Page 14 of Screwed (Dad Bod Contracting 4)
And then, suddenly, my Explorer becomes a hell of a lot easier to move. I glance backward, and see a shape through the rear window—just a head and shoulders, but I know exactly who it is.
No one else I know has shoulders like that, mountain-wide and bull-heavy.
James.
I’m not about to turn down the help, because he’s basically pushing the SUV by himself at this point, and I’m about gassed from pushing it as far as I have.
Together, we get my car off the road and into the Walgreens parking lot, and when it’s parked out of the way, I lean in, shove the shifter into park, and collapse against the frame, sweating and panting, hands on my knees.
I hear his feet on the ground, and straighten just in time to see him rest one massive, burly shoulder against the window.
“Nova. Thought this was your car.”
“Yep.” I pat my now-deceased vehicle on the hood. “Looks like I’m in the market for a new one, huh?”
“She’s a goner?” he asks.
I nod. “Yeah. I’ve been expecting it for a while, now. It’s probably something fixable, but it’ll cost more than the car is worth, at this point.” I kick a tire. “She’s got close to two hundred thousand miles on her, so I’d say she’s served me well.”
James makes an impressed face. “Wow. You bought her new and have driven her ever since?”
I nod. “Yes, sir. Drove her off the lot, paid her off, and drove her into the ground.” I can’t help but brag a little. “I did pretty much all the routine maintenance myself, actually. Oil changes, stuff like that.”
“Huh. That’s impressive. Renée didn’t even like to put gas in her car herself.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Course, I couldn’t boil water, so it all evened out.”
He seems embarrassed to have mentioned his dead wife, and scuffs his big brown Red Wing boot against the ground.
“There was a period of time I was too broke to be able to afford oil changes, so I taught myself, and now I actually kind of enjoy it, so I kept doing it myself even after I could afford to have someone else do it.” I hunt for something else to say, to cut through the awkwardness.
“Impressive,” James says again.
I thump the back of my foot against the dead SUV’s tire again. “So, I guess, I uh…I have to get a tow truck and a cab home. So…thanks for the help. I appreciate it.”
James’s brow furrows for a moment, and then he slides a first-generation iPhone out of his pocket—the device is encased in a battered, scratched, paint-stained OtterBox. He scrolls through his contacts, taps one, brings the phone to his ear.
“Hey, Bill. Got your flatbed? Friend of mine has a dead car. Walgreens at…Fourth and Washington. Nah, man, it’s a goner.” He gives me a look. “It’s a ninety-six?”
I nod. “Yeah. But I don’t need you to—”
“Ninety-six Explorer. Two hundred thousand miles.”
“James—”
He holds up a finger to stall me. “Nah, man. It’s worth more than that just in parts and you know it.” James pauses, listens. “Seven-fifty?…fine. Five hundred—got yourself a deal. Great. Thanks, Bill. See you shortly.”
I blink. “James.”
He grins, a rare and brilliant sight. “My buddy owns a wrecking service and parts yard. He’s gonna come get your girl, and he’ll give you five hundred in cash for it.”
I shake my head. “James, that thing is dead. It’s not worth five hundred dollars.”
He just lifts a bull-like shoulder. “Sure it is. The body is in great condition, very little rust, no big dents or scratches. The interior looks like it’s in similarly good shape. I’m guessing your pistons are shot, and you’ve probably got an internal oil leak, meaning it’s leaking somewhere inside and burning up so you never see spots on your garage floor or whatever.” He gestures at the Explorer. “Between the body, interior, transmissions, axles, suspension, all that, yeah, it’s worth five hundred easy. He’ll make that in parts plus a profit. Trust me. You’re still getting a decent chunk of cash for a dead car. Take it and run, I say.”
I sigh. “Fine.” I eye him. “I owe you more thanks, then. I’d have had it towed to a junkyard and paid money to get rid of it.”
He juts his chin at the road—I see his massive truck idling with the flashers blinking toward the back of the right turn lane. “Come on. I’ll give you a lift.”
I hesitate. “I half live out of my car. So, if your friend is towing it away, I’ll need to clean it out.”
He nods. “Oh, right. Okay, well I’ll grab my truck and run it over here.”
I frown. “I’m fine, James. Thanks.”
He frowns back. “Why would I let you take a cab when I’m here? Besides, good luck getting a cab around here. Tried that once, after the boys and I tied on a few too many. Took almost an hour to get anyone to show up at Billy Bar, and the asshole charged us fifty bucks for a twenty-minute ride. So no, you’re not taking a cab.”
