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“Why not?”
I didn’t know.
“I don’t know.” Then it hit me. “They aren’t your groceries,” I finished.
“I’m eating some of them, aren’t I?”
This was true, he was.
He turned from me, back to the cashier.
Guess that conversation was over.
I bent over and pounded my head on the little check writing desk.
“I’d lethimpay formygroceries,” the cashier decided to throw in.
I didn’t respond.
I walked to the end of the checkout, commandeered the cart the minute the bag boy put my last bag in it, and without looking back, motored out the door.
* * *
I sawMr. Greasy Coveralls pulling my car into the lot of the apartment building just before Eddie and I swung in.
I felt a moment of elation. My car was not only running, it looked waxed and happy-shiny, like it had a new lease on life.
Eddie parked. I threw open the door to the truck and walked to Mr. Greasy Coveralls.
“It’s fixed!” I cried.
“Yeah, it had a blah, blah, blah, with its blahdity, blah, blah. Then there was the blah, blah.”
Of course, he used words for the “blah blahs,” but I didn’t understand a single one of them.
“How much?” I asked, looking happily at my car, which represented freedom, independence and no more borrowed rides or bus and taxi fares.
“Seven hundred and fifty dollars.”
My breath caught, my heart seized and I was sure I was going to throw up.
I looked at Mr. Greasy Coveralls.
“Why didn’t you call me before doing anything?” I asked.
Mechanics were supposed to call, tell you what it was going to cost before sucking away your lifeblood. That’s how it worked. I thought it was the law.
“That’s the chargebeforedetailing it, the oil change, putting in a new filter and plugs and changing the wipers. Oh, and you had a brake light out,” he shared.
I started hyperventilating.
Mr. Greasy Coveralls watched me like I was a particularly inept performance artist. Then he looked at Eddie.
He looked back at me when I yelled, “I don’t have that kind of money! The car isn’t evenworththat kind of money!”
He looked back at Eddie as Eddie’s hand slid against the small of my back.
“It’s taken care of,” Mr. Greasy Coveralls said at the exact same time that Eddie muttered, “Jet.”
