Feminism, Part 3--September 30, 1995
“Lou, wake up,” I say through the window, through to where he is asleep on the sofa. I say it quietly the first time and then my dopesick nerves just snap and I scream it: “Lou, wake up! They got JP, they got him, let me in, dammit…”
His face appears at the window, bleary, his hair tousled. “Got him? What? Who got him?”
“The cops, the motherfucking cops, Lou, there was a sting and they got him and he has the keys now let me IN…we gotta…we gotta…”I trail off because I am not entirely sure what we “gotta”—or rather, there is so much “gotta” that I don’t know which is the most important. Get JP out of jail, of course, but also fix the car, pack the house, get a shot…
Yep, that’s the one.
He looks at me. There’s a question in his eyes that we’re both a little scared to ask, because the answer means that one of us has to do something we’ve never needed to do before, neither of us, but finally he asks it: “How are we gonna score?”
I have no answer to that, so I answer a question different than the one he’s asked: “We have to fix the car,” I tell him. “We have to go get the tire fixed and…I guess we’re going to have to call a locksmith, too.” I am totalling up the numbers in my head: twenty dollars for a tire patch, ninety or a hundred for a locksmith, plus bail for JP…
We walk to Maplewood, to where JP and Lou and Reid had left the car the night before. It’s almost a mile and a half, and even though it’s early in the morning, still, the heat is rising already. I walk past an endless range of suspicious eyes and muttered Spanish words, and finally reach a little grocery store with a pay phone.
It’s hard to find a locksmith; none of them will come into this neighborhood, and the only one who says he’ll do it will take ninety minutes at least to get to us. Again the math begins in my head: ninety minutes for the locksmith to get there, plus whatever time it will take him to make the key, plus the time it will take to fix the tire plus however long it takes to get a fix…
When I get back to the car, Lou is sitting in the passenger seat, and I can see the signs of dopesickness in his face. But that’s not what concerns me.
“You left the car unlocked?” I say. “Jesus, Lou, I’m surprised it’s still here.”
“It’s a good thing we did,” he tells me. “We’d be fucked otherwise.”
“What do you mean? We’re fucked right now,” I say. “We have to wait til the locksmith gets here before we can even start to fix the tire, and…”
“Nope.”
He opens the back door and climbs in, then peels away the stiff carpet-covered hardboard that covers the trunk, crawls in through the opening, and comes up with the jack and the lug wrench. No spare tire, of course—the donut is already on the back passenger wheel—but it’s progress.
“Not bad,” I tell him.
I sit on the curb with the sun impaling me, yawning and sniffling, while Lou jacks the car and takes the tire off. “I’ll take this over to that tire-patch place on Western,” he says. “You call the locksmith again.”
I wander back to the little grocery store on the corner and call again at the pay phone. The locksmith has changed his mind and doesn’t want to come into “that neighborhood” as he calls it. We’re back to square one. Well, one-point-five, anyway. I call another locksmith. He says two hours. I’m not sure I’m going to hold together that long, but then again I have no choice. I give him the address and head back to the car to wait.
I crawl back into the front seat, lean my head against the passenger window, and try to sleep.
His face appears at the window, bleary, his hair tousled. “Got him? What? Who got him?”
“The cops, the motherfucking cops, Lou, there was a sting and they got him and he has the keys now let me IN…we gotta…we gotta…”I trail off because I am not entirely sure what we “gotta”—or rather, there is so much “gotta” that I don’t know which is the most important. Get JP out of jail, of course, but also fix the car, pack the house, get a shot…
Yep, that’s the one.
He looks at me. There’s a question in his eyes that we’re both a little scared to ask, because the answer means that one of us has to do something we’ve never needed to do before, neither of us, but finally he asks it: “How are we gonna score?”
I have no answer to that, so I answer a question different than the one he’s asked: “We have to fix the car,” I tell him. “We have to go get the tire fixed and…I guess we’re going to have to call a locksmith, too.” I am totalling up the numbers in my head: twenty dollars for a tire patch, ninety or a hundred for a locksmith, plus bail for JP…
We walk to Maplewood, to where JP and Lou and Reid had left the car the night before. It’s almost a mile and a half, and even though it’s early in the morning, still, the heat is rising already. I walk past an endless range of suspicious eyes and muttered Spanish words, and finally reach a little grocery store with a pay phone.
It’s hard to find a locksmith; none of them will come into this neighborhood, and the only one who says he’ll do it will take ninety minutes at least to get to us. Again the math begins in my head: ninety minutes for the locksmith to get there, plus whatever time it will take him to make the key, plus the time it will take to fix the tire plus however long it takes to get a fix…
When I get back to the car, Lou is sitting in the passenger seat, and I can see the signs of dopesickness in his face. But that’s not what concerns me.
“You left the car unlocked?” I say. “Jesus, Lou, I’m surprised it’s still here.”
“It’s a good thing we did,” he tells me. “We’d be fucked otherwise.”
“What do you mean? We’re fucked right now,” I say. “We have to wait til the locksmith gets here before we can even start to fix the tire, and…”
“Nope.”
He opens the back door and climbs in, then peels away the stiff carpet-covered hardboard that covers the trunk, crawls in through the opening, and comes up with the jack and the lug wrench. No spare tire, of course—the donut is already on the back passenger wheel—but it’s progress.
“Not bad,” I tell him.
I sit on the curb with the sun impaling me, yawning and sniffling, while Lou jacks the car and takes the tire off. “I’ll take this over to that tire-patch place on Western,” he says. “You call the locksmith again.”
I wander back to the little grocery store on the corner and call again at the pay phone. The locksmith has changed his mind and doesn’t want to come into “that neighborhood” as he calls it. We’re back to square one. Well, one-point-five, anyway. I call another locksmith. He says two hours. I’m not sure I’m going to hold together that long, but then again I have no choice. I give him the address and head back to the car to wait.
I crawl back into the front seat, lean my head against the passenger window, and try to sleep.
posted by GJC at 8:50 PM
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