by Vicki Batman
Exasperated out the wazoo, I sighed. “Why are you writing me a citation?”
“Because your taillight is out.”
A huge revelation, one which captured my undivided attention. “Taillight? Out? Really?”
Like he’d suggested, I opened the car door and exited. The loud bang of the door, which I’d slammed unintentionally, caused me to jolt. Wasn’t a warning standard procedure for a taillight out? How did that happen on a new car? I needed to ask him for clarification later.
I trailed Officer Whatshisname? to the Jeep’s rear, stumbling and bumbling along the shoulder in my black business pumps. I was known with great—but mostly laughing—notoriety for tripping while wearing high heels. Turning my ankle would be the grand finale to an appalling day. Amend to month. Year. Lifetime.
I pulled the shirttail from the waistband of my tailored black skirt and flapped the ends. Good ol’ Sommerville had clocked in a record-setting temperature.
He stopped suddenly and I collided with his back. I sniffed. Ooh, he smells great, piney like a household cleanser. “Sorry.” Rolling to tippy toes, I peeked over his shoulder, following his finger which pointed to the car’s backside.
“Whaatt?!” I cried in unladylike shock.
The problem wasn’t a case of taillights out. There was a big lack of taillights. To be specific, the car had no taillights and no bumper. All of the rear end equipment was gone! Vanished! Poof!
I circled, clutching my hair and searching for an answer. Something. Anything.
His jaw tightened, yet he didn’t volunteer a comment.
I sidestepped around him, my hands reaching out to stroke the vandalized area.
“No, don’t. Fingerprints.” His hand snagged my shirtsleeve and yanked me to his side.
So close to his body, I could feel his man-heat penetrate my skin and warm my blood. An overwhelming compulsion had me wanting to fan my face, but I squashed it instead.
“Technicians are on their way.”
Fingerprints? Technicians? My chin dropped, and I sensed my eyes widen in disbelief as the facts sank in. With my golden highlights, I might be a pseudo-blonde. But I was no dummy. No taillights and no bumper meant one thing: Someone had stolen parts off my car. My Jeep. My baby.
This was so unfair.
The combination of heat, not-so good interview, bunched panty hose, and now, stolen car parts caused my emotional bank to tip. Very angry, terribly unhappy, tears formed in the corners of my eyes and leaked out one by one. “Why t-technicians?”
“Now, Ms. Cooks, don’t cry. Everything will be all right.”
With a glance, I found he looked conflicted, like guys usually do over a few girly tears. Head inclined. Hands resting at his waist. Right. Like I planned for this to happen.
“It’s just a bumper and some taillights. Do you have something for...” He touched his nose.
Had he hoped a tissue was the be-all, end-all solution? I smudged away the droplets. My hands went to my skirt’s pockets and fingered.
He patted his pockets and also came up empty handed.
As a last resort, I smashed the inside elbow of my white shirt sleeve to my nose in the fashion kiddies had been taught in school nowadays.
Head tipped and wallowing in which seemed best described as continually escalating misery, I wobbled to the side of the road and plopped my butt on the concrete curb. My arms dropped on bent knees. My forehead rested on my forearms. As I mulled over my Jeep’s mishap and took control of my sniffles, I heard the occasional car whiz by like a zippy bee.
Probably my underwear showed.
Why does everything happen at once? Who knew the trials and tribulations of everyday life can be so tremendously stressful at times?
With a soggy inhale, I said, “My brand new car has been destroyed by some part-stealing pig. I scrimped and saved for it, and now, it’s ruined. Ruined.” My words were semi-muffled by my body cave.
At the sound of an approaching vehicle, I looked up. Some uniformed guys—indisputably the technicians—exited and swapped a secret manly hand exchange with Officer Whatshisname? They went to work, whirled gray powder over my vehicle’s rear end, and lifted prints just like on crime scene investigative television shows. Another snapped photos and scribbled notes.
Following me to the curb, Officer Whatshisname? stood in front of my pointy-toed heels. “Ms. Cooks, we need to determine what happened. Any ideas?”
His body towered over mine. “No.”
“When was the last time you saw the entire Jeep?”
How many times a day do I—or anyone for that matter—scrutinize the rear end of their car? I gulped a sob. “I don’t know.”
I usually paid particular attention to my Wrangler, painted a gleaming white with dark gray cloth seats, a paler shade of gray vinyl interior, and topped with a black hardtop and matching rubber bumpers. However, lately, my mind had been occupied with other significant matters, items like the necessities of life: Finding employment, paying overdue bills, and, more importantly, procuring much-coveted peanut M&Ms. Now, I was sure to get a stupid-stupid-stupid citation and missing taillights and bumper to add to the equation. At the rate things were headed, I’d have to ditch the chocolate and move in with Mom and Dad. My body shuddered.
Certain the mascara smears streaking my face didn’t look pretty, I stared at my sleeve soiled with greasy black blobs and rubbed nose gunk. A thought clicked. “At my parents’ on Sunday, Dad and I changed the oil. I washed the Jeep. The taillights and bumper were on the car then.”
“Done,” a technician said.
“Check you later.” Officer Whatshisname? saluted.
We watched the van drive away. He swiveled his head back to me.
Noticing his intense look, I said, “I’m upset because I’ve had a really bad day. My whole life seemed picture perfect and... Well, nothing seems to be going my way lately, including these damn panty hose I’m wearing which are now screwed around my boobs.”
He curved to one side and cupped his hand around his mouth to stifle a laugh.
Me and my honest mouth. I felt positive my face turned redder than crimson red. Now, he knew everything about me. Perhaps, too much.
Funny, I didn’t know anything about him.
His finger rubbed his chin. “Today’s Tuesday. So, sometime between Sunday night and now, someone lifted the taillight assembly and bumper from your car...” he said. “Most likely when parked in your apartment lot.”
His logic made sense, and I nodded. Hey, I’d take any small effort right now. My head wound around what he’d said about my bumper, the taillights being lifted, and calling technicians. All of a sudden, an understanding piqued my sixth sense, informing me he possessed lots of information on stolen car parts. Creasing my brow, I aimed a studious stare his way and wondered how much more he knew than what he’d said.
He adjusted the Ray Ban’s earpiece. “Ms. Cooks, I suggest you go home, call the police, and your insurance company to file a report. The insurance company will help get your car fixed. Shouldn’t be a huge chunk of change if you have a low deductible.”
Insurance? Deductible? My hands felt heavy with the national debt I now carried.
From my curbside seat, I crooked up my head, a long way up. Drawing my body upright, I blinked away the remaining scum clouding my contact lenses. Officer Whatshisname? stood around six feet, one hundred-eighty pounds. He looked not too old, like thirty-ish. A well-pressed, navy regulation uniform covered his body. Uniforms make a man.
My assessment continued past the utility belt and the holstered gun, resting my gaze on his face. His nose appeared long, but slightly crooked, and his chin cut square. Trimmed short, his chocolate brown hair had been combed away from his face. Probably used gel. I still couldn’t see his eyes because of the Ray Bans. I squinted harder with the perplexing thought something about him seemed familiar. However, the sun still shone in my eyes, and I couldn’t recollect anyway.
“Okay. Hold on.” I fro
wned. “Aren’t you the police?” God, how awful, I sounded nasally like...Elmer Fudd. I pinched my nose. My other arm waved toward the Jeep while my gooked-up finger pressed the shirt tail. “Can’t I report the stolen taillights and bumper to you?”
“No, ma’am. Today, I’m only writing tickets.”
“Only writing tickets?” Un-be-lieve-able. I’d never heard of a policeman “only writing tickets.” He appeared to be a by-the-book kind of officer, not one who ignored extenuating circumstances to help a poor distressed young woman. Just when I needed a lawman, I got bureaucracy crap. How mean.
“Can’t you please help?” I begged one last time. Call me shameless. “Pulleeaasse?”
While his feet shifted, he looked like he considered my request. “No. Can’t. Wish I could. You’ll have to call it in. They’ll take a report over the phone. Sorry.”
Officer Whatshisname? wouldn’t budge one bit. So not helpful. Looking at the hand extended my way, I placed mine in his and found a strong grip. He would want to use hand sanitizer after all my nose-wiping issues. He hauled me to my feet so hard, our bellies bumped, which made an awkward twinge grab something unknown inside me.
“Thanks.” My body—and ego—felt bruised and battered. I followed him at my own slow pace, my heels scrubbing along the asphalt. At the car door, I paused a bit, eventually opened it, and flopped in the seat. After closing the door, I shifted my gaze his way.
He ripped a page from a small book, a pen clenched in his teeth.
I took the paper he passed me. “What’s this?”
“This,”—with his mouth shaped in a smirk, he tapped the paper with the capped pen—“is the citation for the taillight—”
“But I don’t have—”
“—out. Don’t forget to file your report and call your insurance company. And have a nice day.” With hard firm steps, he strode with confidence back to his squad car.
Nice day? I gritted my teeth. I’d kill for a really nice day.
I caught his reflection in the mirror, and for a sec, his fitted pants emphasized a well-shaped behind, distracting me and my anger.
After a while, he pulled his cruiser alongside my car, nodded, and drove away.
With a shake, I cleared the clouds cluttering my mind. What about me? What about my predicament? What about the fingerprints? What about the photos? I wanted to ball the citation and lob it out the window.
What. An. Asshole.
I compressed my lips in a firm line and searched for a solution. Suddenly, my mission became crystal clear—go to court and fight the citation. No way would I pay anything as I didn’t deserve a ticket for something I didn’t do. And in doing so, I would save myself much-needed cash.
Yeah. I smacked my right fist into my left palm.
I would call the insurance company and report the theft. Something weird could be going on out there in good ol’ Sommerville. With a wicked thought, I lifted my brow. And I could show the judge that Officer Whatshisname? was a rude, crude jerk who needed reprimanding.
Chapter Two
As the apartment door crashed behind me, a mirror hung next to the door frame rocked back and forth. Jenny had placed it there for a final beauty check before heading out. Above the sofa, the cartoonish paintings of squiggly people and boxy cars, newly purchased at the library art show for mere pennies, tilted. I dropped my bag on the khaki club chair, sending a less-than-heartfelt prayer nothing had broken.
Thank God, my apartment seemed a tad more tolerable temp-wise than the great outdoors. I’d turned my car’s air to full blast for the ride home, but the indicator on the gauge hadn’t budged. I still felt sweaty, sticky, and stinky—I took a whiff. Amend to extremely smelly.
With a little kick, the black pumps flew in the air and landed near the kitchen. I removed the despicable panty hose and popped the skirt’s hook. My hips shimmied and wiggled as the garment dropped to the floor. I massaged my waist, hoping in the near future my breathing would return to normal.
Lead me to chocolate.
I stomped through the living area to the thermostat. Punching a button over and over, I lowered the setting to a more comfortable level. From the fridge, I grabbed an ice-cold bottle of water and returned to the sofa grouping, snagging my cell phone on the way. With a sloppy plop, I landed sideways on the club chair, knocked off my bag and stuff, and dangled my legs across the armrest.
I sat lackadaisically. Just sat with no purpose, no agenda. Looked around, but didn’t care. Rubbing the bottle across my throat and forehead refreshed me. I snapped the bottle top and swallowed a gulp as the day’s events replayed in my head. However, the more I thought about what had transpired, the more my foot began to jerk in an agitated rhythm.
“Have a Nice Day,” Officer Whatshisname? had said.
Wonderful.
How about you have a nice day, buster, right after I finish poking needles in your eye. See how that feels.
The not-so-white shirt sleeve caught my eye. My favorite top sported a new label—TRASHED. Even when pretreated with stain remover, the black spots and green slimy splotches wouldn’t wash out easily. Crud.
I unfastened the top three buttons and took another swallow. An unrefined burp spouted out. Nope, not a red-letter, A-plus kind of day. Rather an F-minus, never-forget-me kind of one.
The sooner I got this reporting stuff over with, the better. Then my life could return to picture perfect, everything back to normal.
Well… Almost. I still needed to find a job.
I reached for my totebag and pulled the citation from inside. Before taking the time to review the document, I used it to fan my face. I suspended waving to give the slip a once-over. On the backside of the citation, I found the “For Help” number and punched the phone’s buttons with hard stabs.
“Oh, you’ll need to leave your information with Detective Wellborn,” a woman answered and fielded my question.
Detective Wellborn? Who the heck is that? I narrowed my brow into wrinkle-making-folds while I consulted the slip. “Ma’am, don’t you mean, uh…” I glanced again, “officer?”
“No, detective.”
And without giving me an opportunity to ask any further questions, she switched me over. Surely, she meant somebody else. I knew for a fact he said officer, not detective. My fingers undulated in an edgy rhythm on the club chair’s arm while I waited for him to pick up. Pick up. PICK UP! Perhaps he still manned the streets, searching for other drivers “just like me.” Lucky them.
Eventually, his voice mail came on, saying he would return my call.
I heard the beep and said, “This is Hattie Cooks. You pulled me over earlier and gave me a citation. I’m calling to file a stolen parts report.” Then I rattled off my phone number. Hanging up, I sat some more. Niggles of dissatisfaction took over my brainwaves.
I hit redial. After three rings, the same efficient woman came back on. I explained how the detective hadn’t answered. “Since he’s unavailable, I want to leave a report with someone else.”
“Oh, ma’am...”
Called ma’am twice in one day? That one word brought images of my back curving into a “C” like a little hunchbacked grandmotherly type. I was in no hurry to hit the old lady milestone.
“I’m sorry,” she continued in her brisk, efficient tone. “Let me transfer you.”
And with a beep, she shifted my call to a different police person. He took my statement, saying he would pass it on.
Fantastic. I disconnected.
Staring at the citation, I found Officer Whatshisname? had scrawled the date, my name, and address details in the designated spots, all of which looked accurate. Sometimes, the police made errors when filling in these sections which helped when fighting the citation in court—so I’d been told. Obviously, Officer Whatshisname? didn’t make mistakes. Taillight Out had been checked in the appropriate box. Go figure. I also found in the lower right hand corner of the citation his name—A. Wellborn—and his badge number...
Wait a m
inute. Wait a freakin’ minute. A. Wellborn—as in Allan Wellborn? Officer Whatshisname? is Allan Wellborn? The same Allan Charles Wellborn who had gone to the same high school two grades ahead of me? My best friend’s brother?
Is it possible? Oh golly, it could be. Funny squiggles seized my gut. I hadn’t seen the guy in at least four plus years. My finger pulled my lower lip while I counted back, and yeah, now I knew why he’d looked vaguely familiar.
I’d seen Allan Wellborn at my graduation from Sommerville High. With diploma in hand, I’d wrapped my arms around Sarah Anne, his younger sister and my best friend, as our parents snapped the traditional cap-and-gown photos. He’d stood off to one side, studying me in his curious way, which had always unnerved me. I’d been surprised when he’d pushed through family and thrust a card in my hand. To this day, I remembered the cartoon cap tossed in the air and the bits of glitter decorating it.
Inside, he’d written in tiny man-scribble:
Good luck in college.
Love, Allan.
Weird.
Six years later, he’d been a groomsman at his sister’s wedding, but hadn’t participated in the wedding party activities because-because... My finger screwed into my cheek. I hadn’t a clue. I couldn’t recall. At the time, my contact with him had been minimal, just the processional pairing. I did recollect his fingers gliding over mine, and for a tiny beat, my pulse had heightened when we’d briefly glanced at each other.
Weird.
I needed confirmation. If this really was him, his picture would be in my high school annual. And I knew just where to find it.
I schlepped to my bedroom to rummage for the box of childhood memorabilia stored on the top shelf in my closet. After a dinner visit with my parents for meat-for-the-week, I shoved a box of mementos on the front seat of my car. Mom had insisted I take the container home, saying, “You might need it.”
Sure, Ma. Only if I intend to play dollies. The real truth—she wanted to store her winter clothes in my old bedroom closet.
This time, however, the stuff might come in handy.
Rising en pointe, I pulled the bulky box off the shelf inch-by-inch, careful not to dump the contents. I carried it to the kitchen table, removed the dusty lid, and blasted loose a loud ah ‘choo! My fingers hit my pockets. Still no tissues on my person. Oh, what the hell and rubbed my nose across the dirty shirtsleeve, adding more stains.
