Friday's Whims of the Time Traveler 49.0: March 4th, 2008
Cars and Coffee
by Belinda Roddie
“A Honda Civic.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me."
“No, I’m serious. A black Honda Civic. 2001, maybe. Saw one in the IJ.”
“Out of all the cars you can choose to drive, you decide on the blandest, most economically sound vehicle?”
“All I’m saying is that I wouldn’t get a fancy car even if I had the money,” Tony says, as Simon rolls his eyes and takes another drag from his cigarette. The three of us are standing nonchalantly outside of Peet’s, listening to the tattooed man play Bob Dylan and altering intakes of nicotine and coffee.
“Still, a Honda Civic? I mean, seriously?” Simon mutters.
“Oh, c’mon, Simon, think about it. Say I did get a nice car. Like a BMW convertible. Or a Jaguar.”
“No. No Jaguar. Jaguars suck. One day you’re speeding down the highway, the next you’re at Randall’s, trying to get the engine to stop acting so fucked up.”
“Dude, you’re not listening. You’re totally missing my point.”
“Fine. Move along with your hypothetical situation, then,” grumbles Simon. I crack a thin smile.
Tony continues, “Anyway, say I got one of those nice cars. Sure, it’d look great, right? Brand new, brilliant sheen, perfect painting job, right? But as soon as I start driving it, I gotta worry about the little things, like vandalism and dents and maybe someone hotwiring it…”
“No one hotwires anything here, Tony,” Simon interrupts again.
“Sure they do. The cops don’t do shit. They don’t pay attention,” says Tony.
“My dad has a nice sports car and goes everywhere, and no one’s even smashed a window for his stuff.”
Tony decides that it’s best to turn his back on Simon and talk directly to me instead. “So instead, I figure an older car, but still an awesome car, right? Yeah, it’d have some dings on it, scratches, chipped paint – but at least I don’t have to worry about it getting fucked up. Plus it’s got character to it, and cheaper to fuel. Period.”
He removes his cigarette and spits out of the corner of his mouth, something he does to create a denouement to whatever point he makes. All three of us are letting the cigarettes burn to stumps in our mouths. A middle-aged woman with two preteens and a toddler gives us a dirty look, but we shake it off.
“I still would buy a nice car,” Simon says to break the silence.
“Cars don’t have to be new to be nice,” retorts Tony.
“Whatever. A fancy car. I’ve always wanted a Mercedes.”
“Eh, too commercial.”
“Don’t try to avoid being mainstream, Tony. It doesn’t work.”
“Fuck you, Simon.”
On that note, Tony turns to me, flicking the cigarette out of the corner of his mouth and scraping it into ash with the heel of his boot. “What about you, Hal? Simon says a Mercedes, I say a Honda Civic. What car would you drive?”
I inhale and exhale, smoke issuing from my nostrils and curling into wisps in the hot August air. “I don’t know, Tone,” I mutter, grinning when he winces at the nickname. Serves him right for calling me Hal instead of Hallie. “I’d have to get back to you on that.”
Simon snorts. “Lame, kiddo!”
“Yeah, seriously,” Tony says. “There’s gotta be some car you’ve seen that you’d love to drive. Anything.”
“As long as it’s not a goddamn Jaguar.”
“Shut up, Simon.”
“I’m serious. It’s a piece of shit.”
I think about it. I pick automobiles out of my memory like lint and let them linger before settling on one. Jackpot. A perfect snapshot of a suitable enough vehicle.
“Well…there was this older, blue Mustang I saw one day. Ran great, and it looked great. I’d love one of those.”
“Ah, the classic, huh?” Tony asks, grinning. “Should’ve expected it from you.”
He’s right. Being the only one out of the trio who listens to “classic” rock, and watches “classic” films, and reads “classics” while thinking of the “classic” journeys I wish I could partake in, I smirk as Tony asks, “But you’ve got a car already, don’t you? A gray Saturn. Nice scrape on the front.”
“That’s my mom’s fault, not mine,” I say.
“Yeah, well, I mean, it’s still a nice car.”
“Yeah, it is. I don’t mind it.” I think for a moment before adding, “I mean, any car will do. I don’t care what it looks like or how old it is, as long as it works and gets me on the road. Just as long as it gets me the fuck out of here.”
Simon starts coughing; he’s almost inhaled the rest of the cigarette. I turn my eyes on him.
“Sorry. I’m sorry.”
“What’s so funny, Simon? Tell me.”
“Nothing, nothing,” Simon wheezes, eyes watering as he peers at me with a lopsided grin. “Just that you always dream about leaving but never do.”
“Shut up.”
“It’s true. You do it every day, kiddo.”
“Shut up.”
“Oh, c’mon, give it a rest, both of you,” Tony groans. “She always dreams, you always have your head up your ass. Let’s just smoke, all right?”
“Your head will be up your ass in a second, Tony,” growls Simon, the amused tone in his voice dissipating.
“Should I be intimidated by that, Simon?”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“Will do,” Tony says, giving me a pat on the shoulder and mockingly blowing a kiss to Simon. “Later, guys. I gotta take care of another shift at Pini.”
Then he’s gone, off on his bicycle, his red T-shirt dark with sweat and clinging to his back. It’s just Simon and me now, finishing off our cigarettes. The tattoed guitarist’s playing Beatles now.
“Sorry,” Simon says.
“Forget it.”
“I know it bothers you.”
“Forget it,” I repeat. “Not like you refrain from bitching, anyway.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“You’ve had just as much of a chance to leave as I have, Simon. Don’t act like that’s not true.”
“Just back off, okay? I said I was sorry.”
“Okay. Fine. Whatever.”
There’s no whatever about it, though. Simon knows where and when to hit a target, and his arrow’s gone pretty deep. I know I could just jump in my Saturn and drive off with the paychecks all cashed in. But the truth is, I wouldn’t have a place to go.
Funny thing how a bird knows it can break out of its cage but has no clue where to fly to. Seems like a common problem.
“I have to get back to work,” Simon says, making me jump from my train of thoughts.
“Your manager sure must like you being around, Simon.”
“Oh, I know. Do you think he likes me?”
I chuckle. “I dunno, are you his type?”
“Oh, c’mon, Hallie.”
“I’m kidding. That’d be awkward. You know, considering you’re straight and he’s married.”
“I just want him to give me a raise, that’s all. Just a goddamn raise.”
Simon sighs. He puts out his cigarette and yawns.
“Where are you off to, kiddo?”
I look at the street ahead of us, the warm breeze tousling my hair. “I dunno. Probably to the railroad tracks.”
“What about your job?”
“I have the day off. I’ll be pushing carts and all that shit tomorrow.”
“Hmmm. Good luck with that,” Simon says as he stands up and begins to walk away.
“Thanks. Good luck wooing your manager,” I call.
“Shut up!”
I laugh as Simon weaves through the parking lot and disappears behind a minivan, but it sounds so thin and weak, almost foreign to me. My ears are ringing, and I stand up and look at the guitar player. His embroidered biceps flex as he gently strums "Wish You Were Here" by Pink Floyd.
Good luck to me, I think as I head down the steps onto the sidewalk. Good luck, indeed.
Then I cross the street and I’m drifting.
The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since March 4th, 2008.
by Belinda Roddie
“A Honda Civic.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me."
“No, I’m serious. A black Honda Civic. 2001, maybe. Saw one in the IJ.”
“Out of all the cars you can choose to drive, you decide on the blandest, most economically sound vehicle?”
“All I’m saying is that I wouldn’t get a fancy car even if I had the money,” Tony says, as Simon rolls his eyes and takes another drag from his cigarette. The three of us are standing nonchalantly outside of Peet’s, listening to the tattooed man play Bob Dylan and altering intakes of nicotine and coffee.
“Still, a Honda Civic? I mean, seriously?” Simon mutters.
“Oh, c’mon, Simon, think about it. Say I did get a nice car. Like a BMW convertible. Or a Jaguar.”
“No. No Jaguar. Jaguars suck. One day you’re speeding down the highway, the next you’re at Randall’s, trying to get the engine to stop acting so fucked up.”
“Dude, you’re not listening. You’re totally missing my point.”
“Fine. Move along with your hypothetical situation, then,” grumbles Simon. I crack a thin smile.
Tony continues, “Anyway, say I got one of those nice cars. Sure, it’d look great, right? Brand new, brilliant sheen, perfect painting job, right? But as soon as I start driving it, I gotta worry about the little things, like vandalism and dents and maybe someone hotwiring it…”
“No one hotwires anything here, Tony,” Simon interrupts again.
“Sure they do. The cops don’t do shit. They don’t pay attention,” says Tony.
“My dad has a nice sports car and goes everywhere, and no one’s even smashed a window for his stuff.”
Tony decides that it’s best to turn his back on Simon and talk directly to me instead. “So instead, I figure an older car, but still an awesome car, right? Yeah, it’d have some dings on it, scratches, chipped paint – but at least I don’t have to worry about it getting fucked up. Plus it’s got character to it, and cheaper to fuel. Period.”
He removes his cigarette and spits out of the corner of his mouth, something he does to create a denouement to whatever point he makes. All three of us are letting the cigarettes burn to stumps in our mouths. A middle-aged woman with two preteens and a toddler gives us a dirty look, but we shake it off.
“I still would buy a nice car,” Simon says to break the silence.
“Cars don’t have to be new to be nice,” retorts Tony.
“Whatever. A fancy car. I’ve always wanted a Mercedes.”
“Eh, too commercial.”
“Don’t try to avoid being mainstream, Tony. It doesn’t work.”
“Fuck you, Simon.”
On that note, Tony turns to me, flicking the cigarette out of the corner of his mouth and scraping it into ash with the heel of his boot. “What about you, Hal? Simon says a Mercedes, I say a Honda Civic. What car would you drive?”
I inhale and exhale, smoke issuing from my nostrils and curling into wisps in the hot August air. “I don’t know, Tone,” I mutter, grinning when he winces at the nickname. Serves him right for calling me Hal instead of Hallie. “I’d have to get back to you on that.”
Simon snorts. “Lame, kiddo!”
“Yeah, seriously,” Tony says. “There’s gotta be some car you’ve seen that you’d love to drive. Anything.”
“As long as it’s not a goddamn Jaguar.”
“Shut up, Simon.”
“I’m serious. It’s a piece of shit.”
I think about it. I pick automobiles out of my memory like lint and let them linger before settling on one. Jackpot. A perfect snapshot of a suitable enough vehicle.
“Well…there was this older, blue Mustang I saw one day. Ran great, and it looked great. I’d love one of those.”
“Ah, the classic, huh?” Tony asks, grinning. “Should’ve expected it from you.”
He’s right. Being the only one out of the trio who listens to “classic” rock, and watches “classic” films, and reads “classics” while thinking of the “classic” journeys I wish I could partake in, I smirk as Tony asks, “But you’ve got a car already, don’t you? A gray Saturn. Nice scrape on the front.”
“That’s my mom’s fault, not mine,” I say.
“Yeah, well, I mean, it’s still a nice car.”
“Yeah, it is. I don’t mind it.” I think for a moment before adding, “I mean, any car will do. I don’t care what it looks like or how old it is, as long as it works and gets me on the road. Just as long as it gets me the fuck out of here.”
Simon starts coughing; he’s almost inhaled the rest of the cigarette. I turn my eyes on him.
“Sorry. I’m sorry.”
“What’s so funny, Simon? Tell me.”
“Nothing, nothing,” Simon wheezes, eyes watering as he peers at me with a lopsided grin. “Just that you always dream about leaving but never do.”
“Shut up.”
“It’s true. You do it every day, kiddo.”
“Shut up.”
“Oh, c’mon, give it a rest, both of you,” Tony groans. “She always dreams, you always have your head up your ass. Let’s just smoke, all right?”
“Your head will be up your ass in a second, Tony,” growls Simon, the amused tone in his voice dissipating.
“Should I be intimidated by that, Simon?”
“Oh, fuck off.”
“Will do,” Tony says, giving me a pat on the shoulder and mockingly blowing a kiss to Simon. “Later, guys. I gotta take care of another shift at Pini.”
Then he’s gone, off on his bicycle, his red T-shirt dark with sweat and clinging to his back. It’s just Simon and me now, finishing off our cigarettes. The tattoed guitarist’s playing Beatles now.
“Sorry,” Simon says.
“Forget it.”
“I know it bothers you.”
“Forget it,” I repeat. “Not like you refrain from bitching, anyway.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“You’ve had just as much of a chance to leave as I have, Simon. Don’t act like that’s not true.”
“Just back off, okay? I said I was sorry.”
“Okay. Fine. Whatever.”
There’s no whatever about it, though. Simon knows where and when to hit a target, and his arrow’s gone pretty deep. I know I could just jump in my Saturn and drive off with the paychecks all cashed in. But the truth is, I wouldn’t have a place to go.
Funny thing how a bird knows it can break out of its cage but has no clue where to fly to. Seems like a common problem.
“I have to get back to work,” Simon says, making me jump from my train of thoughts.
“Your manager sure must like you being around, Simon.”
“Oh, I know. Do you think he likes me?”
I chuckle. “I dunno, are you his type?”
“Oh, c’mon, Hallie.”
“I’m kidding. That’d be awkward. You know, considering you’re straight and he’s married.”
“I just want him to give me a raise, that’s all. Just a goddamn raise.”
Simon sighs. He puts out his cigarette and yawns.
“Where are you off to, kiddo?”
I look at the street ahead of us, the warm breeze tousling my hair. “I dunno. Probably to the railroad tracks.”
“What about your job?”
“I have the day off. I’ll be pushing carts and all that shit tomorrow.”
“Hmmm. Good luck with that,” Simon says as he stands up and begins to walk away.
“Thanks. Good luck wooing your manager,” I call.
“Shut up!”
I laugh as Simon weaves through the parking lot and disappears behind a minivan, but it sounds so thin and weak, almost foreign to me. My ears are ringing, and I stand up and look at the guitar player. His embroidered biceps flex as he gently strums "Wish You Were Here" by Pink Floyd.
Good luck to me, I think as I head down the steps onto the sidewalk. Good luck, indeed.
Then I cross the street and I’m drifting.
The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since March 4th, 2008.
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