Page 12 of Missed Exit

“You don’t want to sell your TV for that.”

“I hardly even watch it.”

“What’s wrong with your car?”

“Something about a sensor and some wires. I blacked out for a few seconds after he told me he wanted six-hundred bucks.”

“Get the actual names of the parts and let me look up the prices. I can probably put them in for you. Labor is always the biggest part of the bill.”

“I’d owe you a whole truckload of chips.”

“I don’t always work for chips.”

Where exactly is he going with this? He better not be about to suggest what I think he’s about to suggest.

He shrugs. “How about we trade for it?”

And this is how I go to prison . . .

It’s a good thing he’s a fast talker. “If you can afford the parts, and I can do the work, how about you let me watch baseball games on your TV?”

“Do you not have one?”

“I do, but it’s not this big. And it has a blurry stripe running through the middle of the picture.”

“Why don’t you just buy yourself a new TV?”

“Because I don’t work in the oil field, remember?”

“Right. Why do you keep doing things for me?”

“Because you have things that need to be done. And I can.”

“As a driver, you’re an asshole. But as a neighbor, you’re suspiciously nice.”

“You have trust issues. I’m a great driver. And there’s no need to be suspicious. I already admitted I have an ulterior motive here.”

“Access to my TV.”

“For any game I want to watch.”

“What if I’m watching something else?”

“You said you hardly watch it.”

He’s not wrong. It will probably be available for any game he wants to watch on it. I help him lift the TV into place so we can hang it on the bracket he’s mounted.

And just like that, where there was once a blank wall, there is now a gargantuan TV.

It’s obnoxiously big.

It’s ugly, and it ruins the cozy, homey vibe I was going for. But it might be the ticket to getting my car back on the road.

“Fine. You’ve got a deal.”

He extends his hand to shake on it. When my palm slides against his, warmth radiates up my arm. His smile is friendly as we seal our deal with a handshake. No smugness. No smirk to make me wonder if I’ve just made a mistake.

I suppose even a hermit can let one person take up space on their couch to watch a ballgame now and again. How often is there a baseball game on TV, anyway? It’s not such a big deal if he comes around once a week for a few hours. I can still mostly maintain my bubble of isolation.

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