Paint It Yellow

by López, Andrés G.

  CHAPTER 8

  Gabriel could see his Dodge Polara from his kitchen window, parked off the street by the curb of the service road next to his apartment. Twice he’d been asked by the superintendent of the complex not to park it there because that lane had to be kept clear for the garbage truck to pass through on alternate weekday mornings. But Gabriel wasn’t going to park it in the street. The Dodge had been stolen once, in his junior year at Stony Brook and when he’d gotten it back a week later, he’d vowed that it would never be stolen from him again. So no matter where he went, if he had to leave the car outside, he parked it no more than a few feet from where he’d be. Even while living in this apartment in a safe section of Queens, Gabriel would wake up suddenly in the middle of the night and check on the Dodge.

  Gabriel hurried back from the deli, eager to get the Polara’s tune-up underway. It was in the low forties, but without a breeze. From half a block away, he saw his old car in the early morning light and frowned. The Polara had once prowled proudly on mag wheels in her baby blue splendor. Now the right fender was red with a patch of pink body compound behind the wheel; the right door was dark blue, the only color available at the body shop when Gabriel had brought her in for repairs after the car was stolen. And the rear wheel wells were corroding into orangey black rust. For a moment, Gabriel felt guilty seeing that the Dodge had gone downhill under his care. That was certainly not how she’d looked when he’d first seen her.

  When his ‘63 Rambler had died suddenly in a Stony Brook parking lot, after a long drive from Queens on the LIE, Gabriel didn’t think he’d have another car until the following summer. Yet some good luck came his way two weeks after Sal had towed the Rambler out of G-Quad, with spectators gawking. On an unusually warm and sunny December day, while on his way to his Psychology final, he saw the Dodge with a “For Sale by Owner” sign in the wide back window. Gabriel fell in love instantly. The car’s chrome gleamed in the sunlight. The deep-dish mags, caressed by black Dunlop tires with raised lettering gave it extra sportiness.

  Gabriel imagined how great it must be to own such a dazzling machine. He approached the young owner who was busy waxing the car and asked why he was selling it and for how much. The man praised his toy’s greatness, said he’d decided to purchase a yellow ‘73 Firebird and that he wanted eight hundred bucks. Gabriel’s jaw dropped; it seemed a small sum for such an elegant car. The owner started the Dodge and lifted the hood. He showed Gabriel the 318 cubic inch big block engine that looked like a 383, the thrush mufflers that gave it a sweet purring sound, the customized interior with black vinyl bucket seats taken out of a ‘70 Cougar, the baby blue shag rug that matched the outer body paint and the four-speaker 8-track stereo system that kicked sound around the spacious interior.

  Gabriel knew this car would give him an identity and make him feel manlier; it would fire up his ego and give him confidence around girls. He already had a hundred bucks from the Rambler sale. All he had to do was call his parents and beg for their help. They each agreed to give him three hundred fifty dollars. Later that evening, Gabriel made the phone call he knew would change his life.

  He picked up the Dodge in Dix Hills and enjoyed driving Daniel and Paul home in a machine that everyone stared at and wanted to race. The future seemed rosy and bright. But today, more than two and a half years later, the Dodge’s deteriorating exterior matched Gabriel’s crumbling interior. Yet he was determined to resuscitate his metal animal with a tune-up and maybe by extension, give himself a reason to go on another day. Working on the Dodge always raised his spirits. And in this good mood, he got ready for the necessary operation.

  Not forgetting about the garbage truck (which usually arrived at seven thirty), Gabriel prepared to change the oil around seven o’clock. If he worked diligently, he’d be done in twenty minutes and have five minutes left for cleanup. He jacked her up, slipped underneath and drained the oil. While staring blankly at the hot black liquid, he faded back to the day of his most memorable Dodge tune-up — and the dreaded Monday after — the day he lost his trust in people.

  Gabriel was living with his father at that time. The long semester break had just ended and he had spent most of it in the apartment, reading Dickens or Byron, or walking around the city absorbing the energy of crowds on the move, or at the public library for quiet study or research; and he had visited Paul, who at that time lived in Queens with his mother; a few times, he’d taken the train to Jackson Heights where he had the Dodge garaged, then drove out to Northport to see Jennifer.

  Gabriel couldn’t wait to head back to college and for the time when he could again have his girlfriend and his Dodge close by. Jennifer, on the other hand, loved the city and this sometimes made Gabriel mad. All she saw were the stores and bright lights; all Gabriel saw was the squalor and dirt — the homeless people rifling through garbage cans, the drug addicts shooting up and hiding from police, the disgusting everyday occurrences, such as the discovery of a cut-up body in a garbage can across the street — but he had no choice but to stay there. His stepfather had kicked him out of the house in Elmhurst after Gabriel had confronted him about the rude way he treated his sister, Mary, and his mother (in a last-ditch effort to save her second marriage) had backed her husband and asked Gabriel to apologize. Gabriel chose not to. Daniel was gracious enough to take him in and gave him everything he needed so he could finish college. So how could Gabriel scream out his anger at his father for living where he lived? He couldn’t. He wouldn’t, but he was miserable most of the time and he welcomed a return to school after his unsettled vacation.

  So on the day before the second semester of his junior year, Gabriel was back on campus and happier than he had been in a while. Jennifer had not arrived yet and since he had a few hours to kill before he’d see her, he took advantage of the January thaw to work on his beloved Dodge. He changed the oil, slipped in a new set of plugs, changed the points, condenser and distributor cap, and cleaned the carburetor. By the time Jennifer arrived, Gabriel was dressed and clean-shaven; he hugged and kissed her and they talked about the events of the last two weeks. Jennifer seemed distant but asked if Gabriel would like to take their friends Matthew and Joanna to Howard Johnson’s.

  After ice cream and coffee, the four friends piled into Jennifer’s maroon Volvo station wagon and in minutes were walking on the cool sand and staring at the dark, restless waters at West Meadow Beach. A brisk wind picked up after about thirty minutes and Jennifer asked Gabriel if they could head back. She had early classes the next day and did not want to be tired. Gabriel stared at the bright gauges of the new Volvo and wondered why Jennifer was so unhappy.

  The next morning, on his way to Psychology 300 something — either rat lab or behavior modification — Gabriel went out the side entrance of the dorm. The Dodge, which had air shocks, mags and extra leaf springs, stood higher in the rear than most cars in the parking lot and could be seen quite easily from the door. But when Gabriel looked, it was not there. He ran to where he had left the car — she had vanished! Stolen! With fresh oil in her system, new plugs and a perfect tune-up, the thieves had taken his baby blue gem.

  Who could have done this? Why the Dodge? Why his car? He walked out of the lot with an aching heart, meandered through the student union building and made his way to the lecture hall and his first class. That morning, an anguish arrow anchored itself in his heart and would never be dislodged. His disillusionment with people grew. He knew his car could be stolen in a bad city neighborhood like Hell’s Kitchen, but here in college, among friends and familiar surroundings, who could do such a thing? It just seemed unfair. Gabriel vowed that if he ever got the Dodge back, no one, and he meant no one, would ever steal it from him again. Even if he had to chain himself to it every night!

  After class, he met two officers in the parking lot and described everything he could remember that might be relevant and much that would not be. Then he waited for Jennifer. At that point, he knew little of her unhappiness, of the pressure her parents we
re putting on her. She’d come to college to study science, but her real desire was to become a Broadway actress. This is why she had such a passion for the city Gabriel had come to loathe. So when they met later that morning, each was grief-stricken and lost in a quicksand of personal pain.

  Gabriel went to Jennifer’s room to tell her about his stolen car but found her crying. Against her parents’ wishes, she’d taken an Intro to Theater class and on their first meeting, students had been asked to improvise a monologue. She’d been so nervous and while stumbling through her skit, she’d heard jeers from classmates. Gabriel felt heavyhearted as he held her in his arms and did his best to reassure her; he even offered to practice with her, winning him a small smile. She told him he was the one bright light in her life and he confessed how lost he’d be without her, and they spent the long afternoon supporting one another like cathedral buttresses.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Hey! What’re you doin’ under there, Gabe?”

  Sal’s loud voice dislodged Gabriel from Jennifer’s side in the Amman dormitory and brought him back to the present and the last drops of dripping black oil under the Dodge. For a split second, Gabriel thought the scissor jack was giving way and that the Dodge’s ton and a half of steel would crush his skull. He wriggled from underneath his machine, vice grip in one hand, rag in the other, only to see Sal laughing at the sight from the driver’s seat of his Checker cab.

  “Whatever you’re up to, you’d better hurry. The garbage truck is down the block and headed this way.”

  “Shit! Damn it!”

  Gabriel got back under the Dodge hurriedly, tightened the oil pan nut, screwed in the filter, pulled the pan from under the car and unburdened the scissor jack. He poured the opened quart into the Dodge. While it emptied, he got the next ready.

  Sal laughed, but Gabriel knew his best friend would not abandon him. Sal had parked his cab in the street in front of the driveway to the service lane. He was waiting for Julia so he could drive her to work. Sal leaned against the driver’s side door of his cab and lit a cigarette. This was his battle pose.

  “I’ll stall the truck,” he yelled, quite amused, “but you’d better hurry ‘cause the Jigger man will be on your tail pronto.”

  Gabriel had three quarts in and was opening the fourth when the garbage truck’s air horn blew and nearly knocked it out of his hands — a battle was coming.

  The truck had pulled to within inches of the Checker’s bumper, but Sal stood calm, finished the last drag of his cigarette and flicked the butt toward the truck’s windshield.

  The trucker, a burly fellow with a huge gut, bushy eyebrows, thick moustache and full beard could easily have been mistaken for a Nashville country singer past his prime. If he’d sported a cowboy hat, red bandana, beat-up guitar and scuffed boots, he’d have looked exactly like a fat Willie Nelson. Instead he wore a dirty Yankees cap with its emblem ripped in one corner, a grease-stained New York Giants jacket unbuttoned at the belly, baggy blue chinos and old filthy Converse sneakers. A big wad of chewing tobacco was stuffed near his front lower gum. He stomped toward the Checker and with beady blue eyes, stared into the face of the bold young punk who’d brought his scheduled run to a halt. But before he could open his mouth, Sal hurled his nastiness.

  “Who’re you honking that fuckin’ horn at, asshole?”

  “Move that piece of shit cab right now, or I’ll push it outta the way,” the trucker barked back. “I’m on a tight schedule here and ain’t got time for your shit, kid. Move it! I mean it! Move it now!”

  “Listen pal, I live here.” Sal pointed toward his apartment. “You pick up my trash for a living. You’d better have some courtesy for the tenants or I’ll file a fuckin’ complaint that’ll cost you your job.”

  Gabriel poured the last quart of oil into the Dodge.

  The trucker, meanwhile, climbed back into his cab and blew the horn repeatedly, summoning the superintendent, aka “the Jigger man” — Mr. Bradley Jiggerson. Jigs was a tall, lanky man whose head bobbed when he walked. He wore an oversized uniform, with a Harley cap and construction boots, and kept his eyes riveted on the pavement as if he were on constant patrol to spot dog crap. A half-smoked cigarette hung from his mouth, which he didn’t pull out when he spoke. With sunken cheeks and a defeated demeanor, from afar, he looked like the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz. Hearing the commotion, he came out of his first-floor apartment a few buildings down. When he saw Gabriel cleaning up his mess and took a glance in Sal’s direction, Jiggerson figured out what was happening. He veered toward Gabriel first.

  “Pick up this fucking mess right now! This is a residential area not a freaking garage. I’ve told you to keep that old piece of junk out in the street or rent a goddamn garage in the back of the complex. Or I’ll have it towed or ticketed.”

  Coming toward Sal, he softened his tone. “Why’re you in his way, Sal? Can’t you see this gentleman is only trying to do you a service here?”

  “Listen Jigs,” Sal began, pointing his finger at the trucker who remained in his cab. “That gentleman is a rude son of a bitch who picks up fuckin’ trash — and thinks he can yell at respectable tenants like myself. Now, I’ll tell you what; you’d better put him in his place or I’m gonna file a complaint against you with management. You still haven’t fixed my fuckin’ faucet or the broken lock on my front door. And you hire an asshole like that to come ‘round here and honk his goddamn air horn at seven thirty and wake up a senior citizen like Mrs. Stanley over there.”

  “I’ll make sure he doesn’t blow that horn again Sal, but please” — here Jigs put his hand on Sal’s shoulder — “move your cab. If the garbage isn’t picked up, we get rats. I’ll be over to fix your faucet and lock later today.”

  Julia was coming toward the cab, so Sal was ready to wrap things up. “Okay Jigs, I’ll move my goddamn cab, but let me tell you one more thing. See that guy over there who you continuously pick on?” Sal pointed at Gabriel. “Well, that’s my best friend. And I don’t appreciate your hostility toward him. And that car there you called a piece of junk is the rarest car in this damned neighborhood and I’d like you to respect that.” Sal lowered his voice and came closer to Jiggerson, putting his hand on Jigs’s shoulder. “Do we have an understanding here?”

  The garbage truck driver blew his air horn again, startling both Sal and Jiggerson. Then he threw the truck into reverse and without heeding Jiggerson’s pleas to stay, he was off to his next call. It was now five minutes to eight.

  “See Jigs, that guy’s a real class act. A big, fuckin’ asshole!”

  Jiggerson sensed his job might be on the line now that the garbage would sit for another two days and the driver might not return, and he gave Gabriel an evil look. With his head down, he moved slowly toward his office where he’d have to explain to management what had just happened. Luckily, he had a potential witness in Mrs. Stanley, who he hoped would take his side.

  Sal got Julia settled in his cab and walked over to Gabriel with a big grin on his face.

  “Hey, why don’t ya follow me into the city and we can have breakfast in the Village?”

  “I was gonna tune up the Dodge today. I’m picking up Paul from school later and want her to be humming. Besides, I’ve gotta clean up.”

  “You’ll have plenty of time. C’mon, I’ll help ya.”

  Without waiting for Gabriel’s approval, Sal grabbed the pan of dirty oil, took it to the curb and spilled its contents down the sewer. Gabriel had no time to object, but he saw Mrs. Stanley from her window shaking her head in disapproval. Sal took a few rags, wiped up the remaining pan oil and threw everything in a dumpster at the rear of the complex. Gabriel tossed his tools in the Dodge’s trunk, went to get his license and some money, and fired up the Dodge. He wasn’t happy with the way things had started this morning but owed Sal for helping him.

  “I’m taking the tunnel,” Sal called out. “If you lose me, we’ll meet at Carmine’s.”

  “I’ll be right on your tail.” />
  Sal pulled his Checker out. Gabriel followed and tuned into CBS FM for some company. Back at the complex, Mrs. Stanley, seeing that the excitement had died down, pulled her head inside the window, closed it and lowered her shade. Within seconds, she was on the phone with Mrs. Martineau. The morning’s events were certainly worth relating.

  CHAPTER 10

  “So what were you thinking about under the Dodge Gabe?” Sal asked when they were both seated comfortably at Carmine’s restaurant. “Mandy I bet. Or that other girl from college. What was her name?”

  “Jennifer,” Gabriel responded, a little annoyed that Sal couldn’t remember the name of someone who’d been so important in his life.

  “Oh yeah, the Persian babe with the cute haircut.”

  “Turkish.”

  “Same thing. Same fuckin’ thing.” Sal reached for his pack of cigs.

  “Not the same thing,” Gabriel snapped, “and you know it. You’re just trying to diminish who she was and what she meant to me.”

  “Just a chick who dumped you. Why do you blow minor romances into these earth-shattering spectacles? Man, you’re really living in la-la land.” Sal lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.

  The waitress came to their small table by the large front window, where Gabriel could keep an eye on his Dodge. As usual, Sal ordered scrambled eggs with toast, a side of bacon, a corn muffin and a glass of juice, and they both ordered a light, sweet cup of Colombian coffee.

  “These days I think the only thing you and I have in common is the way we like our coffee,” Gabriel said when the waitress left. “Why’re you so mad all the time? And so vulgar?”

  Sal pointed his cigarette at Gabriel. “I saved your fuckin’ ass this morning, didn’t I? You weren’t so offended at my dirty mouth then.”

  Sal leaned back, grinned and then laughed as he replayed the scene in his head.

  “So what was so important that you forgot the damned truck?”