decade anyway?), mother and love child had a touchingly tearful farewell. Then Albert was stuffed into a cage and carried off—howling pitifully. I hoped he had a long and miserable trip. And if, God forbid, the bus were to overturn, at least Albert would die happy in the knowledge that his life was insured—for $500 (payable to me).
A half hour later Sheeni was distressingly dry-eyed as we said our farewells. Not even my last minute gift to her of my favorite F.S. album (“Songs for Lonely Lovers”) activated her tear glands. She hugged the Corn Dog Queen, shook Jerry’s hand, and gave me a sisterly peck on the cheek. Then she whispered in my ear, “Don’t forget, darling. Red wine and
Consumer Reports.”
They were the sexiest words that ear had ever heard. I grabbed her and kissed her. She tasted of donuts and dog. Then Jerry fired up the big V-8, and suddenly Sheeni was a small figure retreating in the distance. Then we turned a corner and she was gone. I felt alone. Alone and numb.
Happy to be back on the road and towing something (a trucker’s mission in life?), Jerry popped a Hank Williams tape into the dash and put the pedal to the metal. We roared down the highway, passing everything in sight (including a poignant turnoff sign for Ukiah). Needless to say, the top was down. I sat in the backseat wind tunnel, dodging bugs and trying not to think of Sheeni getting ready to welcome Trent. (Though I certainly hoped she’d have the decency to change out of that yellow tube top.)
Mom, I noticed, was being coldly correct with Jerry. Women do this to drive men to the brink of insanity. She and Jerry had had words this morning over that always controversial topic, “Where do we park the trailer?” SinceJerry’s apartment (the world’s smallest in-law studio) doesn’t come with parking (or anything else), he proposed to store their Love Mobile in our driveway. Mom pointed out that this valuable space was already occupied by his dead Chevy. Jerry replied he didn’t own a Chevy, and the battle was on. I wasn’t sure how it turned out, but no one had any obvious bruises.
To our surprise, when we got back to Oakland (even drearier now after a week in the country airing out our aesthetics), we discovered the issue was now moot. The camouflaged Chevy was gone. Apparently, the sailor had had a change of heart and had readopted his sick car. Here Mom made a tactical mistake. While she was thinking up some coldly correct comment to make on this new development, Jerry quickly and professionally backed the trailer up the driveway—threading it neatly between our house and Mr. Ferguson’s ramshackle garage with just inches to spare. Faced with this fait accompli, Mom could only say, “Jerry, this is just temporary.”
“Sure, babe,” was his smug reply. He hopped out and began to unload as Mom bustled into the house.
Flecked with bug splatter, I climbed out stiffly and looked about. Here was the place where I had lived before I knew the sweet taste of a woman’s lips. Or the tangy taste of a warm nipple. I had left a child and returned a man—a man with lash marks on his heart and feminine fingerprints on his privates. These profound thoughts were interrupted suddenly by a woman’s scream. I dropped my bags and ran into the house. Mom was standing in the doorway to the living room, her face twisted into an ugly mask of shock and horror. I looked beyond her. There in the living room, surrounded by all the furniture pushed neatly against the walls, was Jerry’s old camouflaged Chevy.
Jerry joined us and stared in stunned disbelief. “Holy shit! How in the name of God?” he muttered.
“How indeed!” exclaimed Mom. “And why!” She stared accusingly at her paramour. “You should’ve given that man his money back!”
“No way, babe,” replied Jerry obstinately. “It wasn’t in the code.”
Mom looked confused. “The California Vehicular Code?”
“No, babe. The code of the streets.” Jerry
A half hour later Sheeni was distressingly dry-eyed as we said our farewells. Not even my last minute gift to her of my favorite F.S. album (“Songs for Lonely Lovers”) activated her tear glands. She hugged the Corn Dog Queen, shook Jerry’s hand, and gave me a sisterly peck on the cheek. Then she whispered in my ear, “Don’t forget, darling. Red wine and
Consumer Reports.”
They were the sexiest words that ear had ever heard. I grabbed her and kissed her. She tasted of donuts and dog. Then Jerry fired up the big V-8, and suddenly Sheeni was a small figure retreating in the distance. Then we turned a corner and she was gone. I felt alone. Alone and numb.
Happy to be back on the road and towing something (a trucker’s mission in life?), Jerry popped a Hank Williams tape into the dash and put the pedal to the metal. We roared down the highway, passing everything in sight (including a poignant turnoff sign for Ukiah). Needless to say, the top was down. I sat in the backseat wind tunnel, dodging bugs and trying not to think of Sheeni getting ready to welcome Trent. (Though I certainly hoped she’d have the decency to change out of that yellow tube top.)
Mom, I noticed, was being coldly correct with Jerry. Women do this to drive men to the brink of insanity. She and Jerry had had words this morning over that always controversial topic, “Where do we park the trailer?” SinceJerry’s apartment (the world’s smallest in-law studio) doesn’t come with parking (or anything else), he proposed to store their Love Mobile in our driveway. Mom pointed out that this valuable space was already occupied by his dead Chevy. Jerry replied he didn’t own a Chevy, and the battle was on. I wasn’t sure how it turned out, but no one had any obvious bruises.
To our surprise, when we got back to Oakland (even drearier now after a week in the country airing out our aesthetics), we discovered the issue was now moot. The camouflaged Chevy was gone. Apparently, the sailor had had a change of heart and had readopted his sick car. Here Mom made a tactical mistake. While she was thinking up some coldly correct comment to make on this new development, Jerry quickly and professionally backed the trailer up the driveway—threading it neatly between our house and Mr. Ferguson’s ramshackle garage with just inches to spare. Faced with this fait accompli, Mom could only say, “Jerry, this is just temporary.”
“Sure, babe,” was his smug reply. He hopped out and began to unload as Mom bustled into the house.
Flecked with bug splatter, I climbed out stiffly and looked about. Here was the place where I had lived before I knew the sweet taste of a woman’s lips. Or the tangy taste of a warm nipple. I had left a child and returned a man—a man with lash marks on his heart and feminine fingerprints on his privates. These profound thoughts were interrupted suddenly by a woman’s scream. I dropped my bags and ran into the house. Mom was standing in the doorway to the living room, her face twisted into an ugly mask of shock and horror. I looked beyond her. There in the living room, surrounded by all the furniture pushed neatly against the walls, was Jerry’s old camouflaged Chevy.
Jerry joined us and stared in stunned disbelief. “Holy shit! How in the name of God?” he muttered.
“How indeed!” exclaimed Mom. “And why!” She stared accusingly at her paramour. “You should’ve given that man his money back!”
“No way, babe,” replied Jerry obstinately. “It wasn’t in the code.”
Mom looked confused. “The California Vehicular Code?”
“No, babe. The code of the streets.” Jerry
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