FSF, September 2007

by Spilogale, Inc

  "Can you tell the make of car from that?” Stephanie asked.

  Jason snorted. “Auto makers don't make their own paint. It's a huge web of contractors and subcontractors. Those polymers, resins, metal flakes, desiccants, pigments ... I won't call it a craft industry, but it still is way more fragmented than most things are nowadays. No way I can tell the make of car from that. And, you know what? The exact color doesn't really matter to me here. This is really more habit than anything else. But I do have the actual pigment with me here—given your description of the accident, probably from the front right portion of this car. There are resonance linkages, aesthetic to retinal. Pretty technical stuff, not usually of interest to clients.” He sighed. “The worst part of my job, color. Bumper gets painted at the same time as the car, and, you know what? It comes out different, right off the line: temperature, plastic versus metal, the slight amount of flex additives in the bumper paint. Clients always remember the bumper being the same color as the car. No one ever really looks at their car, except when it comes out of the body shop. Then it's ‘Why doesn't it match?’ ‘It never matched’ just isn't an answer they're ever going to hear.” He shook his head in despair at his doomed position, trying to satisfy the childish needs of emotionally vulnerable people who'd had car accidents.

  He looked so comfortable with his color chips and pigment matching. It was a pity to have to rile him up again.

  "Did you lose her through a curse?” Stephanie said.

  He froze for a second, then folded up his Pantone book, cleared off his desk, and stood up. “Yes. He ... took her. That was how I got started, on all this. Her car.” He pointed at the Alfa Romeo Spider. “It was smashed flat, under an eighteen wheeler. I thought she was dead. But she wasn't dead. The guy with the car collection. I think he collected her too."

  "Did you think repairing that car would help you find her?"

  "It did. It taught me a lot. But it was only the first step on a long road."

  "A road you're getting to the end of.” Stephanie couldn't believe that the solution to her problem was going to hurt her friend. But Marlene had already offered to back away once. Any more, and Marlene would get annoyed. No new information had surfaced, so there was no reason for her to reconsider her decision. That was the way Marlene worked things.

  "Maybe. We'll see.” Jason sighed. “The price...."

  Stephanie felt a chill. “Yes? What will you need from me? I never had an imaginary friend."

  "You and Marlene talk a lot."

  "Is that bad? Was she not supposed to have told me?"

  "Oh, no. Not at all. Just ... when you talk to her, tell her that ... this doesn't make me happy."

  "Come on, Jason. You really want to use me as some kind of back channel to give her some idiotic nonsense like that? It doesn't matter if it was accidental, or coincidental, or what, but you're going to hurt her because of what she brought in here for you. Because of me. You can stop. Just fix my car like a normal body shop would. I'll deal with the damn number. I've almost forgotten it."

  "Now who's giving nonsense? You're a good friend, Stephanie. But Marlene's right. If I don't do it, if I leave it hanging, I won't be doing anyone any favors. Plus, I want to give that arrogant s.o.b. one in the eye.” His voice was suddenly fierce. “Don't you?"

  "What will you want from me?"

  "The number."

  "The phone number. The wrong one?"

  "Yes. If this all works, it will be wiped from your mind. When it goes, I want it."

  Stephanie took a breath. Was it valuable in some way? Was she giving up something crucial? “Okay. It's a deal."

  They shook hands, and looked over at where Marlene stood by Cliff and Gordon as they played an old board game of Panzer warfare, an endless expanse of hexagons representing the entire Eastern Front. The two old men, one bald, one hairy-eared, fiddled with stacks of cardboard squares. Gordon was Stalin, Cliffie Hitler.

  "Guderian,” Cliff looked at Stephanie. “I'm Guderian, for God's sake."

  "What?” Stephanie said.

  "Aren't you going south along the Dnieper?” Marlene asked him. “Think of all that grain!"

  "Excuse me, missy, but could you please stay out of it?"

  Marlene looked up at Stephanie and Jason and winked. If she regretted letting things go ahead, she gave no sign of it.

  Jason reached into a dark corner and pulled out a big chunk of Styrofoam that had once cradled a computer or piece of audio equipment. He grabbed a screwdriver off a shelf—every level surface seemed to have at least two or three tools on it—and dug a small round hole in it, just the right size to hold the vial firmly.

  On the other side of the shop, he shoved the Styrofoam in one of the holders on a four-unit paint shaker that usually handled gallon cans. He tugged and readjusted until he was satisfied that it would hold.

  The shake started loud and got louder, until Stephanie was sure it would shake itself into pieces, somehow unbalanced by having only one tiny container with a few fluid ounces in it. The vial blurred into a line, and the streak of yellow seemed to get brighter, as if glowing. Then the line—that shaker really was out of adjustment—shifted into two-dimensional shapes, like traces on an oscilloscope in an old sci-fi movie: an oval, an hourglass, a ridged thing, then a dancing wiggling thing that froze, for an instant, into a jagged ideogram, which then vanished.

  "Cliffie?” Jason looked up at a car that had just pulled into the far bay. “Could you take care of that guy? He's here for an inspection. Overdue, looks like. Give him whatever help he wants."

  "Hey, I was just about to capture Moscow! Okay, okay.” Cliff got up and limped over to the yellow 1965 Pontiac Bonneville. “What do you know, the car that owned the ‘60s! And, boy, do we have some legacy emissions standards for you."

  It was the car that had hit her. She could see the way the right headlight tilted away, shining on the Spider's gleaming blue fender. But she couldn't see anyone behind the black windshield. She started for it.

  "You're not ready to meet him,” Jason said in her ear. “Neither of us is. Not yet. Please."

  "What do I get if I resist bashing his head in with a tire iron?"

  "Release from the curse. Otherwise—"

  "I'll be stuck with it?"

  "Let's just say it wouldn't be under warranty. Here, put this on.” He handed her a coverall. “It'll keep your clothes clean. Please excuse the name. It's our designated newbie coverall."

  Above the right breast pocket on the stiff, oil-stained blue coveralls was an embroidered “Fartley."

  Stephanie paused, then shrugged and put it on. “Who's your newbie?"

  "Cliffie. Well, he's been here eight years now and he's kind of not liking that coverall anymore. So we use it for guests."

  Cliff had set up the headlight alignment test. “This guy should fail, Jason. Look at—"

  "I know. We'll take care of it."

  That blue Italian sports car wasn't anything Stephanie had to do with. That was Jason's game. But it had all come together. Her need had played into what Jason needed. How much of that, she wondered, was accidental, and how much was planned?

  "Hey, Cliffie!” Marlene yelled. “I've been playing your pieces for you, while you're busy. I just seized the Caucasus oil fields."

  "That wasn't my strategy, girl! I was going for the urban areas."

  "Show a little gratitude. That's all I ask."

  "Can't you let him lose on his own?” Gordon hunched, trying to figure a way to escape the complete collapse of his strategy.

  That was Marlene: a smart babe in a rubber dress with a genuine talent for mechanized warfare.

  "Here's what I need for you to do.” Jason handed her a clean blue wipe rag from the dispenser. “As I adjust the light, write your phone number down on this."

  "My actual number?"

  "Your actual number. I'll take it from there."

  He knelt by the Bonneville and adjusted the headlight with a screwdriver. The misaligned hea
dlamp beam left the Spider and crept toward the orientation cross on the wall. Stephanie grabbed a ballpoint and scribbled her phone number on the rag. As she got to the next to last digit, she hesitated. What was ... she couldn't believe she was having trouble remembering her own phone number. But ... was it ... Jesus, of course, this was ridiculous. She managed to get the correct digit down, then finished.

  As she did, the headlight hit the cross, and she could see.

  There, in the light, was that room, the room where she had met him, and given him the bad number. It had only been ... Jesus, six years ago? But already it looked like history. The clothes had funny proportions, the celebrities discussed no longer interesting, the cell phones too big.

  And there he was: the guy. He didn't look horrifying. A bit self-satisfied, maybe. And then there were those fingernails.... He watched her intently as she wrote down the phone number. He wasn't used to being balked. He would get back at anyone who did.

  God, that bastard, putting that delayed-reaction booby trap into her temporary weakness. Sure, she should just have stood up to him and told him there was no way on Earth he was ever getting her telephone number. She'd tried, but he hadn't let it go.

  Stephanie stepped forward into the scene, plucked the cocktail napkin off the table, and replaced it, neatly, with the completely out of context blue wipe cloth from the body shop. Let someone else worry about how little sense that made.

  The headlights went off. Stephanie stumbled forward in the sudden darkness. Her foot slipped on a patch of grease and she was falling—

  A hand caught her under the armpit and hauled her up. Once she was steady, the man stepped away. She turned to thank Jason for moving so quickly—

  It was the driver of the Bonneville. The guy with the number. The man who had cursed her.

  He stared at her. “Who the hell are you?"

  "Who?” Stephanie was outraged. “You don't remember? Six years ago? I gave you my phone number, but I ... changed it?"

  "No, I don't remember. But I guess you deserved whatever I gave you.” He started to smirk, but his expression turned to one of pain. He stared at her. He sucked in a breath. Then he started to cry.

  She caught a glimpse of the vision he was having. A vision, she thought later, of their collision, the one she had avoided. She had given him the right number. He had called it. They had gone out. Then ... a haze of possible courses as a relationship that shouldn't have happened limped to its death. Grim meals pressed flat with silence. Bodies next to each other in angry withdrawal. The final savage indifference of a relationship gone zombie.

  "Now,” she said. “Aren't you glad you never got that number?"

  "That never could have....” He was gasping for breath. “Did that happen?"

  "No way. Because I'm smarter than that.” She noticed that a sleeve of his shirt was flopping loose. “I have something for you."

  He wiped his nose with his sleeve. As she popped the hood of her car she noticed, without surprise, that the damage had been repaired. The side of her car was gleaming, perfect. She unscrewed the oil cap and there it was: a cufflink. Not a piece of shattered mirror on a hose clamp, but a real cufflink, beautiful and elegant. She wiped the oil off with a rag and handed it to him.

  He stared at it in wonder. “What...?"

  "You must have dropped it. That night, when we met."

  "Bull.” He made a fist around it. “It's that stupid....” He raised his voice. “Hey, Jason! You out there, buddy? This is what it's all about, eh?"

  "No,” Stephanie said. “This is about what you did to me. That's it."

  "Oh, sure. That moron. He's just playing around. You were in trouble. He helped you out. Aw.” He made a mock sympathetic face that made her want to hit him. “Next time don't play so hard to get."

  "Pay the cashier on the way out,” Jason said from the darkness.

  "Go ahead. Use the number. Call her. Then you'll learn what you never wanted to know.” The guy laughed.

  "Hey,” Stephanie said. “Can I tell you something?"

  "Yeah, sure, go ahead. I'm sure you can set me straight on everything."

  "Be kind,” she said. “Even when people disappoint you, just be kind."

  "That's it?"

  "You'll meet someone, someday."

  "Screw you."

  He got into his car and pulled out of the shop.

  "Jeez,” Marlene said. “What a sorehead."

  * * * *

  Marlene finished up her chess game with Gordon, while Cliffie kibitzed and Jason sat on a high stool in the corner by the welding gear, talked on the phone, and cried.

  "Hey, that rook's pinned,” Cliff said. “Don't count on that to save your sorry old butt."

  "Dammit, I can see that, can't I? Just shut up."

  "And look out for that knight—"

  "What did I just say?"

  "It's here,” Jason said through his tears. “Your car looks great. Perfect, just like before. You can just ... yes. That's all. Just come get it."

  Marlene slid a bishop to the outer edge of the board. “Check."

  "Hey, man,” Cliff said. “Look, a revealed check from that rook back down there. I'd forgotten about it."

  "Great, thanks for pointing that out. After it already happened."

  "Oh, you want me to predict the future?"

  "Predicting the past isn't as helpful."

  "Okay. Here's your future: mate in two, buddy."

  "What?” Gordon stared at the board. “Ah, hell.” He toppled his king, which rolled off the board, to be neatly caught by Cliff's foot, flipped into the air, and caught by Gordon, who set it back up. “Thanks for a good game."

  "Thank you guys for a great afternoon.” Marlene beamed.

  The two old guys exchanged a glance.

  "Well, you know...” Cliff said.

  "Once you've had old, you'll be sold!” Gordon said.

  All three of them laughed, although the two guys quit way before Marlene.

  * * * *

  The rain had stopped, but black clouds still covered the sky. Then a clear flash of sunlight came from behind, to illuminate the houses and trees on the other side of the street. The yellow light made them both vivid and flat. Everything glistened.

  "I like a man who can cry,” Marlene said.

  "Depends on what he's crying about.” Stephanie started the car. It was perfect, like nothing had ever happened to it.

  And she couldn't even remember the false phone number, the one that Jason had reused to contact his vanished girlfriend.

  "Me. He has to be crying about me."

  "Or his mom."

  "Okay. His mom. But not the Red Sox."

  "Or his stock options."

  "Right.” Marlene rubbed her nose. “That's not sensitive. That's just dumb."

  "You okay, Marlene?"

  "Been better."

  Stephanie touched her friend's arm. “Hey! You're all goosey-pimply. We've got to get you out of this wet wind and into a dry martini."

  "Green apple. There's a good place over in Davis Square."

  "Do you have any idea of what's in one of those things, Marlene?"

  Marlene stuck out her lower lip. “You never take me seriously."

  "Oh, I certainly do."

  They stopped at the corner. Behind them, they heard the garage door rumble up.

  A blue Alfa Romeo Spider pulled out. It accelerated down the street, then screeched to a halt at the stop sign. The stocky, strong-jawed woman driving it was pretty, but wasn't an obvious candidate for romantic obsession. She turned and looked at Stephanie and Marlene.

  "The throw's off on this shifter,” she said. “He did his best, but sometimes you can't get things back exactly the way they were.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment. “No matter how hard you work at it."

  Someone honked behind her. She didn't look back, but just waved her hand in a vague gesture, jangling her bracelets. After another blast on the horn, the other car pulled around.


  It was a yellow Bonneville. It tore past, and, ignoring the stop sign, turned into traffic, causing a few honks of its own. None of them watched to see it disappear.

  "Well,” Stephanie said. “At least you're free now."

  The woman turned to look at her. “He caught me through my weakness. How did you escape?"

  "I wouldn't have talked to him in the first place,” Stephanie said. “But I was trapped behind the pastry table."

  "Don't you have weaknesses?"

  Stephanie surprised herself by laughing. “Oh, I have weaknesses, believe me. But ... I also have friends."

  The woman didn't say anything else. Off throw or not, she shifted smoothly and vanished into the traffic without a sign of disturbance.

  "So, Marlene,” Stephanie said. “Is it time to get back there?"

  Marlene looked at the garage as its door finally came back down. “Not just yet. It would look a little ... desperate, don't you think? Unattractive trait, desperation."

  "No one likes being pulled under by a drowning person."

  "Jeez, Stephanie, how charming."

  "I was just agreeing with you. Let him wait a couple of days."

  "You know, he learned this business, how to do it, looking for her. That was what got him started. So, finally, he found her. Now he's got a nice little career going. I hope he sticks with it."

  "He sure enough saved me."

  "No number?"

  "My brain is totally clear. So transparent I could go into modeling."

  Marlene snorted. “You want mental transparence? Did I ever tell you about the underwear model I dated?"

  "I thought you liked men who worked with their hands."