Page 102 of Demo
He doesn’t look up from his computer as he answers. “Eh, shouldn’t be too late.”
“OK, well, see you tomorrow,” I say as I sling my purse across my body and head out.
“Bye, Lyzbeth,” I hear him reply.
As soon as I exit the building the bitter cold hits my face. Damn, I know snow is coming soon but, holy hell, how did it get so cold so fast? Why haven’t I moved south with my mom and sister? I don’t dwell on that question long enough to come up with an answer, because I know it has to do with a certain contractor I can’t seem to pull myself away from.
I hug myself as I walk the block to where my car is parked. Of course, I wasn’t lucky enough to get a spot right out front today. I hit the button to unlock the car as soon as I’m rounding the driver’s side, then pull the door open and jump in as fast as I can, slamming it behind me and quickly starting the engine. I give it a second to warm up before I adjust the heat and feel just a little warmth start coming through the vents.
After buckling up, I pull onto the roadway and feel the car thud a few times before I stop. “Sonofabitch,” I mutter, then realize the car is tipped slightly toward the rear passenger side. I put the car in park and hop back out and run around to find my suspicion confirmed.
A flat tire.
“Of course,” I say to no one at all.
I walk around and get back into the car, slam the door, and then slam the steering wheel because it makes me feel better. OK, I’ll just see if maybe EJ has a few minutes to come put the spare on. In the freezing fucking cold. I’ll be embarrassed as all hell to have to ask him, but I’ll pay him or feed him or something.
But there’s a nagging feeling I have, like perhaps I don’t have a spare, because I recall a time a while ago I got a flat and Knox changed it, and he later said something about getting a new spare tire for the trunk and, well, I never did.
I get back out of the car and walk around, pop the trunk and, again, suspicion confirmed. “Fucking shit mother-trucker son of a—errrr!” I yell into the universe, then run around, yank the door back open, duck back into the driver’s seat and beat the steering wheel some more.
“Why? WHY can nothing ever go right?” I scream alone in my car as my meltdown continues.
OK, Lizzie. Calm down. Pull yourself together.
You know what, I’ll just call AAA. That’s why we’re members, right? I’ll just call them and sit here in my nice, warm car while I wait for someone to, I dunno, tow me back to the apartment, I guess? They don’t just travel around with spare tires, do they?
I dig through my wallet looking for my membership card. I shuffle through my credit cards, a few random store rewards cards, the little pocket on the side … Nothing. Maybe it’s in the glove compartment?
Nope.
I lean back in my seat, close my eyes, grip the steering wheel and attempt to shake it, but really all I’m doing is shaking myself. And then I tip my head back and laugh. I laugh and laugh and laugh because I don’t want to cry.
I am about to resign myself to sleeping at the office because I will drink my own piss before I call Knox for help, when I see lights blink in my rearview mirror. I look up and I see it again. I see big, bright lights coming from an exceptionally large vehicle, and it appears to be trying to get my attention. And it’s pulling up behind me …
I fling the door open and jump out, arms flailing. “YES!” I jump up and down. “Yes, I need your help!” Not that the driver of the tow truck can actually hear me, but I’m hoping he—or she—gets my point.
And they do, because the truck pulls into the parking lot that is just short of where I’m parked, then turns its wheels and backs up to my vehicle. I’m hugging myself and hopping from foot to foot as the truck is maneuvered into position. I reach into the car, turn it off, grab my purse and keys, and shut the door before I walk around onto the sidewalk and toward the cab of the tow truck, feeling like I just may kiss whoever hops out, regardless of their gender.
The door opens and a dark-skinned man jumps down and starts walking toward me, and I immediately begin. “Thank yousomuch! I found it like this, with the flat. And of course I don’t have a spare, and God only knows where my AAA card is. Come to think of it, maybe we didn’t renew the membership? Anyway, I was thinking of taking up residency in a nearby bus stop, but I really don’t need pneumonia—or hepatitis—right now so, needless to say, if you didn’t show up I’d be—”
And then the man steps out of the way of the lights so I’m not being blinded by them anymore, and I see it’s Anthony King. Jerome’s older brother.
“Oh! Um,” I look down.
Anthony is pulling thick gloves on his hands as he looks from me to the car. “You said you don’t have a spare?”
I shake my head. “No. Uh, no spare.”
“You live close? A tow will cost you if you live too far outside the city.”
I shake my head again. “No. I just, I live only a few miles from here.” I point behind me, as if that’s supposed to be a clue for him. “I work at—” and I point up the block toward the ROC Record office, but, of course, he knows where I work.
He nods. He’s wearing one of those thick insulated flannel jackets, but it’s not really a coat, so he must be freezing. But if he is, he doesn’t show it. “I’ll just get the car hooked up,” he says coolly as he pulls his black knitted hat further over his ears, and he starts to walk in the direction of my car.
“Um, hey,” I say, causing Anthony to turn partly, so he’s half looking at me over his shoulder. “You don’t have to help me. I mean, I can go back into the office and call someone.”
He looks me up and down, his expression unreadable, then looks out toward the street, then back at me. “I know,” is all he says as he makes his way toward the back of his truck and starts pulling chains. After a minute, without stopping what he’s doing, he says, “Door’s unlocked.”
