The Speed of Dark (17 page)

When we get to the tire store, I help him lug the flat tires on their wheels into the store. The clerk looks at me with almost no expression. Before I can even explain what I want, he is shaking his head.

“It’s too late,” he says. “We can’t change out tires now.”

“You are open until nine,” I say.

“The desk, yes.But we don’t put tires on this late.” He glances at the door to the shop, where a lanky man in dark-blue pants and a tan shirt with a patch on it is leaning on the frame, wiping his hands on a red rag.

“But I could not get here earlier,” I say. “And you are open until nine.”

“Look, mister,” the clerk says. One side of his mouth has lifted, but it is not a smile or even half a smile.

“I told you—you’re too late. Even if we would put tires on now, it’d keep us after nine. I’ll bet
you
don’t stay late just to finish a job some idiot dumped on you at the last minute.”

I open my mouth to say that I do stay late, I stayed late today, and that is why I’m late here, but Danny has moved forward. The man at the desk suddenly stands taller and looks alarmed. But Danny is looking at the man by the door.

“Hello, Fred,” he says, in a happy voice, as if he had just met a friend. But under that is another voice.

“How’s it going these days?”

“Ah… fine, Mr. Bryce.Staying clean.”

He does not look clean. He has black marks on his hands and dirty fingernails. His pants and shirt have black marks, too.

“That’s good, Fred. Look—my friend here had his car vandalized last night.Had to work late because he was late to work this morning. I was really hoping you could help him out.”

The man by the door looks at the man behind the desk. Their eyebrows go up and down at each other.

The man behind the desk shrugs. “You’ll have to close,” he said. Then to me, “I suppose you know what kind of tire you want?”

I do know. I bought tires here only a few months ago, so I know what to say. He writes down the numbers and type and hands it to the other man—Fred—who nods and comes forward to take the wheels from me.

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It is 9:07 when Danny and I leave with the two whole tires. Fred rolls them out to Danny’s car and slings them into the trunk. I am very tired. I do not know why Danny is helping me. I do not like the thought of his spare on my car; it feels wrong, like a lump of fish in a beef stew. When we get back to the apartment house parking lot, he helps me put the two good new tires on the front wheels of my car and the slashed tires from the front into my trunk. It is only then that I realize this means I can drive to work in the morning and at noon I can replace both slashed tires.

“Thank you,” I say. “I can drive now.”

“That you can,” Danny says. He smiles, and it is a real smile. “And I have a suggestion: move your car tonight. Just in case that vandal comes back. Put it over there, toward the back. I’ll put an alarm call on it; if anyone touches it I’ll hear the alarm.”

“That is a good idea,” I say. I am so tired it is very hard to say this.

“For nada,” Danny says. He waves and goes into the building.

I get into my car. It smells a little musty, but the seat feels right. I am shaking. I turn on the engine and then the music—the
real
music—and slowly back out, turn the wheel, and edge past the other cars to the slot Danny suggested. It is next to his car.

IT IS HARD TO GO TO SLEEP EVEN THOUGH
—
OR MAYBE
because—I am so tired. My back and legs ache. I keep thinking I hear things and jerk awake. I turn on my music, Bach again, and finally drift to sleep on that gentle tide.

Morning comes too soon, but I jump up and take another shower. I hurry downstairs and do not see my car. I feel cold inside until I remember that it is not in the usual place and walk around the side of the building to find it. It looks fine. I go back inside to eat breakfast and fix my lunch and meet Danny on the stairs.

“I will get the tires replaced at noon,” I tell him. “I will return your spare this evening.”

“No hurry,” he says. “I’m not driving today anyway.”

I wonder if he means that. He meant it when he helped me. I will do it anyway, because I do not like his spare; it does not match because it is not mine.

WHEN I GET TO WORK, FIVE MINUTES EARLY, MR. CRENSHAW
and Mr. Aldrin are standing in the hall, talking. Mr. Crenshaw looks at me. His eyes look shiny and hard; it does not feel good to look at them, but I try to keep eye contact.

“No flat tires today, Arrendale ?”

“No, Mr. Crenshaw,” I say.

“Did the police find that vandal?”

“I don’t know.” I want to get to my office, but he is standing there and I would have to push past him. It is not polite to do that.

“Who’s the investigating officer?” Mr. Crenshaw asks.

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“I do not remember his name, but I have his card,” I say, and pull out my wallet.

Mr. Crenshaw makes a twitch with his shoulders and shakes his head. The little muscles near his eyes have tightened. “Never mind,” he says. Then, to Mr. Aldrin , “Come on, let’s get over to my office and hash this out.” He turns away, his shoulders hunched a little, and Mr. Aldrin follows. Now I can get to my office.

I do not know why Mr. Crenshaw asked the policeman’s name but then did not look at his card. I would like to ask Mr. Aldrin to explain, but he has gone away, too. I do not know why Mr. Aldrin , who is normal, follows Mr. Crenshaw around that way. Is he afraid of Mr. Crenshaw? Are normal people afraid of other people like that? And if so, what is the benefit of being normal? Mr. Crenshaw said if we took the treatment and become normal, we could get along with other people more easily, but I wonder what he means by “get along with.” Perhaps he wants everyone to be like Mr. Aldrin , following him around. We would not get our work done if we did that.

I put this out of my mind when I start again on my project.

At noon, I take the tires to another tire store, near the campus, and leave them to be replaced. I have the size and kind of tire I want written down and hand that to the desk clerk. She is about my age, with short dark hair; she is wearing a tan shirt with a patch embroidered in red that says:
Customer Service
.

“Thanks,” she says. She smiles at me. “You would not believe how many people come in here with no idea what size tire they need and start waving their hands.”

“It is easy to write it down,” I say.

“Yes, but they don’t think of that. Are you going to wait or come back later?”

“Come back later,” I say. “How late are you open?”

“Until nine.Or you could come tomorrow.”

“I will come before nine,” I say. She runs my bankcard through the machine and marks the order slip

“Paid in Advance.”

“Here’s your copy,” she says. “Don’t lose it—though someone smart enough to write down the tire size is probably smart enough not to lose his order slip.”

I walk back out to the car breathing easier. It is easy to fool people into thinking I am like everyone else in encounters like this. If the other person likes to talk, as this woman did, it is easier. All I have to say are a few conventional things and smile and it is done.

Mr. Crenshaw is in our hall again when I get back, three minutes before the end of our official lunchtime.

His face twitches when he sees me. I do not know why. He turns around almost at once and walks away. He does not speak to me. Sometimes when people do not speak, they are angry, but I do not know what I have done to make him angry. I have been late twice lately, but neither time was my fault. I did not cause the traffic accident, and I did not cut my own tires.

It is hard to settle down to work.

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I am home by 7:00, with my own tires on all four wheels and Danny’s spare in the trunk along with mine.

I decide to park next to Danny’s car although I do not know if he is home. It will be easier to move his spare from one car to another if they are close together.

I knock on his door. “Yes?”His voice.

“It is Lou Arrendale ,” I say. “I have your spare in my trunk.”

I hear his footsteps coming to the door. “Lou, I told you—you didn’t have to rush. But thanks.” He opens the door. He has the same multi-toned brown/beige/rust carpet on the floor that I have, though I covered mine with something that didn’t make my eyes hurt. He has a large dark-gray video screen; the speakers are blue and do not match as a set. His couch is brown with little dark squares on the brown; the pattern is regular, but it clashes with the carpet. A young woman is sitting on the couch; she has on a yellow, green, and white patterned shirt that clashes with both the carpet and the couch. He glances back at her. “Lyn, I’m going to go move my spare from Lou’s car to mine.”

“Okay.” She doesn’t sound interested; she looks down at the table. I wonder if she is Danny’s girlfriend.

I did not know he had a girlfriend. I wonder, not for the first time, why a woman friend is called a girlfriend and not a womanfriend .

Danny says, “Come on in, Lou, while I get my keys.” I do not want to come in, but I do not want to seem unfriendly, either. The clashing colors and patterns make my eyes tired. I step in. Danny says, “Lyn, this is Lou from upstairs—he borrowed my spare yesterday.”

“Hi,” she says, glancing up and then down.

“Hi,” I say. I watch Danny as he walks over to a desk and picks up his keys. The desk is very neat on top, a blotter and a telephone.

We go downstairs and out to the parking lot. I unlock my trunk and Danny swings the spare tire out. He opens his trunk and puts it in, then slams his trunk. It makes a different sound than mine does.

“Thank you for your help,” I say.

“No problemo ,” Danny says. “Glad to be of service. And thanks for getting my spare back to me so quickly.”

“You’re welcome,” I say. It does not feel right to say “you’re welcome” when he did more to help me, but I do not know what else to say.

He stands there, looking at me. He does not say anything for a moment; then he says, “Well, be seeing you,” and turns away. Of course he will be seeing me; we live in the same building. I think this means he does not want to walk back inside with me. I do not know why he could not just say that, if that is what he means. I turn to my car and wait until I hear the front door open and close.

If I took the treatment, would I understand this? Is it because of the woman in his apartment? If I had Marjory visiting me, would I not want Danny to walk back inside with me? I do not know. Sometimes it seems obvious why normal people do things and other times I cannot understand it at all.

Finally I go inside and up to my apartment. I put on quieting music, Chopin preludes. I put two cups of water in the small saucepan and open a packet of noodles and vegetables. As the water boils, I watch
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the bubbles rise. I can see the pattern of the burner below by the location of the first bubbles, but when the water really boils, it forms several cells of fast-bubbling water. I keep thinking there is something important about that, something more than just a rolling boil, but I haven’t figured the whole pattern out yet. I drop the noodles and vegetables in and stir, as the directions say to do. I like to watch the vegetables churn in the boiling water.

And sometimes I am bored by the silly dancing vegetables.

ON FRIDAYS I DO MY LAUNDRY, SO THAT I HAVE THE
weekend free. I have two laundry baskets, one for light and one for dark. I take the sheets off the bed and the pillowcase off the pillow and put them in the light basket. The towels go in the dark basket. My mother used two pale-blue plastic baskets for sorted clothes; she called one dark and one light, and that bothered me. I found a dark-green wicker basket and use it for dark clothes; my basket for light clothes is plain wicker, a sort of honey color. I like the woven pattern of the wicker, and I like the word
wicker
. The strands go out around the uprights like the
wih
sound of
wicker
and then comes the sharp
k
, like the stick the strands bend around, and the soft
er
sound as they bend back into the shadow.

I take the exact right change out of my change box, plus one extra coin in case one of them won’t work in the machines. It used to make me angry when a perfectly round coin would not make the machine go.

My mother taught me to take an extra coin. She said it is not good to stay angry. Sometimes a coin will work in the soft drink machine when it does not work in the washing machine or dryer, and sometimes one that will not work in the soft drink machine will work in the washing machine. This does not make sense, but it is how the world is.

I put the coins in my pocket, tuck the packet of detergent in the light basket, and set the light basket on top of the dark one. Light should go on top of dark. That balances.

I can just see over them to walk down the hall. I fix the Chopin prelude in my mind and head for the laundry room. As usual on Friday nights, only Miss Kimberly is there. She is old, with fuzzy gray hair, but not as old as Miss Watson. I wonder if she thinks about the life extension treatments or if she is too old.

Miss Kimberly is wearing light-green knit slacks and a flowered top. She usually wears this on Fridays when it is warm. I think about what she wears instead of the smell in the laundry room. It is a harsh, sharp smell that I do not like.

“Good evening, Lou,” she says now. She has already done her wash and is putting her things into the left-hand dryer. She always uses the left-hand dryer.

“Good evening, Miss Kimberly,” I say. I do not look at her washing; it is rude to look at women’s washing because it may have underwear in it. Some women do not want men looking at their underwear.

Some do and that makes it confusing, but Miss Kimberly is old and I do not think she wants me to see the pink puckery things in among the sheets and towels. I do not want to see them anyway.

“Did you have a good week?” she asks. She always asks this. I do not think she really cares whether I had a good week or not.