Page 15 of Screwed (Dad Bod Contracting 4)
He’s right and I know it. It just galls me to accept help from anyone, but especially him. Plus, the prospect of being alone with him in his truck scares me. Just standing here with him has my head, heart, and body all at odds.
I huff in annoyance. “Fine. You’re right.” I wipe my face with both hands, and then run them through my hair. “Okay. Grab your truck.”
When I said I live out of my car, I wasn’t kidding. It’s not trashed inside, but there’s twenty-two years’ worth of detritus in it—dirty scrubs, clean scrubs, sports bras, running shoes, work shoes, ankle socks, old partially empty purses, various charger cords for various brands and generations of cell phones, a tape-deck adapter for an MP3 player that’s also floating around here somewhere, a cigarette lighter charger cord for my phone, a case of CDs, lots of trash, Tupperware containers that once contained leftovers and which now contain their own ecology, a pair of kettlebells, a tennis racket, an emergency kit containing a gallon of water, a thick wool blanket, a winter hat and gloves, thick wool socks, a crank-powered flashlight, some protein bars, a spare car battery, and a collapsible trenching shovel.
While James goes to get his truck, I run into Walgreens and buy a couple of storage bins, and toss all the random, still-useful items into it, and then throw out all the trash. I empty out the console and glove box, and then the trunk, and then check under all the seats. Once the vehicle is empty of all my belongings, I figure I may as well toss the random crap I no longer want or need, and go through the bins, trashing the cords, adapters, and other stuff I haven’t used in years. James has his truck over here by now, and he’s idling in the parking spot next to me; his window is down, a burly, hairy arm hanging out, fingers tapping to the rhythm of the jazz wafting through the speakers.
A long flatbed truck pulls into the parking lot and stops, backing up near my SUV. A short, portly, dirty, bushy-bearded man with messy graying black hair hops down, wearing blue mechanic’s coveralls, a pair of cloth work gloves clutched in one hand. He ambles over to me, smiling a chewing tobacco-stained grin at me.
“Bill Moynihan,” he says, in a fast, gruff, friendly voice. “You the proud owner of this very nice piece o’shit?”
I laugh. “Yes, I am. Nova Benson.”
He gestures at the Explorer. “Mind if I give’er a quick once-over?”
I shrug. “Be my guest.”
I lean against the warm hood of James’s truck, the diesel vibrating through me. Bill pops the hood first, sticks his head in, twists and pokes and rattles and peers, tries the ignition, listening carefully, and then does a much quicker look around the outside—he even flops to his back and pokes his head underneath, and then hops to his feet and shuffles over to me.
He reaches into the open front of his coveralls and withdraws a greasy fingerprint-stained envelope. “She’s in great shape, aside from bein’ dead as a doornail. I think you’ve got an internal oil leak, and some fucked-up pistons. Won’t know until I take her apart, but I’d say you’re making the right decision, junking her.” He hands me the envelope. “Five hundred, as agreed.”
I hand him the title and take the envelope. “Thank you, Bill.”
He stuffs the title inside his coveralls. “My pleasure.” He hands me a business card. “If you ever need a tow again, gimme a call. Any friend of Jimbo’s is a friend of mine. I can do minor roadside repairs too, I should mention.”
I take the card and extend my hand. “Thank you, that’s good to know.”
He slides his work glove off and shakes my hand. “My pleasure, my pleasure.” He jerks a thumb at the Explorer. “All right, well…I’m gonna load her up and get her to the yard. Now’s the time to say goodbye, if you’re the sentimental type.”
I’m not, usually, but I’ve been driving that Explorer since I was eighteen. It’s the first thing I ever bought on my own. I’ve put thousands of dollars into keeping it running, spent countless hours changing oil and washing and vacuuming and cleaning. I’ve had some memorable sex in the back seat—Craig was…adventurous, and spontaneous, until he got sick.
I remove the license plate, pat the hood, give my beloved Explorer one last look, and then turn away. I climb into the passenger seat of James’s truck, buckle up, and watch out the window as Bill lowers the flatbed and hooks the chain onto the car. And then James is pulling out of the Walgreens parking lot, my car is out of sight, and I’m alone with James for the first time in months.
