by Robin Reul
I have an uncontrollable urge to start laughing. It’s a weird reaction I have sometimes during moments of high stress. My therapist, Carole, says it’s not that uncommon; it’s the subconscious mind’s way of negating fear and attempting to restore emotional balance. This would be the actual worst possible moment for that to happen.
So naturally, it does.
Hallie looks at me like I’m a weirdo, and Oscar widens his eyes in this what-the-fuck-are-you-doing-man-he’s-going-to-snap-and-kill-us sort of way, which only makes me laugh harder. I bite at the inside of my cheek to stop it, but I can’t.
“What the hell is wrong with him?” the man asks Oscar, wide-eyed.
Oscar, in the role he’s been waiting for, improvs and says, “He’s unhinged, man.”
It sounds like a line from a poorly scripted episode of Criminal Minds, and it amplifies the sheer ridiculousness of the situation, thus causing yet another nervous burst of laughter to escape. This, in turn, causes Hallie to completely lose it, and then I’m laughing at her laughing, and we both can’t stop laughing. Then Oscar joins in, and I imagine the three of us must look seriously baffling.
Hallie winks at me, and that’s when it hits me: they think I’m acting, and this is part of a plan I’ve come up with on the fly, and they are following my lead. It’s so brilliant, I wish I’d actually thought of it.
It seems to be working unplanned magic. The guy looks more than a little freaked out, unsure what to make of us or how to respond, and I sense his bravado is weakening.
I seize the moment and step forward, grab the bat from Hallie, and say in my most menacing tone, “We can keep this simple, or you can make this difficult.”
His jaw tenses, and he holds up his hands in surrender. I guess me laughing while holding a bat in my hand makes him take me more seriously. “Hey, whoa—look, I don’t want any trouble here.” Even Princess lets out a whimper.
“Excellent. Then give us the keys and we’re on our way. No further questions.”
“Right.” The guy’s brow knits together. He throws a tentative glance toward the cars and asks, “Which one is it again?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Oscar pipes up and points to it. “The one with the giant Buddha head that says GoodCarma on the side?”
The guy’s gaze settles on the last vehicle parked toward the back with its visible-from-space-because-it’s-so-huge Buddha decal as if he’s noticing it for the first time. I give the bat a swing, and then the guy swallows hard and says, “Hold up here a second.” He reaches down, tucks the yippy dog under his arm, and disappears inside the house, the front door creaking shut behind him.
The four of us are left standing in the driveway looking at each other dumbfounded. The guy is gone, and we still don’t have the car. None of us are laughing anymore.
What the hell just happened?
Chapter 11
Hallie
Saturday, June 5, 2:11 a.m.
Oscar looks like he’s about to lose the last shred of his sanity as he boldly marches up to the front door and starts banging on it urgently. “Hey, man! Give me back my keys, or we’re calling the police!” he threatens even though I’m pretty sure he’ll do no such thing. He turns around and looks at us, throwing his hands up in the air. “Is this really happening? Are we on TV? Do you see cameras?”
He legit starts peering in bushes looking for a camera crew.
“Hold your horses!” a voice calls from inside the house.
Snippets of dialogue filter out from behind the other side of the door in agitated tones saying things like “goddamn Buddha head,” “truckload of gangbangers,” and “blow this whole thing wide open.” Our ridiculous act must have worked, because this guy is obviously worried. The only time I have ever heard anyone actually use the phrase “blow this whole thing wide open” other than in a very bad, low-budget action movie is never.
The amount of adrenaline coursing through my body is off the charts. That was such a rush, like an out-of-body experience. My heart is pounding. I have never felt more awake. But now that the guy has disappeared and we still haven’t gotten the car back, it ebbs, and I start to feel nervous. What if he comes back with a gun? Who would even know we were here?
Suddenly, the front door opens again, and the guy reemerges flanked by an old lady with short, curly white hair pushing a roller walker. She’s wearing a baby-blue velour tracksuit with white stripes down the sides and flashy gold glasses with the Gucci logo on the temples, and she’s holding Oscar’s keys. The guy leans against the door and says, “This here’s Momma. Seems there’s been a mix-up and she took your car home from the service station instead of her own when she went to fill up.”
“Yep, it was a mix-up,” the woman says and looks at her son.
The guy puts his hand on his mother’s shoulder. “Sometimes Momma can’t sleep at night, and she likes to take a drive and gas up the cars. As you can see, we got a lotta cars, and sometimes she gets confused easy and forgets which one she took.” He chuckles, the picture of innocence, and says, “Well, seems that was all a big misunderstanding. So now that you have your car back, I don’t think we need to involve the cops.”
The old woman holds out the key fob and mumbles an apology under her breath like she’s a teenager who’s been caught out after curfew.
Oscar steps forward and takes it from her hand as the guy pats his mother’s arm lovingly and says, “Honest mistake. Okay, Momma, you’ve caused enough excitement for one night. Now go on inside and get to bed.” As she shuffles inside, he turns to us, winks and says, “Sorry about the inconvenience. Y’all have yourselves a good night.” And before we can blink, he hurriedly shuts the door and turns off the porch light, drowning the yard in darkness.
Once he’s gone, we all exchange a look of disbelief.
Oscar then holds his key fob up as if examining it to make sure it’s real. “Holy crap.”
“I guess you can cross ‘Have car stolen by an octogenarian’ off your bucket list,” Jack tells him as Dale emerges from behind the truck. Jack hands Lucille to Dale. “And thanks for your help. We couldn’t have done it without you. The ride, the mannequins, this scary-ass bat—that was beyond fiction.”
“Glad to help. Here I was, expecting a long, uneventful drive. It was an entertaining diversion. Just shows ya you never know what your night’s gonna be. You all charge up your phones and hold on to your keys from here on in,” he says with a chuckle. “If you don’t need anything else, I’ll be on my way.”
“I think we’re ready to roll. Thank you. Everything Jack said.” Oscar pumps Dale’s hand furiously.
I don’t think as long as I live, I will ever be able to erase the image of Dale’s truck driving off into the night with a truck full of poncho-wearing mannequin torsos in backward baseball caps.
As we settle in the car, I clear my throat, and I can hear a slight, unmistakable wheeze. My breathing is a little more labored, but I attribute it to the night air and the adrenaline rush. Nonetheless, I put my hand to my chest and can’t help but wince. It’s only for a second, but Jack catches it.
“You all right?” he asks me.
I nod. Before, he might not have thought anything of it, but now, after what I’ve told him, he’s bound to worry it may be something more serious. That makes two of us, but I made the choice to be here, so I need to push through it.
Oscar adjusts the rearview mirror and says, “Not that I’m complaining, but anybody else question the validity of the whole Momma-is-an-accidental-kleptomaniac story?”
He presses the engine start button, and the car makes a clicking sound. He presses it again, and there’s more of the same.
“Why isn’t the car starting?” I ask.
“I have no idea,” he says and continues to press it as if this next time might be the charm.
I look at Jack. “So, what are we gonna do?�
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“Why are you asking me?” he asks.
“You’ve come up with the plans so far tonight, so it’s looking like you’re the unofficial brains of this operation,” I explain. I’m not wrong.
“I’m no mechanic, but since we just got gas, my first guess is it’s a dead battery. You probably need a jump start.”
Oscar narrows his eyes as he checks the dashboard screen. “Nope. Dead empty. I never got to fill up. I went to the restroom first. Good to know I can get this far even with the tank on empty. People may knock them, but Kias get some great mileage.”
“So where are we going to find gasoline just sitting around?” I ask.
We all realize at the same time that if we are surrounded by cars, there must be gas. Wordlessly we fan out looking for the telltale red containers of fuel. I find one in the waiting-to-be-featured-on-an-episode-of-Hoarders side yard by the sagging carport, but it’s empty. We keep searching, but then Oscar whispers loudly to us to bring him the fuel can ASAP. I grab it and follow the direction his voice came from to find him crouched down on the side of a gold Toyota Camry, proudly holding a long piece of what appears to be two different lengths of plastic aquarium tubing.
“Look what I found.” He waves them back and forth with his hand, super excited about this random discovery. “Life imitates art.”
“What do you mean life imitates art? And how is plastic tubing going to help us?” I ask.
“I once had to audition for a heist movie as this guy who is siphoning gas from the big mob boss’s car and gets caught, but I still remember how to do it. I need a rag or something to create suction.”
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing? You’ve actually done this in real life? You got the part?” Jack asks him.
“No, I did not get the part, which is ridiculous. But I did watch a how-to video on YouTube a hundred times to make sure I had it down,” he assures us. “Acting is all about authenticity.”
I spy a piece of red fabric by the chain-link property fence out of the corner of my eye. It’s an abandoned T-shirt, sun-bleached and riddled with holes. It’s probably been there for some time and has found its purpose.
“How about this?” I offer it to him.
“Perfect.” He attempts to open the gas tank, but it’s tight and he can’t get it to budge. “It’s stuck. I need a jar opener.”
“Where are we going to find a jar opener here? This isn’t exactly Target,” I say, as if that weren’t obvious. I start to get nervous again.
Jack’s face lights up. “I think I have the solution.”
He pulls out his wallet and extracts the Pokémon condom I saw him holding at the restaurant, tears off the wrapper with his teeth, then wraps the end of it around the gas cap and twists. It resists for a second and then turns with ease.
“Brilliant,” Oscar says. He wraps the thin fabric around the base of the shorter tube and then shoves the other tube into the tank along with the first one, filling in the space around it with the T-shirt. “Let’s give it a go.”
He leans forward, blowing hard into the short tube. Nothing happens. He blows again. Nothing. He pushes at the fabric, making sure the seal is tight, and blows a third time and then like magic we hear the gasoline start to flow from the car into the canister.
“Well done,” I compliment him.
Oscar grins. “And people say there’s nothing of value on YouTube.”
We are nearly finished pouring the gas into the tank when the front door cracks open and we hear Princess being released into the yard for a middle-of-the-night pee. All we need is that dog to start yapping again and that guy to catch us on his property siphoning gas without an army of half-naked mannequins and Dale’s bat.
The guy yells, “Stay out you damn rodent. I swear as soon as Momma goes, your days are numbered.”
He slams the door closed, and Princess lets out a whimper.
Oscar narrows his eyes. “I hate people who are mean to animals. Nikki loves animals. Especially dogs. She’d rescue every last one if she could.”
“We better get going before she picks up our scent,” I whisper.
Too late. She’s heading in our direction.
Oscar quickly caps the gas can and puts it to the side. Even if it’s not full, it’s enough to get us down the road enough to buy more. Oscar and I climb into the car and Jack’s coming around the side to get in when we hear a low growling sound at his feet. It’s Princess.
“Hi, Princess, nice doggy,” he says gently, moving slowly toward the rear-passenger door. He reaches his hand out and puts it on the handle. Princess stops growling and sits down, watching him curiously, and then yawns. As he’s edging himself backward to sit down, Princess walks over to the car and cocks her head sideways, looking up at him.
“I can’t close the door with her standing there,” he tells us.
Princess looks back toward the house, then back at me, whimpers again, and starts wagging her tail.
“I think she wants to come with us,” I say.
Princess lets out a single yip as if agreeing. I try to shush her. She gives a little whine, and I suddenly understand the full meaning of the term puppy-dog eyes.
“We can’t steal his dog,” Jack reasons.
“He stole our car,” I refute.
“Technically Momma did,” he says as Princess hops up on her hind legs, paws against the instep of the open door frame.
“Look at her, she’s practically begging. This jerk doesn’t deserve her. He called her a rodent,” I say, and then I get an amazing idea. “Oscar—you should give her to Nikki. Tell her you rescued her, which isn’t entirely a lie. The charm of a live dog might be more romantic than a dead one, plus it would be symbolic. Think about it: Terrapin represents your old life together, but Princess could represent your new one.”
“It’s true—nothing says ‘take a chance on our future’ like gifting someone a stolen Chihuahua,” Jack volunteers.
“Brilliant!” Oscar cranes his neck to look at Princess and grins at the scrappy junkyard dog. “Princess, today’s your lucky day. Welcome aboard!”
He summons her to jump in with a curl of his hand, and Princess readily accepts. We should get the heck out of here before anything else can happen. Once in the car, the dog immediately sets to work sniffing everything. I offer my hand to her, and she contemplates it, then begins furiously licking it. It’s like an ad for why to use hand sanitizer. Trust established, Jack hastily closes his door as I pull Princess into the space on the seat between us. She rotates counterclockwise in a circle twice and then curls up into a ball like she belongs here, leaning her head against my thigh. In fact, I swear the dog is smiling.
Once we’re in motion, I check my phone for any word about Owen, but I can’t get reception. Even with that delay, it’s still looking like I should be able to make it to San Francisco to catch my bus with no problem. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when I walk in that door and we meet for the first time. Wait until I tell him about the mannequins and now the Chihuahua. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the levity.
“I can’t believe we just stole a dog,” I say finally. “I’ve never stolen anything in my life.”
“She’s not stolen—she’s rescued, like you said. We liberated her,” Oscar says.
“You’re right. We’re offering her a better life,” I say as I rub Princess behind her ears. That I can make peace with.
Jack stretches and says, “Well, I don’t know about you two, but liberation gives me a hell of an appetite.”
As if on cue, an oasis with a neon gas station and fast food signs appears in the distance. My stomach gnaws with hunger in anticipation of the grease and carbonation.
Oscar picks up speed and it’s not long before we find ourselves in the drive-through lane of a twenty-four-hour Taco Bell. Despite it being around three in the morning, there
’s a huge line. Apparently, all there is to do in the middle of the night around here is steal cars and dogs and eat fast food.
“The beauty of Taco Bell is you can get a ridiculous amount of eats and feast like a king for around twenty bucks,” Jack says as he tears the wrapper off his first Soft Taco Supreme. “It’s the kind of food you pay a little for up front and a lot for later, but right now it is the stuff of dreams.” Princess props herself up on his leg and attempts to take a bite. He whisks the food away just in time.
“Aww, she’s hungry,” I say, pulling her off of him. “We need to get her something to eat.” Jack reluctantly puts his taco back in the wrapper, and while Oscar tops off the car with gas, Jack and I quickly run into the mini-mart. I tuck Princess under my arm like a football. They don’t seem to have any dog food, because why would they? We opt for a mini-mart hot dog, which looks fresher than the ones from the place where the car got stolen. Princess wags her tail when she sees Jack reaching for it. I add a bottle of water, Jack pays the attendant, and now everybody’s happy.
Back at the car, I tear the hot dog into bits, and Princess eagerly wolfs them down. After I get her settled, I take a bite of my chicken soft taco, savoring every bite. I never get to eat this stuff anymore. At home, Mom tries to cook super healthy.
Jack lathers his soft taco in Fire Sauce and stuffs a quarter of it into his mouth. I shovel my nachos into my mouth like someone is about to take them away from me. I offer him one, but he declines, as he has his own order in the bag along with three more soft tacos and a MexiMelt. Oscar attempts to eat his burrito with one hand while navigating us back in the direction of the highway with the other.
“Do you ever wonder how many people you’ve walked by a million times at school might have turned out to be amazing friends if you’d only struck up a conversation?” he asks me.
I smile. “Only all the time, but not even just when I was at school. I like looking at total strangers and making up whole stories about them in my head.”