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I had my head in the fridge but at that I straightened and whirled around.
“No!Do notcall him!”
My mom would call him, no doubt about it. She didn’t have his number, but she’d find it. Not only would she call him, she’d call his mother, just to cover her bases and get the mom-to-mom business going. And not only that, she’d get Trixie to call him, and Ireallydidn’t want that. Then, they’d get my ex-boyfriends, Javier, Alex, Luis and Oscar to phone him as well, as anti-racist character references.
“Indy’s straightening it out for me,” I told her. This was also kind of a lie, but also kind of the truth, because I got the distinct feeling Indy was the kind of person who meddled.
“Well I hope so. That’s awful. No wonder you look worried sick.”
I took a mental deep breath.
With that hurdle out of the way, we tackled the rest of the hurdles of the night: laundry, exercises, dinner, dishes and my transformation into Smithie Bimbo.
I was tottering out of the house in a pair of black pumps with three and a half inch stiletto heels and thin straps around the ankles, calling good-bye to Mom, when I opened the door and let out a little scream.
Ada, our next-door neighbor was standing outside the door. Ada was older than dirt, deafer than a doorknob and had a soul made of pure sunlight.
She smiled at me, looked at my slut attire and remarked, “What a lovely outfit.”
I looked down at the ultra-mini miniskirt and the black camisole that showed too much cleavage that was peeking through the opening of the big black cardigan that I had to wear to keep out the late September chill. Then I looked back at Ada. Maybe she was going blind too.
“I’m going to watch television with your mother. There’s a good episode ofCopson tonight. I don’t want to miss it.”
Ada was addicted toCopsandAmerica’s Most Unbelievable Police Chasesand pretty much anything that had to do with policemen, bounty hunters, high speed chases, drug busts, hand-held cameras chasing after people running through backyards and people whose faces had to be made fuzzy.
She shuffled in and I went out shouting, “Have fun girls!”
When I got to my car, it wouldn’t start.
I tried it again.
It still wouldn’t start.
I tried it a third time.
Nothing.
“Piece of shit!” I shouted, slamming my hand on the wheel and then maybe cursing more and even pounding my forehead on the wheel a bit.
Guess that tank of gas was a waste of good money.
I’d been in the market for a new car before Mom had her stroke, but that went out the window. Mom’s car was worse than mine and we sold it when we moved in for part of the deposit money. Now, the old jalopy that was secondhand when I bought it five years ago was coasting on a wing and a prayer.
I yanked out my cell and called JoJo, one of the dancers who was also always late. JoJo came and got me and we both hurtled through the doors of Smithie’s fifteen minutes after we were supposed to.
Smithie was at the bar and he looked up at us as we came through the door.
“You’re fuckin’ late, a-fuckin’-gain,” Smithie greeted.
“My car wouldn’t start,” I told him, approaching the bar.
JoJo shot like a rocket backstage to avoid the Smithie confrontation.
He gave me my apron. I took out my cell and slid it into a pocket and handed him my purse and cardigan that he put behind the bar.
“At least come up with somethin’ original,” he replied.
“I’m serious.”
