lifted up the hood and whistled. “Boy, everything’s complete. There’s even water in the windshield washer.”
“How did they ever get it in here?” demanded Mom. “My front door couldn’t be more than three feet wide.”
“Looks like they brought it in piece by piece, babe. Then reassembled it. See, all the bolts show recent wrench marks.”
Mom looked incredulous. “But it would take an army of mechanics to do all that!”
Jerry slammed down the hood—a startlingly loud noise in a living room. “Or a navy, babe,” he said. “Or a navy.”
“Quick, Nick!” shrieked Mom. “Get a pan from the kitchen. It’s dripping oil all over my new shag!”
After we unpacked and ate lunch, Mom made Jerry call the sailor in Alameda. Bad news. His ship had sailed and he wasn’t due back for ten months. Mom was livid.
“Jerry, what are you going to do about this?” she demanded.
Jerry sucked his beer and thought about it. “Well, Estelle. You’d been talking about wanting a new couch. Now you’ve got two of them. Plus a trunk.”
“That’s not funny. I want that car out of here!” Mom looked like she was ready to “fly off the handle” (as Dad used to say)—never a pleasant experience for her loved ones.
Jerry recognized the signs too. “OK, babe. Just kidding. I guess I’ll have to come by in the evenings and take it out bit by bit. But I’m not putting it back together again.”
“I don’t care what you do with the pieces,” said Mom. “Just don’t leave them around here!”
“You’re the boss,” answered Jerry, sipping his beer. “I’m the peon.” He looked at me. “Hey, kid. Want to learn how a car is put together?”
“No, thank you,” I replied. “Auto mechanics don’t interest me.”
“See, Estelle,” said Jerry. “I told you the kid was queer.”
Once again, Jerry zoomed to the top of my shit list. Only the execrable Trent rates higher.
After unpacking, I rode my bike over and found Lefty still camped out. His back yard now resembled Guatemala City after the big quake. The teen refugee was sitting on a camp stool amid piles of empty Coke cans and Pop-Tart boxes. He greeted me with a dispirited “hi” and complained he hadn’t received any postcards. I lied and said I had sent him three, including one with a naked woman lying spread-eagle on white sand.
“I bet the damn mailman stole that one!” he said bitterly. Lefty confided he was now dressing from the cast-off clothes box in People’s Park. He looked like it too. A few days before, Martha had sneaked into his closet and dribbled motor oil on the crotches of his pants. The stains won’t wash out and now all his trousers have permanent peter tracks. “My life is a living hell, Nick,” said Lefty in despair. “A living hell.”
This was the opportunity I had been waiting for. I told Lefty all about Sheeni and Albert. He was flabbergasted at my romantic progress and demanded a complete accounting. I filled him in on the torrid details. Understandablyincredulous (I would be too), he demanded photographic evidence. What a shock! I had neglected to ask Sheeni for a photo. But I did have her note apologizing for reading my diary, which Lefty accepted grudgingly as temporary evidence.
I laid out my proposition: “OK, you take care of Sheeni’s dog for a week or so, while I work on my mom. And I’ll get Martha off your back.”
Lefty looked doubtful. “How are you going to do that?”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan.” (I didn’t, but hell, the strategy worked for Nixon in ’68.)
“But I’m allergic to dogs. I swell up.”
“I’m not asking you to keep the dog in the house. Just tie him up out here. Allergens are dispersed outdoors, so you won’t have any problems. Trust me.”
Lefty contemplated life without peter tracks and round-the-clock crooners. “OK,” he said, “it’s a deal.” We shook on it.
I asked him if the vitamins were having any effect on his disease.
Lefty looked
“How did they ever get it in here?” demanded Mom. “My front door couldn’t be more than three feet wide.”
“Looks like they brought it in piece by piece, babe. Then reassembled it. See, all the bolts show recent wrench marks.”
Mom looked incredulous. “But it would take an army of mechanics to do all that!”
Jerry slammed down the hood—a startlingly loud noise in a living room. “Or a navy, babe,” he said. “Or a navy.”
“Quick, Nick!” shrieked Mom. “Get a pan from the kitchen. It’s dripping oil all over my new shag!”
After we unpacked and ate lunch, Mom made Jerry call the sailor in Alameda. Bad news. His ship had sailed and he wasn’t due back for ten months. Mom was livid.
“Jerry, what are you going to do about this?” she demanded.
Jerry sucked his beer and thought about it. “Well, Estelle. You’d been talking about wanting a new couch. Now you’ve got two of them. Plus a trunk.”
“That’s not funny. I want that car out of here!” Mom looked like she was ready to “fly off the handle” (as Dad used to say)—never a pleasant experience for her loved ones.
Jerry recognized the signs too. “OK, babe. Just kidding. I guess I’ll have to come by in the evenings and take it out bit by bit. But I’m not putting it back together again.”
“I don’t care what you do with the pieces,” said Mom. “Just don’t leave them around here!”
“You’re the boss,” answered Jerry, sipping his beer. “I’m the peon.” He looked at me. “Hey, kid. Want to learn how a car is put together?”
“No, thank you,” I replied. “Auto mechanics don’t interest me.”
“See, Estelle,” said Jerry. “I told you the kid was queer.”
Once again, Jerry zoomed to the top of my shit list. Only the execrable Trent rates higher.
After unpacking, I rode my bike over and found Lefty still camped out. His back yard now resembled Guatemala City after the big quake. The teen refugee was sitting on a camp stool amid piles of empty Coke cans and Pop-Tart boxes. He greeted me with a dispirited “hi” and complained he hadn’t received any postcards. I lied and said I had sent him three, including one with a naked woman lying spread-eagle on white sand.
“I bet the damn mailman stole that one!” he said bitterly. Lefty confided he was now dressing from the cast-off clothes box in People’s Park. He looked like it too. A few days before, Martha had sneaked into his closet and dribbled motor oil on the crotches of his pants. The stains won’t wash out and now all his trousers have permanent peter tracks. “My life is a living hell, Nick,” said Lefty in despair. “A living hell.”
This was the opportunity I had been waiting for. I told Lefty all about Sheeni and Albert. He was flabbergasted at my romantic progress and demanded a complete accounting. I filled him in on the torrid details. Understandablyincredulous (I would be too), he demanded photographic evidence. What a shock! I had neglected to ask Sheeni for a photo. But I did have her note apologizing for reading my diary, which Lefty accepted grudgingly as temporary evidence.
I laid out my proposition: “OK, you take care of Sheeni’s dog for a week or so, while I work on my mom. And I’ll get Martha off your back.”
Lefty looked doubtful. “How are you going to do that?”
“Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan.” (I didn’t, but hell, the strategy worked for Nixon in ’68.)
“But I’m allergic to dogs. I swell up.”
“I’m not asking you to keep the dog in the house. Just tie him up out here. Allergens are dispersed outdoors, so you won’t have any problems. Trust me.”
Lefty contemplated life without peter tracks and round-the-clock crooners. “OK,” he said, “it’s a deal.” We shook on it.
I asked him if the vitamins were having any effect on his disease.
Lefty looked
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