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Twelve
It’s been years since I’ve stepped foot in a mom-and-pop auto repair shop. A perk of being a carless New Yorker. I slowly inhale the unmistakable grease-rubber odor blend with hints of sweat and I note all of the common features. Like a nearly empty vending machine in the corner that looks like it was born in the Reagan years. A handful of faded burgundy tweed banquet chairs that were probably snagged from a church yard sale. An old tube TV screening Judge Judy. No volume, of course, just boxy subtitles across the screen. Then there’s the guy behind the counter in his navy blue work shirt with a name patch above the pocket, listening to AC/DC’s “Highway to Hell” low on the radio while a dusty oscillating fan breezes behind him.
I spent my childhood in a place just like this because my dad couldn’t afford childcare. Doing my homework in the break room after school. Playing penny poker on the concrete floor with my surrogate uncles. And drinking as much Coke machine cola as I could stand (God, how I loved that thunking sound when the can dropped into the dispenser). It’s a miracle I didn’t end up with Jack Sparrow’s mouth.
That part of my life is long gone. Some people like to cruise down memory lane; for me it’s more like rush hour on “the 5” in Los Angeles—a nightmare. Or so I’ve heard. I take a deep breath but my throat grows thick. Maybe after all these years I’ve developed an allergy to auto shop fumes. “I think I’m gonna wait outside,” I say.
“You mean you don’t want to boss this guy around too?” Nick jokes.
I muster a tiny chuckle. “You’re a big boy now. I think you can handle this one.”
Outside, I breathe in the sweltering Jersey air. This is supposed to be a fresh start for me. Swear to God, this is the most I’ve thought about my dad since I left Texas. With all these freaking father reminders, it’s like my past is coming back to haunt me. Good thing I don’t believe in ghosts.
A few minutes later, Nick’s voice sneaks up behind me. “Looks like we’ve got about an hour to kill. You want some lunch?”
“I could eat.” If I’m being honest, I can always eat. Especially if it gets me away from this place. “I think I saw a Five Guys up the street.”
He does a bro chin nod. “You a burger girl?”
“No,” I say. “I am the burger girl.”
—
While we wait in line, I lean against the checkered wall. “You’re buying, right?”
“Why? You think we’re on a date or something?” He rests his arm on the wall above me like we’re flirting in front of my high school locker. Part of me wants to lean in. The other part is repulsed by the lingering smoke on his breath.
I step aside, pushing my glasses up the slope of my nose. “Is this a place you’d take a girl on a first date?”
“Maybe, if she was a burger girl.” Now isn’t that cute?
“Well, I did save you the roadside assistance fee and the time it would take for them to tow your car to the shop. Not to mention, I taught you how to change a tire.”
“Is this a lawyer thing? Billing me for every little thing you do.”
That’s one way to look at it. The other is that I’m now in a lower tax bracket and have to save my pennies where I can. At least for a little while. “Please, a burger and fries are a fraction of my attorney fees.”
Nick holds his hands up. “Whoa, whoa. Fries? Now you’re just taking advantage of me.”
I shrug. “Fair’s fair, my friend.”
“I’ll tell you what, I’ll get this one and you can get the next one.” Mm-hmm, typical guy. He got what he wanted out of me and now he won’t put out... the money, I mean.
“Throw in a milkshake and you’ve got yourself a deal,” I say.
“Done.” Nick offers his hand and, I swear, pulls me closer. Maybe an inch, but still. I think back to one of Imani’s don’t go on tour arguments—Are you sure this guy isn’t just trying to get in your pants? My first thought was What’s wrong with that? But instead I asked if she was implying that I’m not funny enough to feature on the road and of course she backpedaled from there. But seriously, Nick doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who would have any trouble with the ladies (not like some of the other comics I know). So I put any malicious suspicion out of my mind.
While our burgers are on the grill and our fries are drowning in peanut oil, we find an empty table to wait. “I’ve never traveled with a feature before,” he says. Based on what I know about road comics, our road trip is somewhat unorthodox. At least for his level. And now mine.
“Neither have I.” I take a long sip of my chocolate milkshake. The chilled cream helps cool me down.
Nick stares out the window like he’s looking for someone or something. “You know, being stuck in Jersey is my worst nightmare.”
“Not a fan of the Garden State?” I ask.
“Nope, that’s why I ran away to the city.”
“Funny you should say that. My roommate thinks I’m running away on this tour.” I’m not sure why I just said that so casually. It’s like I’ve cracked open a door for him when there’s nothing to see.
