Cheaters (14 page)

Traffic was in every lane, and I could hardly see the road.

My poor old buggy was about to explode.

I managed to talk my red car into limping toward the next exit. By then it was steaming, jerking like an epileptic trying to do the Humpty dance. When I finally made it into an Arco parking lot right off the freeway, my car collapsed right in front of a green car and blocked some brother in.

I don’t know what the brother thought of me when I jumped out, but I know what he saw: a frowning woman with a wild, uncontrolled, Bohemian hairstyle that jutted out about two feet.

I snatched off my shades, ran to the front of the car, and cursed out that inanimate object, flapped my hands because I was flustered, then struggled to get the hood open. The damn thing was so hot I had to snap my hand back. Then I screamed because I thought I had broken a nail. I shook my head. Me and machines.

While I was doing my pain dance, the brother stepped out of his car. Brought his mad and greasy face into what had to be the dry heat of hell. He moved toward me like he had road rage. I cringed, glared him up and down, checked out his wrinkled T-shirt over those biker shorts. The closer he came, the more my brown eyes widened like that woman’s did in the movie
Psycho.

I scurried back, gave him room.

“Excuse me.” I said that with a blend of panic, fear, and anger. “Do you know anything about cars?”

He checked his watch, stared east toward Palm Springs, ran his tongue over his teeth.

Then he sighed, nodded.

Minutes went by.

I said, “This heat is making me feel like a french fry under a McDonald’s heat lamp.”

He hadn’t said a word since he started mucking around. I watched him sweat, wipe his head, and maneuver around under the hood of my poor car. I wondered where he was from. The plate on his car had a black Crenshaw Motors frame, so he had to be from way out in L.A.

He mumbled something.

I asked, “What’s wrong with it?”

He fanned vapors out of his face, poked around here and there. He did that again and again. Made me nervous.

I fanned myself, bit my lip. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Hold on a sec,” was his tart response. I hardly made out what he said because he mumbled like he had a speech impediment.

“What are you doing to my car?” I asked.

He stood up and wiped the sweat from his forehead. His face softened up a bit, and for a moment he had a boy-next-door appeal. He said, “I thought maybe you broke a belt.”

“Did I?”

“Busted radiator hose.”

“Damn diggity damn.” I groaned. “Busted, huh?”

“Yep.”

I asked, “Is busted worse than broke?”

“Sometimes.”

“I don’t have to get a new engine or nothing like that, do I?”

“Nope,” he mumbled. “You have tools in your car?”

“Uh, no,” I said. “Why would I?”

He walked toward his car. “I have some.”

I peeped at my watch, then looked at the pay phones.

Mr. Mumbles took his time about walking to the trunk of his car. My roll-on deodorant was draining with each drop of sweat. I wanted to step underneath the shaded area for a moment, but then I’d feel like I was acting ungrateful. I didn’t feel comfortable with Mr. Mumbles. One thing I did know for sure: at some point he’d try to get my phone number. I was already thinking up a fake name and a wrong number.

I checked my watch.

He peeped over the trunk of my car and mumbled something.

I said, “What?”

“Are you in a hurry?”

I dragged my hand across my hair. With this heat, my scalp would be peeling like Corn Flakes before I got home. I said, “Sort of. I was supposed to meet somebody for breakfast.”

“Call him and tell him you’re gonna be late.”

“Who said it was a him?”

“Then call
somebody
and let them know what happened.”

He slammed the trunk, moseyed past me, stopped in front of my car, dropped down a handful of tools and a jug of antifreeze.

I asked, “Are you a mechanic?”

“Nope. Software. I design software.”

I tsked. “An engineer.”

He shook his head. “Nope. Not an engineer. I design software.”

“Well, you sure you know what you’re doing?”

He didn’t answer. I think I irritated him. I backed off. Minutes passed. Mr. Mumbles motioned for me to come over by him.

He said, “Let me show you what happened.”

I didn’t care, so long as it got fixed, but I went over.

He pointed. “Rip in your hose. Not big. I could duct-tape it and that might hold you until you made it to where you could get it fixed.”

I reached and touched the hose, faked like I knew what he was talking about. He bent it and made the wound more obvious.

I asked, “Expensive?”

“Few bucks.”

I bit my lip, smeared my chocolate lipstick all over my pearly white teeth. Last thing I needed was another bill.

I asked, “Hard to put on?”

“Clamp, a couple of screws.”

“Will a mechanic charge a lot to fix it?”

“You’re a woman. He’ll overcharge you.”

I swayed from side to side, wiped away the dampness on the back of my neck. Confronting Craig would have to wait. I fretted at the possibility of the car getting too hot and melting the silver duct tape before I made it back home to Diamond Bar.

I asked, “If I buy it, can you put it on for me?”

He stood up and spied around for a moment. A row of lines came across his damp forehead. His mouth creaked open like he was just about to answer when the pay phone started ringing.

“Hold on a sec.” He ran toward the phone booth.

I was about to yell to him, but I stopped. Stopped and

watched his broad back and round butt, his calf muscles flexing and releasing as he jogged. I mumbled, “Damn, partner.”

Sweat rolled into my eye. My makeup was oozing down to my chin. So much for looking cute as a button. Karen lived right up the street, less than two miles away, but I knew she wasn’t at home. She was on her feet behind a cash register at Mervyn’s, slaving away the weekend.

Enough was enough.

I reached into my car and snatched out my purse.

“Soda?” I yelled at Mr. Mumbles and pointed toward the mini mart. I wasn’t sure if he heard, so I did the sign-language move, mimicked like I was drinking while I walked backward.

He lowered the phone long enough to wipe the sweat from his face. “Yeah. Get something with no caffeine.”

Beggars sure are choosy. I asked, “Chips?”

“That would work.”

Him smiling made me feel at ease. I should’ve smiled back, but it was too hot to waste energy. Besides, if you smile at a brother, he thinks he’s in like Flynn.

Inside, I savored the coolness and took my time. It felt like I was being watched. In fact, I knew I was. I glanced up and saw the big security TV-screen-thing that had me and everything I did on it. There were a baker’s dozen people in the store, but the camera was focused on me. The only black in this building in the boondocks. A big red sign over the top of the screen read
SMILE
. I flipped it off. I pulled the juice out of the freezer, rolled it over my neck and arms and breasts. Mr. Mumbles was still yakking on the phone. I bought an Arizona Kiwi Strawberry and an Arizona Mango, searched for something with low-fat, couldn’t find a damn thing, so ended up grabbing a bag of Ruffles. I hate depending on people for anything. But moments like this were when a sista like me needed a man with strong hands around.

Back at the car, I gave him the Kiwi Strawberry and chips. He gave a shamefaced expression and said an uneasy “Thanks.”

“Waiting for somebody?” I asked, and opened my Mango.

Seemed like I was talking to myself. But then again,

there wasn’t a wall to shelter the noise from the freeway, plus we were facing the off-ramp. The street behind us had endless traffic. He probably didn’t hear me.

I asked, “You don’t work here, do you? Stupid question. If you worked here, you wouldn’t be using a pay phone.”

“Ran out of gas.” He blinked out of his trance. “That was somebody I paged earlier, trying to get him to come rescue me, but Jake is up at Magic Mountain with his fiancée.”

“That’s at least three hours from here.”

“I know. Want a chip?”

That was when we actually looked at each other. His almond-shaped eyes were attractive. Curly eyelashes gave that part of his face some sensitivity. I have a thing for eyes.

I took a chip, then said, “You ran out of gas?”

“Left my wallet. I’m broke and stranded.”

“Let me buy you some gas for helping.”

He thought about it. “Only if you let me pay you back.”

I smiled. “Nope, that’s not right.”

“It’d make me feel better.” He almost smiled. “I mean, you don’t have a major problem with your ride.”

I pointed at my sick-mobile. “Can you put the radiator hose thingee on for me?”

“I’ll tell you what. We’ll do it like this: hook me up with three dollars’ worth of gas, a loan. Then I’ll run you to a parts store and get you a hose
thingee
and put it on for you.”

Fuel level is low. Fuel level is low.

When I heard the car warning and looked over at his gas hand, I felt a helluva lot safer because I knew he wasn’t lying.

“You know, you shouldn’t let your car get below a quarter tank,” I said. “I read that in a book when I was at the dentist. It said something about it can mess up the engine.”

“I know. I’ve got a bad habit of riding around on E.”

“You better get Triple-A.”

He laughed.

Cute smile.

Very cute smile.

And those thick eyebrows were definitely a plus.

He pulled up to the self-service pump, and I sashayed inside and handed the attendant my Visa. Mr. Mumbles was pumping the gas before I made it back to the car.

I smiled. “Put in ten dollars’ worth.”

“We made a deal for three.”

“Already paid for.”

“Then I owe you ten.”

“No.”

“Yep.”

“If you insist.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

He let his windows up and turned his air conditioner on full blast. Lord, that sixty-degree breeze felt better than a head-to-toe Swedish body massage. All I needed was a big cup of raspberry lemonade from Hot Dog on a Stick and I’d be in my own corner of heaven. I smiled with the sensation, relaxed, and flipped the radio from station to station, went channel surfing. Outside of oldies on 100.3, hip-hop on 92.3, and jazz on 94.7, he had R&B stations 102.3 and 103.9 programmed in his box, and those were black L.A.-based stations that didn’t get picked up out this way, so he must live out west in the urban areas.

I hoped he wasn’t a rapist, or one of those fools who liked to hack people up and leave body parts in ten states. He did have duct tape, and rapists use the hell out of that shit.

But Mr. Mumbles seemed cool.

My mind turned to Craig. Wondered if he’d already left. I shouldn’t go see him, but I had too many unanswered questions. Too many open doors that needed to be closed.

Out of the blue, I asked Mr. Mumbles, “You ever break up with somebody and leave without saying good-bye?”

“What?”

I repeated my question and waited to see if he would answer me this time. Guess I was reaching for a man’s perspective on my female problems. Daddy had never told me it would be like this out here. Didn’t tell me about all the lies and back-stabbing. But my people were cut from a different cloth.

Mr. Mumbles finally answered, “Not that I can remember.”

“I take that as a yes.”

“I’ve been in relationships that faded into the sunset.”

“Faded into the sunset. I take that vague answer as a manly yes.” His answer pissed me off, the lack of forth-rightness, but I didn’t let it show. I said, “Why do people do that disrespectful crap?”

He mumbled, “Don’t know. A coward’s way out.”

“Plain old shysters.”

He shrugged. “I guess.”

A red light later, I said, “Well, I believe in closure.”

“So, you’re late for a date with closure.”

“Yeah. No. I was going, but I don’t know.”

He told me, “You’re going.”

“How do you know?”

“You’ve checked your watch every other minute.”

I said, “You’ve been checking your watch quite a bit too.”

A moment passed.

I asked, “And what has you so distracted?”

No response whatsoever. I hate it when men do that shit, ignore a woman, answer when they feel like answering.

At Super Kmart, while he was getting the hose and radiator fluid, I strolled down the aisles, picked up a cherry fragrance to hang from the rearview mirror. His car smelled fresh, like wild cherries, so that made me want my car to smell good too. I browsed through the seat covers, picked up a nice cream-colored pair that was on sale, but I tossed them back when I read they were imitation sheepskins.

“Imitation?” I said to myself. “What is a fake sheep?”

Mr. Mumbles came strolling down the aisle, holding a black hose and a yellow jug of antifreeze.

He checked his watch, said, “Ready?”

“Yep.” I checked mine too. “That’s all I need?”

“Yep.”

I followed him. Watched his backside the entire time.

Back at the service station, the sun had moved a little more, so the amount of shade had dwindled. The two short palm trees near the street didn’t have enough shade to cool off a housefly. I stood in the handicap parking space and watched him work, knowing I wouldn’t remember a damn thing he did. The heat from the blacktop was creeping up my legs, all across my butt.

He took the busted hose off, cut the new one down to size.

I went in the mini-mart for a second, came back, put another Kiwi Strawberry in his reach, then sipped on my grape slurpee and stared across the lot at the only patch of shade. The sun was dancing on top of my head. I wasn’t wearing sunblock, so my flesh had been beat into the Land of the Sunburned. My panties stuck to my butt, and I tried to wiggle them free. Didn’t work.

He asked, “Why are you shaking like that?”

I fanned myself. “You wasn’t supposed to see that.”