Christine

“You can’t leave it there and I hope you know that,” she said with a maddening kind of circularity. “My husband'Il be home pretty soon. He don’t want no junk car in front of the house.”

“It’s not junk,” Arnie said, and something in his tone made her back up a step.

“You don’t want to take that tone of voice to me, sonny this overweight be-bop queen said haughtily. “It don’t take much to get my husband mad.”

“Look,” Arnie began in that same dangerous flat voice he had used when Michael and Regina began ganging up on him. I grabbed his shoulder hard. More hassle we didn’t need.

“Thanks, ma’am,” I said. “We’ll get it taken care of right away. We’re going to take care of it so quick you’ll think you hallucinated this car.”

“You better,” she said, and then hooked a thumb at my Duster. “And your car is parked in front of my driveway.”

I backed my Duster up. She watched and then joggled back up to her house, where a little boy and a little girl were crammed into the doorway. They were pretty porky, too. Each of them was eating a nice nourishing Devil Dog.

“Wassa matta, ma?” the little boy asked. “Wassa matta that man’s car, Ma? Wassa matta?”

“Shut up,” the be-bop queen said, and hauled both kids back inside. I always like to see enlightened parents like that; it gives me hope for the future.

I walked back to Arnie.

“Well,” I said, dragging out the only witticism I could think of, “it’s only flat on the bottom, Arnie. Right?”

He smiled wanly. “I got a slight problem, Dennis,” he said.

I knew what his problem was; he had no spare Arnie dragged out his wallet again—it hurt me to see him do it—and looked inside. “I got to get a new tyre,” he said.

“Yeah, I guess you do. A remould—”

“No remoulds. I don’t want to start out that way.” I didn’t say anything, but I glanced back toward my Duster. I had two remoulds on it and I thought they were just fine.

“How much do you think a new Goodyear or Firestone would cost, Dennis?”

I shrugged and consulted the little automotive accountant, who guessed that Arnie could probably get a new no-frills blackwall for around thirty-five dollars.

He pulled out two twenties and handed them to me. “If it’s more—with the tax and everything—I’ll pay you back.”

I looked at him sadly. “Arnie, how much of your week’s pay you got left?”

His eyes narrowed and shifted away from mine. “Enough,” he said.

I decided to try one more time—you must remember that I was only seventeen and still under the impression that people could be shown where their best interest lay. “You couldn’t get into a nickel poker game,” I said. “You plugged just about the whole fucking wad into that car. Dragging out your wallet is going to become a very familiar action to you, Arnie. Please, man. Think it over.”

His eyes went flinty. It was an expression I had not seen before on his face, and although you’ll probably think I was the most naive teenager in America, I couldn’t really remember having seen it on any face before. I felt a mixture of surprise and dismay—I felt the way I might have felt if I suddenly discovered I was trying to have a rational conversation with a fellow who just happened to be a lunatic. I have seen the expression since, though; I imagine you have too. Total shutdown. It’s the expression a man gets on his face when you tell him the woman he loves is whoring around behind his back.

“Don’t get going on that, Dennis,” he said.

I threw my hands up in exasperation. “All right! All right!”

“And you don’t have to go after the damn tyre, either, if you don’t want to.” That flinty, obdurate, and—so help me, it’s true—stupidly stubborn expression was still on his face. “I’ll find a way.”

I started to reply, and I might have said something pretty hot, but then I happened to glance to my left. The two porky kids were there at the edge of their lawn. They were astride identical Big Wheels, their fingers smeared with chocolate. They were watching us solemnly.

“No big deal, man,” I said. “I’ll get the tyre.”

“Only if you want to, Dennis,” he said. “I know it’s getting late.”

“It’s cool,” I said.

“Mister?” the little boy said, licking chocolate off his fingers.

“What?” Arnie asked.

“My mother says that car is poopy.”

“That’s right,” the little girl chimed. “Poopy-kaka.”

“Poopy-kaka,” Arnie said. “Why, that’s very perceptive, isn’t it, kids? Is your mother a philosopher?”

“No,” the little boy said. “She’s a Capricorn. I’m a Libra. My sister is a—”

“I’ll be back quick as I can,” I said awkwardly.

“Sure.”

“Stay cool.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to punch anybody.”

I trotted to my car. As I slipped behind the wheel I heard the little girl ask Arnie loudly, “Why is your face all messy like that, mister?”