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Another Fine Mess
I back the car up and pull my bumper off the Hummer it’s attached to. It happened when I tried to snuggle into a parking spot in front of the café because I couldn’t walk from the parkade. It might rain. I might buy too many things. God forbid I go to the parkade, where there’s so much space I could park on my own level. No, I had to try to squeeze into the tiny space next to the Hummer. Which I have scratched. When I get out of the car, I see that my ancient four-runner with the fog light grill has scratched the Hummer’s giant chrome bumper. Maybe no one will see it. When I step back, I see that it is, in fact, a pretty big fucking scratch.
I have a pang of regret - shoulda, coulda, woulda.... I coulda been with Rowly right now. He’d asked me to stay, hang out, smoke a joint, watch the clouds. But no, I had to come shopping, look for a cute dress I can’t afford, maybe matching new shoes, lunch at the bakery. Then I remember that Rowly is boring me lately.
I picture Rowly as he was last night, rattling around in his woodshed, looking for a roach. Rowly never ran dry so I knew he'd come back with something and we'd get stoned and make love under the stars, like we always did. Though last night I didn't see stars. I knew they were out there, the way I know Rowly loves me even if I don't love him.
I’ll have to exchange driver's licence and insurance info with the Hummer owner, none of which I have because I’ve been driving without a licence for six months, since my last impaired. At first I was kind of nervous, but I got used to it. How's a person to get her fix of cafés and bakeries without a fucking car? It’s not like Rowly will take me where I want to go. He prefers to stay close to home, doesn’t really like other people.
I think about calling Rowly now. Maybe he can help, come and bail me out, fight my fight, magically make the scratch disappear. He’s pretty handy with cars, maybe he could give it a buff and they’d never know the difference. Rowly will always answer my call. I know it the way I know I don't always answer the phone when it's him. I know that he knows I don't always answer the phone. He always forgives me, did even when his mom got sick and died.
Actually, I feel pretty bad about that because Rowly had to take her to the hospital, and he doesn't do that well in institutions. He had to talk to doctors and nurses, and Rowly doesn't do that well talking to doctors and nurses. That's the funny thing about call display. It can show you who is calling, but can't show you why. There's an app that needs to be invented. I can't believe I come up with this and I haven’t even smoked anything.
I look up to see a giant man walking toward me with a What the fuck do you think you're doing standing so close to my Hummer? Maybe you better just back up and holy shit did you scratch my Hummer, because if that's the case we need to have a little conversation about your options and the choice between life and paying to fix my hummer or death look. To which I’ll reply I choose death because I don't actually have any money.
I think about Rowly and in my mind I apologize to him for being such an asshole, being so ineffectual, for taking advantage of him, for smoking all his weed. I’m on Commercial street, across from Mon P’tit Choux, in front of Funk Your Fashion! I’m in trouble! Rescue me! He’d be here in an instant if he could only hear me. Now there’s an app that really needs to be invented – one that allows you to hear your lover’s thought despite being miles apart. It would have to have an on/off switch otherwise there’d be no privacy and would get pretty embarrassing. Who wants to know that much? You’d have to have some way to shut it down, twitching your nose like Samantha Stephens on Bewitched, or pulling your ear like Carol Burnett, or clicking your heals like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz.
I stand by the Hummer, spread my arms wide. Then I close my eyes and wiggle my nose, pull my ear, click my heels.... Maybe Rowly will get the message.
Liz Laidlaw is a columnist for Relational Child & Youth Care Practice and a past winner of the Nanaimo Arts Council Short Fiction Contest. Her work has most recently appeared in Room and Portal Magazine. She lives on Vancouver Island with her family where she is working on a short story collection.
Email: Liz Laidlaw
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