The Art of Crash Landing by Melissa DeCarlo Page A

to me. I don’t even know what I’m hoping to accomplish. Am I looking for a date, or just trying to shake him down for some cash? At this point, it just seems like I should be able to get something from somebody even if it’s only sympathy.
    Father Barnes “Hmmm”s and “Oh, dear”s at the appropriate moments, and I’m sure I’m golden right up until he ends the call with, “Well, Mattie, the good news is the Lord must have something very special planned for you, or he wouldn’t have given you all these difficulties.” Then he invites me to lunch tomorrow, see you at the church at noon, take care, etc., etc. . . . click. Terrific. I guess I got my date, but it doesn’t save me from tonight’s meal out of my grandmother’s pantry.
    I shift around and lean back against a parking meter. The sidewalk is warm beneath me; the wind is shuffling the leaves in the trees. I close my eyes and turn my face to the sun. Maybe Father Barnes is on to something. If there really is a God, he does indeed seem to have something special planned for me, and so far it’s an extended ass-kicking. For some people God may be a shepherd leadething them beside still waters, but lately he seems a lot more like Mr. Nester, tauntething me with a mound of fake doggy-doo.
    At the sound of a car slowing to a stop next to where I’m sitting, I open my eyes and turn my head to see who has come to gawk at my misfortune. It’s Luke, the paraplegic paralegal behind the wheel of a silver Accord. I wave, half hoping that he’ll drive on so I can get back to my comfortable pity wallow. Yet the otherhalf—the one that includes my tired legs—hopes that he’ll offer me a ride.
    Luke lowers his window, and I stand and walk over.
    â€œWhat’s that?” He’s looking at the pillowcase in my hand.
    â€œWorthless crap,” I reply.
    From his puzzled yet worried expression, I can tell that he’s curious as to why I would be carrying around a pink pillowcase full of worthless crap, but can’t quite decide if asking would be rude.
    I decide to help us both out by changing the subject.
    â€œHow did you do that?” I point at what must be Luke’s wheelchair, but is now a pile of aluminum rods and wheels in the backseat.
    â€œYears of practice. Need a lift?”
    His tie is off and his shirtsleeves are rolled up on his forearms, showing some of the muscles I thought were hiding under his clothes. I smile. I am a sucker for the white-collar type even if I only seem to date the asshole-musician type.
    â€œGot room somewhere for a bike?”
    He nods. “The trunk. There’s a bungee for the lid.”
    â€œPerfect. Hey, can you open it and let me toss this inside, too?”
    He pops the trunk, but not before glancing again at the bulging pillowcase in my hand. But he doesn’t ask so I don’t have to lie. Excellent.
    When we pull up outside the pawnshop, I see an ample, middle-aged woman in regrettably snug spandex shorts closely inspecting my bike, as in searching-for-a-price-tag inspecting. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have left the crappy bike parked in the middle of all the pawnshop’s crappy sale items.
    I walk over to the woman. “Excuse me,” I say, taking the bike by the handlebars.
    â€œHey!” She straightens up and puts her hands on her generous hips. “What do you think you’re doing?”
    â€œI’m taking this home,” I tell her.
    â€œI saw it first!” She follows me, shouting “Stop!” as I wheel the bike to the back of Luke’s car. She’s taking little tiny steps, each one causing her spandex-covered thighs to make a zip zip zip sound. I’m glad the car is close by; I’m a little afraid she’s about to start a fire.
    â€œIt’s not for sale,” I tell her.
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œIs English not your native