the other side of town, halfway between my dad’s house and practice, I spent an hour in a hot bath. I wasn’t really a bath kind of girl. In fact, I almost prided myself in being the anti-girly-girl. I hated shopping. I hated make-up, opting only for eyeliner and lip gloss.

  This girl didn’t cry—not in years.

  A hot bath with Epsom salts sprinkled in was all the spa treatment as I was gonna get.

  My phone dinged a couple of times while I was in the water, but I ignored it. My dad never texted and anyone else would have to wait. This was the only time I got to myself. The rest of my day was devoted to the needs of others and my team.

  The balls of my feet throbbed in the heat. Sometimes I just wanted to hide from everything—hide from my own high as heaven dreams. Hide from my dad and the cloud of doom his prognosis had put on my life. Hide from myself and my get up and run myself into the ground attitude.

  No wonder I never could keep a boyfriend.

  My life was so packed full of myself that I couldn’t possibly fit in anything else.

  It wasn’t really fair that I felt the need for human contact when I froze everyone out.


  I barely made it out of the tub before wrapping myself in a robe and falling asleep in my bed. The good thing about running myself ragged was that there was no time for nighttime wishful thinking. History told me that thinking at night was dangerous.

  As industrious as I was, I wasn’t a morning person at all. So, someone texting me this early was out of the question.

  Six of the messages were from Zuri because I hadn’t texted her back the night before. And one lonely message was from Cyrus asking if we could talk. I hoped to God he wasn’t quitting already. He didn’t know it, but with him around the shop, I knew that my dad wouldn’t come unglued—at least not by himself. Guilt gripped my gut as I realized the implications of not telling Cyrus the truth. If something happened to my dad while Cyrus was with him, would he know what to do?

  Instead of texting him back, I called. A tiny part of me wanted to admit that I never called anyone. I texted. I would probably text everyone right before I died to tell them goodbye instead of having to talk.

  To my chagrin, I got his voicemail.

  I could talk on the phone but I so was not leaving a dumbass message.

  There was nothing worse than the voicemail that makes you listen to your own message before delivering it. I’d rather twist my own arm off and feed it to a rhino.

  My first steps out of the bed were painful. Nellie had made us run some harsh drills the night before. My muscles had grown new muscles and all of them hurt. So my day started with Tylenol and a bottle of Gatorade, like I was recovering from a night of partying instead of a night of working my behind off.

  Zuri had someone coming into the building early that morning, so I had to be there to let them in and make sure they weren’t hokey. My best friend had a knack for hiring people with less than reputable work ethics and background checks.