Authors: Kim Holden
"I know. Hustle, lazy ass." I step out of the room and immediately close the door, because I know she won't get out from under the covers with me watching. And I don't want to hear her smartass reply. Okay, who am I kidding, I
totally
want to hear her smartass reply, so I crack the door again just in time to hear her say, "Compliments will get you nowhere,
lazier
ass." And then I shut the door again quickly before the name calling continues.
With Impatient and Pax roused, we get on the road. Franco came by and is dropping us off at the car dealership on his way to Jamie and Robbie's place this morning. Impatient, Pax, and Franco all seem a little sleepy and there's not much in the way of convo during the ride, which is fine. We listen to a new album I downloaded last night instead. Royal Blood. They're wicked good. Heavy bass and drums, the perfect soundtrack for the start of a gorgeous day. I'm into it.
Impatient and Pax have their driver's licenses, but have never owned cars before. Pax didn't need one at the boarding school he attended in Boston, and Impatient always lived in the city where public transit was the way to go. Here in Southern California a car is a little more of a necessity. Impatient's been saving for one. She only wants to spend eight grand. She's been researching models and scouring the internet for weeks. I think she's just scared to pull the trigger, because she's intimidated by the process. Yesterday while they were at work and school I drove up to the Carlsbad Honda dealership and checked out a few. Let's just say some money's already traded hands. She doesn't know that. I hope my cockamamie plan goes off without a hitch or we're walking home.
The sales guy, Donovan, is a pretty chill dude for a car salesman. I thought they'd all just be douches, but we hit it off pretty well. He's waiting for us when we all walk in.
After introductions are out of the way, Donovan leads us to the lot, toward the car I asked them to set aside. Impatient drives the car. She loves it. I can tell. She's not the type to get giddy, but she smiled during the entire fifteen-minute test drive. That's huge. She tells Donovan that she likes it, and that she'd like to discuss the price. As we walk back to the sales office, Donovan looks to me and I nod. We worked through this scenario yesterday. Cramming the four of us into his tiny office, he turns to her. "Well Scout, for that model, we're looking at nine thousand."
She looks puzzled, but ponders this a minute before politely asking, "Can you excuse us for a moment, please?"
After he leaves the tiny sales office, her eyes squint. This doesn't make sense to her. "Something must be wrong with it." Of course she's skeptical. "That car should be at least fifteen thousand based on what I've seen cars listed for on the internet."
I shrug and point to the sales banners hanging throughout the showroom around us. "They're having a sale. I guess this is just your lucky day. Besides, he said it's a certified used car and comes with a two-year warranty. They've already checked it out. I'd say you're golden, if you want it."
She takes a deep breath and looks from me to Pax, and back to me. She wants it. Bad. She's chewing on her bottom lip thinking it through. "I don't really know how to do this. I only have eight and that needs to include fees and taxes. I'm not sure how to start negotiations."
I shrug again. "Don't know what to tell you. I bought my truck off a dude at the beach for two g's cash and some surfing lessons when I was sixteen. Not your standard car transaction. But I'd suspect that if you just cut to the chase and tell Donovan what you want and stick to it, he'll either tell you yea or nay. Either you go home with the car or you don't."
She nods. She's not blinking. She's thinking. Hard. "I really want it."
I smile because it's so cute the way she said it. Cute, but super confident. That rarely happens. "I know you do."
She nods her head and puts on her game face again. "Let's do this." She waves her hand and motions for Donovan through the glass window.
She makes her offer like a boss.
He leaves to consult his manager, but I suspect he just ran to the can. He returns with a paper in hand with some figures scribbled on it. It looks familiar; I went through this same drill yesterday with him.
They accepted her offer.
She's over the fucking moon happy.
We all move to the finance office, again, just like I did yesterday. And she signs her paperwork.
When we're done, they hand her the keys and she clutches them like they're sacred and stares at them the entire walk out to the parking lot. When we reach the back of the car she looks up at me and smiles. I would give anything to freeze time and take in this expression for hours. It's so many good things all rolled up into one: it's confidence, satisfaction, pride, and complete, unbridled joy. And it's not just about the material possession; it's about the process and the accomplishment. She opens her mouth to say something, but then she hugs me instead. She's squeezing the shit out of me and hangs on for probably ten seconds. It's thank you. A million and one thank yous.
She has no idea this car really did cost fifteen thousand dollars. Or that I paid for half of it yesterday.
And she never will.
I made a lot of money off the first album and I still have most of it. I don't spend a lot. I don't need a lot. I'm stoked to share it with people I care about.
She's so proud and happy with herself right now. She rocked the hell out of the negotiations, even if they were rigged. She didn't seem self-conscious at all when she was focused on her task. I think her appearance is always on her mind. Sometimes at the forefront. Sometimes in the back. This morning, it was absent. She wasn't hiding. And it was awesome.
Pax calls out, "Shotgun!"
I reach into my pocket, pull out a key, and toss it to Pax.
He catches it and looks questioningly at it.
"I call shotgun, but you're driving, dude," I counter.
Scout shakes her head. "You've never ridden with him, Gustov. He is
not
driving my car."
I smile and taunt her. "You're such a pussy when it comes to driving. Seriously, he can't be that bad?"
She's not offended, but she's gone from shaking her head to nodding. "He's that bad."
Pax is pointing to himself. "Standing right here. And I can hear you." It's a reminder, that while she's not offended, he is.
"Well, dude, try not to kill me then. Or wreck your new-to-you car."
His eyes bulge like a cartoon character. "What?" It's loud, which is so unlike him. The people across the lot are gawking at us now.
I smile and point to the car parked next to Impatient's. It's fifteen years old and has a shit ton of miles on it, but it's a clean beater and runs great. It's also Pax's now. I bought it yesterday. "It's yours. We'll call it an early birthday present." His birthday is tomorrow.
He's stunned.
Impatient is stunned.
This is priceless.
I love doing nice things for people. Not that it has to be a grand gesture, because let's face it, a car is a little over-the-top. Just something nice. It's grounding. It reminds me that we're all in this game called life together. It's also circular ... you give it ... you get it.
I gave it.
And looking at them, standing here so gracious, and so happy, I'm getting it back tenfold.
And now it's Pax's turn to hug me.
And then it's Impatient's turn to hug us both.
We're standing here, in a group hug, practically singing fucking "Kumbayah."
The people across the lot are still ogling.
I buckle in next to Pax and ride home with him.
Scout was totally right. Pax could use some lessons in signaling, merging, stopping, and even just keeping the car in his own lane. I'm not a religious man, but I may have recited the Lord's prayer two or twenty times during the ride.
When Pax walks ahead of us into the house, I pause with Impatient outside. "You're right. He's fucking horrible. The dude has no fucking depth perception. He tails the car ahead of him like he's being towed. The passenger side imaginary brake pedal is for real. I wore it the fuck out."
She smirks. "Told you." And holds out her fist.
I bump knuckles. "I need some fucking gum. My nerves are shot."
Wednesday, December 20
(Scout)
"They didn't even call, Scout. It's my birthday and they couldn't even make a goddamn phone call." There's disappointment in his voice, like he's floating alone in a sea of letdown.
I nod and battle with myself, wondering if this is the time to tell him about his mom.
He beats me to it and starts talking again before I do. "I shouldn't be surprised, really. I'm sure mom's drunk and dad's busy."
It's then that I make the decision. "Paxton, Jane's in rehab."
He's sitting on the corner of my bed with his back mostly to me, but turns to face me. The movement is slow like he's trying to decide if he heard me correctly or not. His eyebrows are tight with confusion, but his eyes look hopeful—an expression that contradicts itself, like he's been handed the gift he's always wanted but if he opens it a grenade might go off. "Rehab?"
"Uh-huh. She checked herself in about two months ago. From what I understand she can't have contact with anyone outside the facility until she completes the program. She'll be there another two to three weeks." I'm holding my breath the entire time I'm telling him, because I don't want him to be let down if she doesn't complete it. My dad's a career alcoholic; I know what it's like to be in Paxton's shoes. I knew never to let my heart hope.
His eyes drop. He's thinking about it, but when his eyes rise and meet mine again the momentary hope is gone and he shakes his head doubtfully. "She's not strong enough. She'll never do it."
My heart clenches like a dishcloth being wrung out inside my chest. "Sometimes it isn't a matter of being strong enough, Paxton. Alcoholism is a disease."
"Don't. Just don't, Scout. I know you've lived with it, too, but she chooses to wake up every day and drink. She chooses it over me. Every fucking day of my life." He takes a deep breath and it's as if the happiness of the past few weeks is deflating before my eyes.
I know how he feels. My dad's alcoholism is the reason I haven't lived with him since I was eleven. It's the reason uncle Jim thought it would be better if I lived with him and Jane. Here's the thing about alcoholism. It's destructive on many levels and to many degrees. While Jane uses it to dampen her feelings, the depression, the inadequacy; my dad was a partier. He used it to turn himself into the person he wanted be. The person he thought other people wanted him to be. The problem was he forgot who he was when he was sober and embraced the drunk version instead. And when that happened I never saw my real dad again. He was absent. The drunk dad pursued people and a lifestyle and forgot to be a parent. It's not that he's forgotten about me altogether. I still talk to him about once a year. Does he love me? Sure. Is he good at showing it? Not at all. That's life. I've accepted it.
Paxton hasn't. I'm not saying he should. He's only eighteen. And Jane's depression immobilizes her. Couple that with the alcohol, and it breeds resentment in Paxton.
His eyes are filling up with tears. I hate this part. It kills me when he cries. I've seen it too many times. He has the gentlest heart and watching it get crushed repeatedly is almost too much.
"Come here," I say gently.
I'm sitting on my bed with my back against the headboard. He crawls up the bed toward me and is sobbing by the time he wraps his arms around me. I hold him and I let him cry, just like every time before, and I pray to God that Jane helps herself so that I don't have to watch this sweet boy cry anymore.
When his breathing resumes to a natural cadence and he's just resting his cheek on my shoulder, I ask, "Did you have a good birthday, Paxton? I mean before all of this." I know he did.
He nods against my shoulder.
"What was the best part?" He needs to focus on something positive.
He sniffs a couple of times to clear his nose. "I don't know. The cupcakes were
really
good." He lifts his head slightly so that he's looking at me, and he quickly apologizes, "No offense, Scout, you make really good cakes."
I laugh. "None taken. I agree; Audrey's cupcakes are way better than my cake."
He smiles and rests his head back on my shoulder. "I think what I liked most was just hanging out with you and Gus and Audrey. It felt like a real family, you know? I know eighteen-year-old guys shouldn't get so excited over a barbeque, watching their favorite movie, and eating cupcakes ... but I did. Everyone just wanted to make me happy today."
"Of course we want to see you happy, Paxton."
"I know you always do, but they don't have to. They just do it. And not just on my birthday. They do it every day. Every day they're nice, Scout. I like it here. Why couldn't you have found Audrey and Gus ten years ago?"
I laugh. "Because I was fourteen, I wasn't really in the market for a job then."
He laughs, too. "I guess so." It's quiet for several moments before he says, "I'm glad things didn't work out between you and the jerk."
"Why do you say that?" I know he never liked Michael. He always called him
the jerk
and that was after meeting him once.
"Because there's someone out there who's perfect for you. You just haven't realized it yet."
"You think someday I'll meet
the one?
" I ask, smiling.
"I think you've already met him." He's talking about Gustov. I know he is.
I don't answer.
Friday, December 22
(Gus)
"Is this
the Joe
, proprietor of the infamous Joe's Bar?"
"Hey, man, is this Gustov
the globe-trotting rock legend
Hawthorne?"