Car Trouble

Terrence Jackson is on his way home from another long day at the advertising firm he owns when he hears it—a steady chug-chug-chugbeneath the hood of his brand new, candy-apple red Mercedes that he knows the sports car shouldn’t be making. He paid too much money for this damn thing to have it sound like an old man wheezing uphill. The late afternoon heat only adds to his discomfort. By the time he pulls into the driveway of his modest, split-level home, he’s ready to call the dealership and chew someone out for selling him a lemon.

By morning, he’s calm enough to call the firm first to tell them he’ll be late. His secretary answers. A pretty, young girl with a thick Southern accent, Melissa Jones is fresh out of college and, if truth be told, was hired more for her looks than her filing abilities. Though Terrence isn’t the least bit interested in the fairer sex, she’s nice to look at, and sounds sweet on the phone. “Would you like me to call Gary’s Auto for you, Mr. Jackson?” she asks, her voice bright despite the early hour. “They’re such nice people there. I always have them service my car.”

“I was planning to take it back to the dealer,” Terrence admits. “It’s not that old.”

Through his cell phone, he hears the rustle of papers as Melissa digs amid her obscure filing system to find the paperwork on the car. He’s already behind the wheel of his Mercedes, his tie not quite cinched tight just yet. The first beads of sweat trickle down the back of his thick neck into the cool cotton of his button-down shirt. He angles the rear-view mirror to take a look at himself—dark skin with a hint of reddish undertones like mahogany, short buzzed hair beginning to turn gray at the temples, large eyes the warm color of hot chocolate. He’s a big man, a one-time high school football quarterback now on the downhill side of forty and picking up speed. The muscle around his middle has begun to soften, and lines etch around his eyes when he smiles. Melissa calls him handsome, in a flirty, innocent way that suggests she thinks he’s past his prime.

After an eternity, she tells him, “No, sir. You bought the car last year, and you didn’t get the extended warranty. If you don’t mind me saying, I think the dealership would just rip you off. Gary’s is pretty cheap.”

For a young co-ed on a tight budget, Gary’s might be fine perhaps, but not for the principal of Richmond’s largest ad firm. Still, Terrence is touched she’d think him na?ve enough to get rooked by the dealer.

“Besides,” she says amid a flurry of noise as she shoves the papers back into her unorganized drawer, “Gary’s is just down the street. If you have to leave your car there, you can walk to the office, or I can send someone over to pick you up.”

That cinches it. “All right,” Terrence teases, “you’ve convinced me. Do you get a commission or something for referring people that way?”

“I’m sort of seeing Gary,” she admits with a laugh. “I can call them for you—”

Figures.“Just give me the number. I know you have a million other things you need to be doing. I can’t tie you up any longer.”

As Terrence dials the service station, he turns the key in his ignition. The engine purrs like a kitten, without complaint. Maybe something just got caught up under the hood, he thinks as he puts the car into reverse. With the phone ringing in his ear, he eases his foot off the clutch, gives it a little gas…

A heavy knocking sound comes from the hood, as if gremlins beat against the metal, trying to get out. Terrence steps on the brake and the car stalls beneath him. Fuck

Before he can restart the car, a young male voice answers the phone with a gruff hello. Despite the fact that it’s after eight in the morning, the guy sounds as if he just woke up. He even punctuates his greeting with a barely stifled yawn.

Terrence isn’t impressed. He hates businesses that answer the phone without announcing their name. The first thing Melissa says when she picks up the receiver is, “Jackson Ads.” Callers don’t have to wonder if they called the wrong number.

His voice is sharper than he intends it to be when he snaps, “This Gary’s?”

“Yeah. This is Gary. Who’s this?”

Terrence can almost picture the guy—one of those dark Italian boys, judging from his northern accent. He was probably dozing at his desk when the phone rang, and even now rubs his eyes sleepily, his dark hair a disheveled mess, his cheeks and chin rough with stubble he should’ve shaved off but didn’t.