Meter Maids Eat Their Young (11 page)

“That's all I've got,” I said. He smiled and the bills disappeared.

“Tall fella, he was. Come in wearing a suit an' a gray fedora, pulled low. Don't get many suits in here. The hat, I remember, was too big for him, kept falling down over his eyes. But maybe he wanted it that way. The light's a bit dim in here and these ol' eyes don't see like they once done, so I can't say what the color of his eyes mighta been. Nor his hair. 'Twas all up under his hat.”

“How tall?” I said. “Could you guess a weight?”

“Your height, maybe a bit taller. Hard to judge the weight. The suit looked padded to me. He seemed about your build, I s'pose, but coulda been smaller.”

I rubbed my finger along my lower lip. The smell of the place was really getting to me. But the overall description matched and the guy had done the decals so it probably was the Mangler. I thanked him for his time and turned to walk out the shop, my lungs suddenly anxious for the outside air.

“One last thing,” he said.

I turned. “I haven't got any more money,” I said. “I wasn't lying about that.”

“Oh, I believe ya, son. But y'didn't threaten or cajole or try to wheedle me down, so I'll gives this one to ya free. It's but an observation only and maybe not so good a one anyway, but here it is.”

I walked back to the counter, taking as little of the chemical air into my lungs as I could, feeling myself beginning to hyperventilate. “Thanks,” I said.

“This fella, I don't know. There was sumthin' peculiar about him. Like he was one o' them gay boys, you know what I mean? The way he moved. Kinda ‘ffeminate, he was. And he had these long, slender fingers and his nails were all clipped and polished. Not much shines in this shop,” he chuckled, “so ya notice things that does.”

“Could it have been a woman? Dressed in a man's suit?”

He pondered for a moment, pulling the cloth from his back pocket and wiping his forehead. “I suppose ‘he' coulda been a ‘she' but a pretty flat- chested one. He never unbuttoned that suit coat, hot as it gets in here during the day, but had his breasts been any kinda size, I think I'd a noticed.” He chuckled again. It sounded loose and wet in his throat.

I thanked him again and headed out the door, never more thankful for carbon monoxide-polluted air than I was on my way to the car.

I had a splitting headache by the time I got back to town. There was a vise grip on my lungs and the taste in my mouth was like something Dow Chemical had produced to defoliate jungles. I'd have to take care not to breathe around my houseplants for a while, or my cats, for that matter.

As I drove slowly down Gratiot Avenue, I noticed a disturbance ahead.  Closer, I saw there were maybe a hundred people milling about on the Admin building steps, thirty or forty more on the sidewalk. A small number for a protest; impressive for a work day. I wondered what had caused this and remembered the press release from the DPE stating they were going to install a third round of meters in the Court House and Admin building parking garages.

Parking at those two garages had always been free with a validated ticket, the idea being that access to the government was a right for which one shouldn't have to pay. In the last week, workers had begun repairing the two-hour new-fangled electronic meters the Mangler had already fried twice. If they kept to their schedule, the new meters would go into operation in less than a week. It would appear the people were not happy campers over this develop.m.ent.

Someone had strung a banner between the ornate, iron lamp poles that bordered the granite stairs. ‘CARPE' was spelled out in bold, red letters. There were other signs and banners floating amongst the group: ‘Viva La Mangler,' ‘Mangle the Meter,' ‘Shut Down the DPE.' Even a hastily drawn up one repeating what the Mangler had pasted to the meters and Cushman carts: ‘Department of Parking Extortion.'

I pulled to the side of the road, looking around for the cops as I did. I spotted two patrol cars across the street from the protestors. One cop was sitting in his car, the other leaning against his vehicle, smoking a cigarette. That was certainly a change in police procedure.

Back in the long ago, shortly before Cadillac Boyo, the Aussie Duke of Disco, was murdered and Robyn was arrested for it, she had organized a protest against the local radio station because they had begun playing disco music. Maybe thirty people showed up in all, if that. We couldn't have been out front of the station for more than a half hour before nearly every cop in the city showed up – in full riot gear no less – and hauled us all off to jail.

I suspected Marion had something to do with this turnaround in protest handling. I had the feeling he didn't like the DPE anymore than anyone else did. I knew he was incensed over the ticketing of police cars and this was his response, a low key approach. It certainly didn't look as though he had any plans to bust up the crowd. Not with just two bored cops keeping an eye on things. I was pretty sure he had his men on alert, just in case things got out of hand, but as long as it remained peaceful, he was going to let it ride as a ‘fuck you' finger to the DPE. I put the car in gear and pulled out into traffic.

Back home, I wandered around the living room, too jittery and nervous from the fumes I'd breathed in to settle down with my notebook and write out my thoughts. How the hell did that guy breathe that stuff day after day?

I considered calling the paper, see how the kids had done, then rejected the idea, heading for the bathroom instead. What I needed was a hot shower.

My clothes had picked up the smell of the print shop. I feared spontaneous combustion at any moment, so I stripped down, wrapped a towel around my waist, carried the clothes out to the front porch, and unceremoniously dumped them in the corner to air out.

In the bathroom, I turned on the shower as hot as I could stand it and stepped in. The water stung my back, burned my skin, but I stuck it out, letting the water wash the stench away. I stood there until the water ran cold, then toweled off, brushed my teeth twice, and enfolded myself in a heavy bathrobe.

The shower took care of the smell but did little for how I felt. Standing there, still feeling dizzy and not a little nauseous, the thought of having a beer crossed my mind. Then crossed it again. When it crossed the third time recognition clicked in. I knew what was going on. I was feeling uncomfortable, sick even, so of course, my inclination was to self-medicate. Cunning, baffling and powerful, that was Buster Booze. If he couldn't get at you through your emotions, he would do an end-run when you were physically down.

Booth was lying on the counter in the kitchen, on top of my meeting schedule. I slid it out from under him. He batted at me feebly for disturbing him and then fell promptly back to sleep.

Cats. There are times when I wish I could spend eighty percent of my life sleeping.

I noted there was a meeting tonight several miles from the house. It seemed like a good idea to make that meeting.

Feeling the need for some fresh air, I headed for the porch. Much to my chagrin, fresh air was not what I got. I'd forgotten I'd left my clothes out there and the room smelled like the inside of the print shop, despite all the open windows. I grabbed the clothes, went back through the house, out the back door and hung them on the line. I'd wash them when they smelled less flammable.

Back at the porch, Jaz was standing at the bottom of the stairs, her nose wrinkled against the smell.

“Jesus, Teller,” she said. “What are you doing out here? Fumigating the porch?”

She was wearing a Felix-the-Cat T-shirt that hit her leg about mid-thigh. Backlit by the sun coming in through the window, I could see the silhouette of her body. As if my aging heart wasn't under enough strain from my afternoon at the print shop. And me in a bathrobe to boot. I hurried past her, eyes averted, and sat down.

“Research,” I said, not mentioning the decal I'd found or my trip to the print shop and wondering why I was being evasive with her.

“Research?” she said. “Smells like you took a bath in … uh … printer's ink.”

The change in her voice made me look her way. She wouldn't look me in the eye, looking down instead as she sat next to me.

“You look cute in baby blue,” she said.

“Baby blue?”

“The bathrobe,” she said.

I looked down, feeling the warmth rise in my face.

“It's, ah, not supposed to be baby blue.”

“Laundry problems?” she said, trying not to laugh but not succeeding very well.

“Yeah, well, it's not something they teach boys in shop class, you know.” Then I laughed, remembering something.

“What?” she said.

“I just remembered something I did a long time ago,” I said. “I was trying to be helpful, y'know, so I washed all of Robyn's clothes one day. Turned all her white silk underwear pink, and shrunk a bunch of really expensive cashmere sweaters to doll size.”

“Oh, I would have killed you for that one,” she said, laughing harder now.

“Believe me, she almost did. I made it a rule never to wash a woman's clothes again.”

“Good rule,” she said. “You really loved her, didn't you?”

She reached out and touched my arm. Our eyes met. There was an awkward moment of silence.

“Yeah. I did. With all my heart and soul.”

I moved my arm and looked away.

The traffic on Market Street was ebbing. My headache was a dull throb. I tried to think of something more to say but all I really wanted to do was reach over and touch her, run my fingers up her arm, across her shoulders, feel … I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, trying to force the thoughts away. I was about to make some excuse to go inside when she ran her toes up and down my bare leg, making me shiver.

She pulled her leg back suddenly and folded it up beneath her. “You got a cigarette?” she said.

I pulled a Sherman from the pack beside me and handed it to her. She didn't ask for a light, just held the slim, brown cylinder stiffly between her fingers. The silence between us continued, both of us staring off into the empty playground across the street.

“Do you remember our first … outing?” she said. I noted the hesitation in her voice, wondering if she had purposely avoided the ‘D' word. But had it been a date, that first time? I hadn't thought so then. Wasn't sure now.

“The carousel,” I said, looking over at her.

She smiled. “Yeah. Down in the park. You wanted to ride it but you thought everyone would think you were some kind of child molester or something. You were so funny. I think …” Her voice trailed off and she didn't complete the thought.

The silence returned. She produced a pack of matches, lit the cigarette. I'd known her just over four months and hadn't a clue she smoked. As if reading my thoughts she said, “I quit. After Gina left.” She laughed. It wasn't a mirthful sound.

“Quit drinking, too.” She laughed again. “Most people, when their world is coming apart, get self-destructive.”

She shook her head, still staring at the empty playground. Or maybe beyond it. “I went in the opposite direction. Got healthy. I never have been able to get things in their proper order.”

“Gina,” I said. “The woman in the picture on your mantel.” I knew she'd had a lover long before I had returned to town but she had never spoken of her before.

“Yeah,” she said. “I guess … I guess Gina was kind of my Robyn. We were together almost eight years. And then it all just blew apart. It happened so fast, she was gone before I knew it was happening.”

She fell silent again, the smoke from her cigarette drifting out in a long, white curl. Stubbing out the cigarette, she stood up.

“I better go upstairs,” she said. “I've some … work to do.”

“Yeah. I should probably get dressed, I've got things to do as well,” I said, standing up from my chair.

We left the porch together. I sidestepped to let her go up the stairs to her flat. As she passed, our hands brushed. It felt like an electric shock and I know she felt it too, because she hesitated, then turned to face me. She stared at me. I think we were both holding our breath.

She turned back and started to walk up the stairs. I headed for my door.

“Teller?”

I looked up at her. She had stopped and was looking at me.

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever think about that night?”

I didn't have to ask her what night she meant. I'd thought of it often enough, separating each moment like the frames of a film, examining each one, looking for answers I knew I wouldn't find. Jaz had been the first person I'd encountered upon my return and the attraction I'd felt was immediate. I'd thought it would come and go as all my other attractions to the various women who had crossed my path in the past had, but it lingered. Maybe I'd been tired from the long drive across the country with a car full of cats. I know I'd been feeling disoriented being back in the land of memory. And I'd been sure I was mistaken in thinking the feeling of attraction was mutual, even before I found out she was gay.