“You cash in your CDs, you buy yourself a shitload of heels and a new car,” he said, or more like, decreed.
It was then I asked the question I should not have asked. Not only was it my experience it was a useless effort to discuss clothes with men and therefore should be avoided it was also my experience you should never discuss cars with men. First, they knew more about cars than women, or more to the point, women if that woman happened to me. There were many men who even made cars a lifelong study but I, personally, couldn’t care less. Second, because they knew more and knew they knew more, men usually acted annoyingly smug when any car discussion came up. That alone was reason to avoid car discussions. Third, they tended to be right, which was the biggest reason of all to avoid such discussions.
Even knowing all this, I asked, “What’s wrong with my car?”
“Nothin’, ‘cept it was built during the Carter Administration.”
Now he was pissing me off. I liked my car. Sure, it was old. Sure, it was small. Sure, it wasn’t all that attractive. But it got me from point A to point B, it had a kickass stereo and it started up every time.
Well, most every time. It might need some coaxing on the really cold days.
“It was not,” I defended my car.
“Does it have airbags?” he asked.
“No,” I answered.
“Was it built in a time when there were airbags?” he asked.
“No,” I answered, getting more pissed.
“You get into a collision, baby, your compact will fold like an accordion and you’ll get stuck in that shit,” he said, looking back to the pile of stuff in his garage and the tone with which he said his next words meant he’d come to a decision. “You need a sedan.”
Visions of me in a staid sedan, which probably had a shit stereo, flooded my head. Then I realized Lorraine owned a sedan. So did Chris Renicki’s wife, Faith. So did Drew Mangold’s wife, Cindy.
And so had Melanie.
My neck started itching mainly because of the heat which was collecting there, which was mainly because I was moving from pissed to pissed off.
“We’ll talk about this later,” I said.
He nodded and threw an arm around my shoulders, guiding me out but he did so while saying, “Soon’s this shit’s over, we’ll go to Ricky’s, look at some four doors.”
I decided to completely ignore the words “four doors” which made my head get light and I suspected if I uttered those words my hair would turn instantly blue.
Instead I focused on Ricky.
Ricky Silvestri owned six different car dealerships in the county which meant Ricky had expanded the family business since when I was growing up, his Dad only owned four. Ricky was a born and bred car salesman and trained all of his employees in the art of sixty years of car salesmanship as passed down from father to son. If Colt and I walked into any one of his dealerships together, I would instantly become the invisible woman. If I walked in alone, they’d screw me three ways ‘til Tuesday.
“I’m not getting a sedan,” I said as he closed the door to the garage.
“I thought we were gonna talk about this later?” he asked, taking his arm from around me as he locked the garage.
“We were, until you brought Ricky into it.”
“Ricky’s a good man. He’ll swing us a deal.”
Colt and I clearly had different definitions of “a good man”. I knew Ricky still played football with Morrie and Colt when they pulled together games every once in awhile. I also knew Ricky could hold his liquor and be quiet while fishing. But, from bar talk with Molly Jefferson, who was Ricky’s second wife, Theresa’s best friend, I knew he didn’t pay child support unless Theresa put out, or at the very least gave him a blowjob. Rumor had it Ricky took it hard when Theresa left him, seeing as he still loved her. Making matters worse, Theresa still loved Ricky, hence her putting out or giving head. Though she had little choice but to leave since he was screwing his secretary and everyone but Theresa knew it, until she found out.
Since I usually kept bar talk to myself, instead of sharing any this with Colt, I said, “We’re not talkin’ us here, Colt, we’re talkin’ you. I don’t want a new car.”
“And I’m not gonna bust my ass so you and me can survive this Denny shit and then be called to the scene of an accident and watch them cuttin’ your dead, mangled body outta that death trap you drive,” he shot back.
Yet another indication that being a cop’s girlfriend might not be as cool as I thought it would be.
I decided, since I was forty-two years old and the time had probably come, to try and be mature.
So I suggested, “All right, Colt, I’ll look at cars with you, not sedans and definitely not four door sedans, but we’ll have a look around if you consider helpin’ me clear out this garage, we get an electric door opener and we build on a shelter for the boat.”
His brows collided again and he asked, “How many CDs you say you have?”
“Nearly forty,” I answered, “but I haven’t mentioned the savings bonds.”
His forehead cleared, he grinned and threw his arm around my shoulders again, leading me toward the house saying, “Shit, my girlfriend’s loaded.”
I thought about it and realized I kind of was. I wasn’t a millionaire or anything but I reckoned I had enough money for a garage door opener, a shelter for the boat and to buy a new car, all of this free and clear. It would strike deep but it wouldn’t wipe me clean. There was more than enough to hold back for a rainy day even if we took a killer vacation thrown on top.
So perhaps I hadn’t accumulated nothing in my life and actually had something to bring to the table. I had another impulse to do a cheerleader, pom pom jump but I squelched it mainly because Colt’s heavy arm was weighing me down.
We went through the side door, hit the kitchen and I turned to Colt. “Play your cards right, baby, things could get exciting. You got a birthday comin’ up.”
And he did, it was at the end of April, next month.
His hand came up, fingers curling around the side of my neck and he brought me close.
“I already know what I want for my birthday and you already bought it,” he told me.
“What’s that?” I asked.
His head dipped so his face was close to mine. “You, in nothin’ but those black heels bent over the pool table.”
I sucked in breath as an internal shiver rippled through my body. Something like that would forever make playing pool with Colt a delicious experience. Therefore, something like that was too good to wait for his birthday.
I decided not to share this either as well as play it cool. “You don’t want me to wrap it up? Get a lacy teddy or something? Garters? Stockings? That kinda shit?”
He grinned and put his mouth to mine.
“Knock yourself out,” he said there before he kissed me.
When he lifted his head, let me go, turned me toward the living room and smacked my ass, muttering, “Gotta get to the park,” was when I returned to thinking being a cop’s girlfriend was going to be all right.
Delilah and I sat on swings at Arbuckle Acres park while Palmer and Tuesday mostly ran around screaming since Dee had confiscated their cell phones and told them in that lovingly exasperated voice that only Moms could pull off to, “Go. Play. Be kids.”
I personally didn’t think ten and twelve year old kids should have cell phones and neither did Dee. Unfortunately Morrie had taken them to the mall about three weeks ago and Morrie, also not thinking kids that age should have cell phones, bought them anyway because they begged for them and he was a pushover.