Rosa
I spent the entire afternoon
getting ready to see him. I played with my hair for over an hour, ironed my
favorite vintage dress, and polished my Docs free of scuffmarks. Then came the
handbag—it had to be exactly right—so I picked out a boxy leather thing from
the 40’s to match the dress. He was supposed to pick me up at six, but by seven
o’clock he still hadn’t come—hadn’t even phoned to say he was running late, so
I opened a can of Tecate and sat on the front porch admiring Rosa, my ‘63
Mercury Comet with the coat hanger antenna. In spite of her rust spots and
primer gray doors, she was a pretty amazing vehicle. Not only did she have a
rather cool, low-rider look to her, but she always managed to get me home when
I had had a wee too much to drink. For this reason alone, I considered her to
be my very best friend and I dutifully checked her oil and transmission fluid
every time I fueled up.
When
he finally arrived it was seven-thirty and I was halfway through a can of
Guinness. He didn’t even comment on his lateness. He didn’t offer a polite,
“I’m sorry, I got stuck in traffic,” or a, “Please forgive me, I had to take a
last minute call.” Not a word. But I didn’t tell him to go fuck himself. Nope.
Instead I smiled big, kissed him on the cheek, and climbed into his new black
BMW. As much as I loved Rosa, it felt good to be sitting in such an expensive
car for a change.
After
stopping at a market for some provisions (a six pack of Chimay and a couple of
steaks), we headed over to his place. His house was near the theater district
in the old part of town. The outside was nothing special, just a typical 1930s
stucco cottage with a small pool in the back. But the inside was clearly the
work of a decorator. During the grand tour, he proudly explained that the
leather Eames chair in his study had originally belonged to his father, and the
Turkish runner in his hall was actually part of a much larger collection of
antique rugs he had recently purchased from a collector in Switzerland.
Then
he put on a Charles Mingus CD and began preparing dinner. I forget what we
talked about. In fact, I forget whether or not we talked at all. I was more
interested in the delicious glasses of beer he kept pouring. By the time we
were ready to eat, I had a fairly impressive number of empty bottles lined up.
Once the meal was over, I took off all my clothes, ran outside, and jumped into
his swimming pool naked. He stood in the doorway watching as his miniature
Doberman ran in circles barking at me. The next morning, when he dropped me off
at my place, he gave me a cold peck on the cheek and asked me to be easy on his
door when I closed it. Needless to say he never called again.
I was
pretty hurt about the whole thing. Kind of mad too. So a week later, when I was
driving home from work, I made short detour by his house. It was a clear, early
fall evening and the lights were on inside. He’s
probably in there preparing dinner for some chick, I thought. No doubt he’s telling her all about his
lovely Eames chair and playing that same damn CD. Just then he appeared in
the window with a tall buxom blond at his side. They were each holding a glass
of wine and just about to have a toast.
Rage
overtook me. The next thing I knew I was gunning the engine and pulling into
his driveway. I made a sharp right at the bougainvillea bush near the front
door and slowly made my way over his lawn. It had rained earlier in the day, so
Rosa’s tires sank deep into the grass, leaving behind an impressive set of
tracks. I repeated this journey every evening after work for an entire
week—sometimes tooting the horn a couple of times as I passed beneath his
window. Unfortunately, one of his neighbors threatened to have me arrested if I
did it again, so I had to stop.
I
still thought about him though. When I came home at the end of the day I’d
eagerly check my answering machine hoping he’d called. At night I’d go to bars
and clubs where I thought I might run into him. Whenever I did he was always
with a girl. I tried to pretend that I was fine and totally over it. I’d smile
and say hi and laugh and joke around with all my friends like I was having a
grand old time. But inside I was miserable. This went on for several months.
Then one night I got a bit
totaled at a party and Rosa had to drive me home. Everything was going swell. I
was sitting upright in the seat with my hands properly placed at ten and two.
The engine was humming away and the heater was on. Then, for some strange
reason when we were stopped at a red light, I happened to glance over at the
car on my right. Sure enough, there he was, sitting in his shiny new BMW next
to the same buxom blond I saw at his house. Tears formed in my eyes as I sat
staring at them. “Rosa,” I said, “that makes me sad. It makes me real, real
sad.”
And
that was all it took. When the light changed, Rosa’s accelerator dropped to the
floor, her front end swung into the air, and her tires screamed like an
airplane at takeoff. I thought for sure we were going to lift off. She sped
ahead about 25 feet, fishtailing all the way, and hit the breaks hard. When he
was at our side again, she gunned the engine and made a sharp lunge in his
direction. He swerved abruptly trying to avoid us, but Rosa was quick, and her
heavy chrome fender nailed his beloved passenger-side door. He started yelling
and swinging his fist at me, and the blond held her hands to the side of her
face and screamed. Rosa tried going at them again, but I gained control of the
wheel and tore out of there.
“That’s
quite enough, old girl,” I said, patting her gently on the dash, “Let’s head on
home now.”
