The Worst Romance Novel Ever Written (53 page)

“
I’ll be there in a few.”

On a whim, Johnny tried to start the Vega. Nothing happened. He tried again. More nothing happened. He patted the dash. “That’s okay,” he said. “You’re just going through a bad patch, too.” He popped the hood and saw nothing unusual. He smiled at the usual rust, grease, dirt, dust, and corrosion.
All as it should be, so why isn’t she working today? Maybe she needed a vacation from life, too.

When the tow truck arrived fifteen minutes later, a bearded, bald black man the size of New Hampshire wearing blue jeans, boots, and a hoody the size of Rhode Island stepped nimbly out of the truck.

He’s been misnamed,
Johnny thought.
He should be called “
Body
strong.” My whole self could fit into one of his pant legs.

Armstrong smiled at Johnny, smiled at the risen sun, and doubled over laughing.

I never laugh when I stare at the sun,
Johnny thought.
I sneeze.

“
Forgive me, man,” Armstrong said. “You said you had a car. This is a Vega.”

Johnny nodded, grateful to have found a man who knew the value and significance of a Vega. “Original everything.”

Armstrong took a clipboard from his truck and handed it and a pen to Johnny. “Sign at the bottom.”

Johnny scanned the document, which basically said that if AB Auto Repair and Towing damaged his Vega in any way on the tow, AB Auto Repair and Towing, its subsidiaries, next-of-kin, and future generations were not responsible in any way, shape, or form for said damages, so help them God, Pete, and Mike.

Johnny signed it with a flourish.

Armstrong attached hooks and chains to the back of the Vega, and soon the Vega rose until its snout was dangerously close to the ground. Johnny got in the tow truck beside Armstrong, and off they went.

“
So … what happened?” Armstrong asked.

Johnny hesitated. So much had happened. How much should he tell?

“
Engine just die on you?” Armstrong added.

Johnny hesitated again. His own engine—his heart—had sort of died on him.

“
Surprised it lasted this long,” Armstrong said.

Me, too. Four months is a long time for me.
Johnny found his voice. “Um, yeah.”

Johnny also wondered how much the tow was going to cost him, but he didn’t bring it up. Maybe they’ll just add it to the cost of the repairs, or, even better, they’ll just throw in the tow for free since I’m having them repair it at their shop. Armstrong seems like a nice, reasonable man, a man who would be glad to help out his fellow man and owner of such a rare car as the Vega.

Johnny was deader than dead wrong—again.

The tow truck took them up Williamson Road to a large, green corrugated metal building squatting next to WR Brews and within view of Breckinridge Middle School. Armstrong backed the Vega through a huge parking lot of cars and trucks, many of them no longer manufactured, into the left garage, stopping the tow truck by the only door, another huge garage door open on the other side, cars up on lifts all around them, several mechanics toiling underneath each car, truck, or SUV.

Johnny declared it “a happening place” even though none of the vehicles were actually moving.

Armstrong got out and was met by another black man carrying, of all things, a white electric bass.

“
No … way,” said the other man, who was as small as Armstrong was large. No more than five-four, the man circled the Vega wearing faded black jeans, black leather boots, and a multicolored sweater. “This is what I think it is, right?”

Armstrong nodded. “We don’t have a manual for this one.”

The other man smiled. “Nope.” He looked in through the driver’s side window and whistled. “A quarter million.” He whistled again.

“
Mostly hard, delivery mileage,” Johnny said without whistling. “Never took her on the highway. All stop and go traffic. Never took her above forty.”
I didn’t want her to explode.

The other man blinked at Armstrong. “And he wants us to save her?”

Armstrong shrugged. “It’s his nickel, Byron.”

So,
Johnny thought,
this is the B in AB Auto Repair and Towing. Nice baritone in his voice and a nicer bass in his hands. Beautiful fretwork.
“That’s a Fender, right?” Johnny asked, pointing at the bass.

“
Yeah,” Byron said. He wrinkled up his nose. “What’s that smell?”

“
Probably pizza,” Johnny said. “I delivered for Señor Pizza for three years.”

Byron nodded. “Y’all deliver to Northwest, right? I knew I had seen this car somewhere before. It isn’t likely one I’d ever forget.”

“
I used to work there,” Johnny said, “I quit last night. I don’t know if the owner will continue to deliver to Northwest or not.”

“
C’mon inside the office,” Byron said, and Johnny followed him into a nook between all the lifts where posters of Dizzy Gillespie, Fats Waller, and Cab Calloway hung above a glass counter. Byron sat on a high stool behind the counter, plugged his bass into a small amplifier on the floor, and worked the strings. “Know this one?”

Johnny listened to the thump and bump, Byron’s fingers flaying the strings. “Sounds a lot like … Bootsy Collins. ‘One Nation Under A Groove’?”

Byron’s fingers froze. “That’s right. How you know that?”

“
The Vega only has an AM radio,” Johnny said, “so I usually listen to six-ten.”
Tom Joyner and I are good friends. He talks, and I smile. He laughs, and I laugh inside my head.

Byron played another bass riff. “Name that one.”

“‘
Dock of the Bay’ by Otis Redding.” He scratched his head. “Don’t know the bass player.”

“
I’ll give you a hint,” Byron said. “Donald …”

“
Duck,” Johnny said. “Duck Dunn.”

Byron set down the bass. “Man knows his bass players.”

I’m just full of useful information. Just don’t ask me for any money.
“You still play?” Johnny asked.

“
Yeah.” Byron held out the bass.

Johnny wanted to kick himself for asking the obvious. “Well yeah, I mean, do you still play professionally?”

“
Used to. Band named By and the Gones.” He chuckled. “Ridiculous name, right? Sang lead vocals most of the time, too. Now I just play in churches whenever they need to wake up the congregation. The one church gave me a nickname a few years ago. They called me ‘Turn It Down,’ cuz that’s all they ever said to me.” He grimaced. “Why do I still smell that pizza?”

Johnny sniffed himself. “It’s me. I worked my last shift till late last night.”
And how can he smell me through all the grease, oil, and exhaust smoke hanging in the air around us?

“
Your old boss could have a monopoly if he kept delivering to Northwest,” Byron said. “No pizzas are being delivered to the ‘hood anymore.”

Johnny nodded, and when he nodded, several brain cells collided and formed an idea. You need a shower, his brain commanded. Johnny nodded again at his brain’s wise suggestion, and several more brain cells bumped into each other forming an even better idea: Johnny Holiday would open his own pizza joint in the ‘hood. He could make Mickey Mouse pizzas and sell Marion’s famous lemonade. He would be a one-man show, making and delivering every pizza he created in oversized, mouse-shaped boxes covered with—

“
So you don’t have a job now,” Byron was saying.

Johnny shook off his daydream and focused again on Byron. “No sir. Broke as Detroit.”

Byron laughed. “Broke as Detroit. Good one. So … how do you expect to pay for the repairs?” He pointed to the nearest lift.

Johnny smiled at the Vega now six feet in the air. “I was hoping that you could …” He looked at the other workers, who were sweaty and either standing and banging or walking briskly from the car they were working on to get tools …
That looks so familiar. Put pizza boxes in their hands, and they could be pizza delivery men.
“I was hoping I could work it off.”

“
You were hoping to do what?” Byron asked as he stood.

“
Come here, By,” Armstrong said, saving Johnny from repeating himself. “You have to see this mess.”

Johnny soon noticed that Armstrong and Byron liked to whistle—a lot. They whistled at the tail pipe and muffler, one long congealed collection of rust and even a few singed leaves and a melted plastic Kroger bag. They whistled at Johnny’s only usable brake pad. They whistled at all the drips from the oil pump, the radiator, and even from places where drips weren’t supposed to drip.

“
This ain’t good,” Armstrong said to Johnny as the lift brought the Vega to the floor.

Armstrong popped the hood and rubbed his eyes. “Probably needs a new … everything, man. Carburetor, oil pump, fuel pump, radiator, starter, alternator, belts, fans, battery, spark plugs …” He sighed. “Repairing it will cost you a bundle even if you only use rebuilt parts.” He shut the hood. “Only thing you got going with this car is the paint job, and this paint is too loud for my eyes.”

Byron cleared his throat. “Ask him how he’s going to pay for all these repairs.”

“
How you gonna pay?” Armstrong asked.

“
I’d like to work here until it’s paid off,” Johnny said.

Byron nodded at Armstrong.

Armstrong wiped his hands on a towel. “You crazy?”

Johnny stuck out his hand. “Sometimes.” Mainly at night. “Name’s Johnny Holiday.”

Armstrong cut his eyes to Byron. “This ain’t some joke, is it, By?”

Byron shook his head. “Man seems pretty serious.”

Armstrong whistled again. “Man, I wish I could help you. We ain’t hiring. Your best bet with this is to part it out, maybe take it to a junkyard. They might give you a few hundred for it if they’re drunk enough. Body is in surprisingly decent shape. Not much rust.”

“
Or,” Johnny said, “you could buy it from me for … some information.”

Armstrong blinked at Byron.

Byron laughed.

“
I’m gonna regret asking, but …” Armstrong hitched up his pants. “What kind of information is worth a Vega?”

The priceless kind, of course!
“If I wanted to open a pizza joint in Northwest that delivered exclusively to Northwest, where would I start?” Johnny asked.

Neither man spoke.

“
Um, that’s the kind of information I need,” Johnny added. “I mean, I hope you don’t really want the car for giving me that information since I plan on delivering those pizzas in this car.”

Both men continued to stare at Johnny.

Johnny felt like a live moth stuck on a hot light bulb. “Can, um, either of you help me?”

“
The old Pizza Hut building is still vacant on Melrose,” Byron said eventually. “That’s where I’d start.”

Armstrong stared at Byron. “Hold up. You want to open a pizza place that delivers, but you don’t have a car that runs … or any money … or any employees, right?”

Johnny nodded. “Right. I’d be a one-man show for a while.”

“
You
are
crazy,” Armstrong said. “I need forty-five for the tow.”

Johnny peeled off two twenties and a five from the dwindling roll in his pocket. “I, um, I don’t plan on using a car at first.”

“
Huh?” Armstrong said.

“
I’ll probably hand-deliver the pizzas,” Johnny said. “You don’t see that kind of service anymore, unless you’re in a restaurant, right? I’d hand-make it and hand-deliver it to each and every customer. Once I’m established, I’ll get a bicycle with a big basket in front and later buy a golf cart with a warming oven in the back.”

Armstrong laughed.

Finally,
Johnny thought.
Armstrong is too uptight. He needs to loosen up.

“
You can’t be serious,” Armstrong said. “Can you even cook?”

“
Yes.”
Time for the sales pitch.
“I have toiled in many fine restaurants in the valley, from IHOP to Señor Pizza. If it’s flat, I can cook it.”