A clanging noise startles my thoughts and I whip around to see a tow truck backed up to Monique and hauling her onto its bed. My eyes widen in horror.
“Hey!” I shout at the overweight truck driver, who’s got a toothpick in his mouth and a handlebar mustache. “What are you doing?”
He barely glances at me. “Taking her in. Repo.”
“Repo?” I start to panic. “No, no. There must be some mistake. A year’s worth of payments were made on that car. I still have until next month.”
He hands me a crumpled statement stained with greasy fingerprints and an unidentifiable smudge of brown. “Not according to the bank.”
I quickly scan the paper. “Shit.” I was sure those payments were good through August. I rub a hand over my mouth and try to clear my head. “Listen,” I say, trying to stay calm as I appeal to the driver. “We can work this out. What do I need to do to get you to unhook my innocent car?”
He looks bored. “You got four months of payments on you?”
“Uh, no. But I have…” I pull out the contents of my pocket. “Forty-two dollars, a broken watch, and some red dirt.”
A few grains of the dirt slip through my fingers and I think about all the weekends I spent taking care of Turner’s yard. The lawn was healthy and the garden was abundant, but Turner’s favorite part of the yard was the rose garden. I could tell that he was especially fond of his white roses, so I cared for those thorny flowers like they were helpless babies, and Turner wasn’t shy about praising me for it. Every Saturday, I’d rake through the rare red topsoil Turner planted around his precious roses, making sure the bushes could breathe and grow. I pricked my fingers more times than I can count, but those roses never withered, and for that I was always proud. I think Old Man Turner was proud of my work too.
The tow truck guy shrugs. “No cash, no car. Sorry.” He starts to lift Monique off the ground and I swear it’s like watching someone kidnap a loved one.
“Wait—wait!” I hold up a hand. “I can get it. I can get you the money. I just—I just need a little time.”
“Talk to the bank.”
I quickly shake my head. “No, you see. I can’t talk to the bank because the bank hates me—”
“Gee, I wonder why.” He doesn’t look at me.
“But I can get the money!” I gesture to Monique. “Just put my baby back down and you and I can go get a beer and talk this whole thing out.” I flash a smile. “What do you say?”
He scoffs. “You pretty boys are all the same. Used to getting whatever you want with Daddy’s money and pitching fits when someone takes your toys away.” He shakes his head and climbs back into the tow truck. “See ya.”
“But that’s my ride!” I yell, throwing my arms up. “How am I supposed to get home?”
He starts the engine and flicks the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “You should’ve thought of all that before you stopped making payments.” Then he pulls out of the gas station with sweet Monique as his captive and I watch the last piece of my other life slowly disappear.
Motherfu—
“Sir?”
I spin around to see a scrawny gas attendant wiping his hands on a rag.
“What,” I snap, frustrated at everything that’s gone wrong in my existence.
“You gotta pay for that,” he says.
I make a face. “For what?”
He nods at the pump. “For the gas.”
“The ga—” I see the gas nozzle dangling from where poor Monique was ripped away and I want to scream. “Oh, come on, man! My car was basically just hijacked! I wasn’t paying attention to how much gas I was using.”
He shrugs. “Don’t matter. Gas is gas. That’ll be eighty-seven dollars.”
“Eighty-se—” I clench my jaw. “I don’t have eighty-seven dollars.”
He scratches the back of his head. “Well I can’t let you leave until you pay.”
I scrub a hand down my face, trying to contain the many curse words that want to vault from my mouth. With a very calm and controlled voice I say, “Then do you have a manager I can speak to about settling this issue?”
He tips his head toward the small gas station store. “My sister.”
Through the store’s front window, I see a young woman with curly red hair at the register and a smile stretches across my face.
“Perfect,” I say.
As I head for the entrance, a few drops of rain fall to the ground, plopping on the dirty concrete by my shoes. I look up at the dark clouds, fat with the oncoming storm and frown. I really don’t want to walk home in the rain.
A string of gaudy bells slaps against the station door and chimes as I enter the store, and the sister looks up from a crossword puzzle. Her name tag reads WENDY. I file that information away.
Roving her eyes over me, her face immediately softens. “Why, hello there,” she says in a voice I know is lower than her natural one. “Can I help you?”
I give her my very best helpless-boy grin and sigh dramatically. “I certainly hope so, Wendy.”
Her eyes brighten at the sound of her name on my lips. Girls love it when you say their name. They melt over it. It’s like a secret password that instantly grants you their trust.
She leans forward with a smitten grin and I know I’ve already charmed my way out of an eighty-seven-dollar gas bill. And maybe even found a ride home.
“Me too,” she says eagerly.
I smile.
Sometimes it pays to be me.