A Tale of Two Trucks (7 page)

“Fine! You can have it back,” I replied in resignation.

“Okay,” Joe said, then started tugging harder at it, trying to pull it off me right
now
!

“
Hey
!”

“You can give me the shirt off your back.” He grinned wickedly, yanking hard enough that I lost my balance and tumbled toward him on top of the comforter. At least the shirt was long enough to come down to my knees; otherwise I would’ve flashed him, since I never wear underwear at night.

The outcome of the ensuing tug-of-war was clear, though, given his superior weight and strength. The Cheerios were sent soaring across the room—almost floating in slow motion, due to my heightened state of awareness—as I desperately scrambled to get out of his clutches, but in the end he caught the hem of the shirt and flipped it inside-out and over my head. I lay there, naked as a jay bird, for a moment that stretched out like eternity.

“
Aaaiiieeeee
!” I shrieked, trying to cover myself up with the comforter—which wasn’t working, since we were both sprawled on top of it. In desperation, I grabbed my pillow to hold, like a fig leaf, in front of my privates. When I glanced up at Joe, he was already beet-red, gaping like a fish out of water.

“I—ah—um…. I’m so sorry!” he gasped. “I… I didn’t know….”

I felt my own cheeks flush to boiling. Not that I’m ashamed of my Mini Me, mind you, because it’s not small in proportion to the
rest
of my body, but it
is
singularly embarrassing to have someone see your Mini Me in a half salute, when tussling with said someone was what made your Mini Me salute in the first place! I couldn’t think of anything to say; I just wanted to sink into a black hole and never be seen or heard of again.

“Look, Mike… I’m sorry,” Joe restated, obviously struggling. “I… I just wanted to tease ya, y’know? I didn’t realize…. I mean, I never even thought that you, uh… you know… slept in the buff!”

“I
don’t
!” I pointed out, my voice two octaves higher than usual. “I sleep with a
nightshirt
!”

“Oh!” he cried, realizing that he was still holding the wadded up T-shirt in his hands, and thrust it at me immediately. “I’m sorry! Really! I shouldn’t’ve…. I mean…. I’m so sorry!”

Since we seemed to be at an impasse, I decided to escape to the bathroom, hoping to compose myself alone in a cold shower of Arctic proportions. I traded the shirt for the pillow, holding it in front of me as I scurried across the room to the door. It didn’t occur to me until much later that I’d given Joe an unobstructed view of my posterior as I did so.

I
ONLY
had two options after a fatally embarrassing episode like that: (A) avoid Joe for the rest of my life, or (B) pretend like it had never happened and so hope that, in time, the memory would fade into oblivion. Since I couldn’t bear to even
think
about life without Joe, I really only had one choice. When I’d dressed and regained my composure, I took a deep breath and went downstairs.

Joe, bless his heart, was trying to make up for his blunder by cooking scrambled eggs (which may have started out as sunny-side-up) and a stack of decent toast. It was almost noon, anyway, so we made do with that for the time being. A bit later I made some grilled chicken sandwiches and tomato basil soup for lunch while he read a few articles aloud from the paper that he thought might interest me. He didn’t mention our awkward little encounter, for which I was eternally grateful.

By the time we’d finished lunch, we were back to normal. We sat in companionable silence in the garage as I painted the other side of his truck with a night scene of a prairie dotted with buffalo and a big bull (the patriarch of the herd, representing Joe) standing watch on a hill overlooking the plain. Again I put a full moon in the sky, explaining that otherwise, there wouldn’t be enough light for the rest of the scene to be visible.

That was how the police officer—the same one as before—found us. I’d opened the garage door for ventilation, so he walked in and was struck speechless for a moment, staring at my painting.

“You… you did that?” he asked. Which was rather stupid, I thought, since I was right there holding a paintbrush and a palette. “That’s…. Wow! That’s amazing!”

“Isn’t it, though?” Joe agreed with a wide grin. “It’s even better than it was before!” And then he tacked on seamlessly, with perfect aplomb, “Have you found the vandals who did that to my truck?”

“Uh… well, ah… no. That’s not why I came here today.”

“Oh! You’re patrolling the neighborhood? How thoughtful!” I piped up.

“Well, you see, we just had an incident report, late last night, about the man you claimed had done this to you.”

“Brandon? What, did he do that to someone
else’s
car too?” I said indignantly.

“No! No, nothing like that. In fact, he was the
victim
of a crime. Somebody roughed him up in the parking lot of a bar last night.”

“
What
?” Joe exclaimed and I cried, “Oh
no
!” simultaneously.
“Is he all right?” I asked, shock and concern written all over my face. I thought both Joe and I were putting forth an Oscar-worthy performance.

“Oh yes! He was just shaken up, as you can imagine.”

“Was he mugged?” I queried curiously. “I know he carries a lot of cash on him sometimes, but that’s just
horrible
…!”

“No, no, he wasn’t mugged,” the officer clarified. “He was simply… slapped around the face a few times and threatened. And the description he gave us of his attacker is… interestingly enough, very similar to
you
, Mr. Adams.”

“Me?” Joe repeated in a tone of genuine surprise. I bristled and jumped up like a ferocious terrier.

“I don’t like the direction this conversation is taking!” I shrilled, my eyebrows glowering. “Should we have an attorney present? I can call my friend Paul Nelson—he’d be here in five minutes, weekend or not!”

“Please, calm down,” the officer said, and I noted with triumph that he’d broken into a light sweat already. “I just came to ask you where you were last night, between the hours of nine and eleven—that’s all! You don’t need an attorney if you haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Of course not!” I snapped, as bitchy as a woman with PMS. “Joe wouldn’t harm a fly! Would you, Joe?”

“Actually, I do swat at them when they get in the house,” he admitted mildly, “but I wouldn’t want to bother Paul if we can help it. You said nine to eleven?” When the officer nodded, Joe laughed. “Well, that’s easy! I was with Mike and some of my work buddies at the Main Street Bar and Grill until almost midnight. We took Hank home too, so you can ask his wife.”

“Ah!” the officer said, although he now looked slightly mystified. “And I assume there were other customers there, as well?”

“Well, yeah! It’s usually pretty full on a Saturday night.”

“I was trying to teach Joe and his friends how to dance,” I put in with a sly grin at Joe, who also smiled back.

“I think we’re a lost cause, Mike!”

“Well, you can’t blame a guy for tryin’!” I shot back.

“Uh… well, uh… thanks for your cooperation,” the officer said, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “And if you have any more trouble with vandals, let us know.”

“Will do,” Joe answered.

As the officer turned to leave, I asked off-handedly, “Say, how badly was Brandon hurt? Is he in the hospital?”

He shook his head.

“No, it wasn’t that bad. Just a little bruising, that’s all.”

“Oh, good! So it was just…
cosmetic
.”

At that word, the officer looked back sharply at me, but I had already returned to my painting. After a moment, we heard his footsteps plodding down the driveway in defeat.

Chapter 11

W
HEN
Joe went to work that week with his newly tricked-out truck, the guys were very impressed, and a couple of them even wanted to know how much I charged. Not knowing what the going rate was, I threw out some rough figures for my time and materials and was surprised when one of the subcontracted electricians called to have me put his company logo on his truck. Since my new-build designing business was winding down after the Parade of Homes, it was a welcome source of extra work, which grew even more when I decided to paint my own truck and use it as advertising.

For my baby, I chose a black panther prowling over the rear tire on the driver’s side, staring at you regardless of the angle at which you looked at it. The shimmering light on its back came from the crescent moon up on the cab, and its green eyes actually glowed with the help of some glow-in-the-dark paint. On the other side I had a swooping white owl, like Hedwig in
Harry Potter
, simply because I thought it was a magnificently beautiful creature. On the tailgate I painted my cell phone number with the note: Mike Stevenson, Interior Designs and Custom Paintings. I got eight calls that week alone, two of which turned into work—not bad for a side business!

A
FEW
weeks after the whole Truck-Egging Incident, when things had settled down, Joe asked me if I could help him get his wedding band off. It had taken him that long to come to that decision, so I didn’t question it. I got the ring over his knuckle with liquid soap and some leverage from the back end of my tweezers, then rinsed it off before handing it to him. He contemplated it for a moment as it lay on the palm of his hand.

“Are you okay?” I asked him gently, worried about what demons might be haunting him.

“Yeah,” he answered in a somber tone. “I was just wondering….” Then he held the ring up between two fingers and squinted at me through the hole. “Wonder how much I can get for this gold?”

I thwacked him for making me worry and then took him downtown to the old jeweler’s Gramma had trusted with her things. I couldn’t help window-shopping while he made his transaction, and I fell in love with a pair of trillium-shaped earrings in a sleek silver design with tiny black stones in the center.

“May I help you, sir?” another attendant asked, eagerly coming over.

“Um… I’m sorry, I’m just looking,” I replied.

“I can always pull something out for you.”

“Well, just out of curiosity, how much is that pair?”

The price tag she showed me made me gasp. What I’d taken to be silver was actually platinum, and the tiny stones were black diamonds. I swallowed hard as Joe came over, already finished with his business, and peered over my shoulder. He saw the price tag too, and was stunned into silence.

“What can I say? I have expensive taste,” I told him dryly.

“You’d have to paint a
lot
of trucks for that,” he pointed out, and I thanked the girl before we hastily slipped out of the store.

O
NCE
he’d gotten rid of the ring, Joe felt it was time to officially end his marriage. He contacted Cindy’s mother again to sound out the waters. She offered to be the buffer between them and came back with the message that Cindy was ready to go through with the divorce as well. He had to take some time off work to see an attorney about it, but since she’d left of her own volition and had never asked him for alimony, the only question was what to do with the house. She’d been working before they’d had Dana and had paid a good portion of the mortgage.

“I wish I could sell it for what it’s worth,” he vented to me one evening. “I really don’t want to do a short sale, but otherwise I can’t give her back her share in a lump sum.”

“Well, does she mind getting it in installments? I mean, it’s not like she’s hurting for money right now, is it?”

“No, she’s doin’ all right. Her boyfriend must be takin’ good care of her,” he replied with an edge to his voice.

“So why the rush to pay her back?” I pressed.

“’Cuz I don’t want to be reminded of her every time I look at my bank statement,” he admitted. “If we’re done, I wanna be
totally
done!”

“Well, how much do you owe her?” I asked. “I have some savings from what Gramma left me that I put in an IRA—”

“
No
!” Joe interrupted, so loudly that it made me jump. “I mean… thanks, but no—I can’t ask you to do that! It’s never good to borrow money from a friend. If I decide to get a loan, I’ll do it through the bank.”

“Okay…,” I answered, feeling somewhat hurt even though I understood his reasons.

“Look, Mike,” he started over, “I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but… you’ve already done so much for me! I couldn’t
possibly
ask you to do any more. Besides, that’s your retirement—if you loan it to me, hoping the real estate market picks up soon, and it doesn’t, I’d feel horrible! Plus my dad always said that money matters can ruin a friendship.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want
that
,” I responded, trying to sound lighthearted. And I did feel better after hearing his explanation.

“No, we wouldn’t,” Joe agreed seriously, which made my heart stop for a moment. “I’ll just bite the bullet,” he continued, closing his eyes and leaning back on the couch, “and wait for the market to pick up. Who knows? Maybe it’ll get better to where I can sell it in a couple of years, and I’ll be able to finish my payments sooner than I expect.”

“I hope so too,” I said, moving behind him to rub his neck. He tends to get stiff in his neck when he’s stressed, and even though my hands are small, they know the right spots to press. I heard him groan in relief.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you, Mike,” he mumbled.

Now I had butterflies in my stomach.

“Probably implode under all the pressure,” I barely managed to say.

S
OON
after that, however,
I
was the one feeling like I would implode under the pressure. I got a couple of remodeling projects where the clients were difficult—one was extremely picky, and the other was constantly changing her mind—and I also had three businesses that wanted their fleets painted. Joe was so busy getting his divorce figured out and finalized that he stayed at his own house more often than not, and I missed his company. Even though a part of me was glad he was moving on, another part of me worried what and where he was moving on
to
.