Her Thirties Part 9

 

Saturdays I used to spend hanging around Sam’s studio driving her crazy—but that was my other life—this was my new one.

Instead of going to Sam’s studio, I drove downtown and went to the St. Lawrence Market—not that I eat a lot of fresh produce—but, the market’s been there since 1803 and I like taking a walk through the past.

I bought a lot of fruit and vegetables I wouldn’t eat and probably would end up throwing out, but it was fun. I did, however, buy a block of ten-year old aged cheddar that I definitely would not throw out.

 

There were quite a few beautiful girls out, seemingly shopping by themselves. What’s that all about? I made a mental note to return. Hell, next time, I might even stop a girl and ask her.

Not likely. I don’t meet women that way. I usually run into them incidentally in the course of my work and then spend weeks working up the courage to ask them out—or not. Usually, not, because I’m kind of shy and rely passively on my boyish charm to seduce them.

But I don’t know if that’s working for me lately—I seem to be suddenly short of dates.

 

When I got home just past noon, I made myself a toasted cheddar and tomato sandwich on rye and watched a little of my Colombo video. Next thing I knew, the grandfather clock chimed four—I must have fallen asleep.

I barely had time to shower and dress before Abe was banging on my door.

“You’re early,” I told him, “It’s only half past four.”

“Yeah, well Mitzy was cleaning and I was trying to help—and you know women.”

 

I shook my head and smiled. No, actually I didn’t know women—and what little I did know, I wouldn’t risk offering as advice.

“Speaking of which,” Abe continued, “we’re going to have to get you a woman.”

“Wasn’t that a 70’s song?”

“Hey Man—not just any song—that was Todd Rundgren.” He began crooning, “We gotta get you a woman, we gotta get you a woman We gotta get you a woman And when we’re through with you, we’ll get me one too.”

“Yeah—well, I hope you’re joking about the last part, Abe—because I seriously don’t want Mitzy hunting me down for leading you astray.”

 

He looked offended. “Me—going astray? You gotta be joking, Pal—I adore Mitzy. It’s just a song.”

I gave him a wry smile—like I believe that—but, on the other hand, Abe struck me as a real straight shooter, so I opted to play Nick Carraway to his Gatsby, and reserve my judgment.

“So whose car are we taking tonight?” Abe yelped as we headed for the elevators.

“Does it matter?”

“Sure, it matters,” he protested, “If you drive, I get to drink more beer.”

I chuckled, “Fine, we’ll take mine.”

 

The sun was low in the west as we stepped out into the shadow-filled parking lot.

“Which is yours?” asked Abe looking around.

I pulled out my Camaro key fob and pressed the remote. A black Camaro ZL1 chirped back at me, fog lights blinking.

Abe’s jaw dropped. “Tell me you’re kidding—you own this beautiful beast?”

“I wouldn’t say I own it—more like I took out a mortgage on it.”

 

He approached the car with reverence, running his hands across the gold Trans am decal. “Man, a hood bird? This looks like a Trans am Bandit. Is it supercharged?”

“Yeah—it’s a 6.2 liter V8.”

“Jeez! What’s its top speed?”

“It’ll go 185 miles an hour.”

He shook his head in awe. “Maybe we should show Harry this baby and tell him it’s the pursuit car.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” I replied.

“Naw, you wouldn’t—knowing Harry, he’d know anyway.”

 

We both laughed.

I’m sure he would, I mused.

I tossed Abe the keys. “How about you drive down? —I’ll drive back.”

His eyes gleamed. “You trust me with this baby?”

“It’s not my wife.”

“I’ll trade you,” he teased.

 

I rolled my eyes. “We haven’t even drank an ale and already you’re taking off your wedding ring?”

Hey, it’s not every day I get to drive what pimps and pushers drive.”

“Do they?” I asked.

“Naw,” he laughed, “ they drive clunkers—like me, so they won’t draw attention to themselves.”

“ Why don’t you get behind the wheel instead of yapping out here in the parking lot?”

“Oh yeah,” he grinned sheepishly.

 

We both got in and then, the litany of questions began again—the black leather sports seats with microfiber suede inserts—the readouts straight onto the windshield.

It took ten minutes before we finally got out of the lot.

But the curious thing about that, I began to feel good again—and hopeful about life after Sam.

 

© 2017 – 2018, John J Geddes. All rights reserved.

Be Sociable, Share!
This entry was posted in Private Lies. Bookmark the permalink.

Comments are closed.