door lock with his elbow. The window slid open a couple of inches. “You can pick it up at the pound,” he said, closing the window and putting the headphones back on.
“Fuck that.” Gil grabbed the handle of the driver’s door, struggled with it. The tow truck began rolling. Gil hung on, running alongside, screaming unbidden words through the driver’s window until the bumper of a parked car caught his left knee. He went down, lost his grip, looked up in time to see the 325i go by on two wheels, like a hobbled prisoner, and hear his phone buzzing inside.
Gil got to his feet. Suit pants ripped at the knee, blood seeping through the polyblend fabric. There was blood in his mouth too. He spat it out, and maybe a tooth as well. Cars went by. No one seemed to notice him. No one gave a shit. Well, he knew that already, right? A taxi approached. Gil stuck up his hand and it pulled over, proving he wasn’t invisible.
“Where to?”
“The pound.”
“Dog pound?”
“Car pound, for Christ’s sake.” As the cab pulled away, Gil saw his lucky tie curled up in the gutter. He opened the window and spat out more blood.
A twelve-dollar ride. At the car pound, he paid $50 for parking by a hydrant, $90 for the tow, and $25 for one day’s storage, even though the car hadn’t been there for twenty minutes.
Gil unlocked it, got in. He took a deep breath to calm himself. The nice smell of leather and wax was gone. The car smelled of piss.
Gil saw his face in the mirror, scratched and hard. He grinned. One of his lower teeth was chipped. He ran his tongue along the roughened edge, and thought of serrated blades pounding deep. Was he looking and sounding successful? Taking the offensive? Ignoring rejection? He ran the rules of the successful commission salesman through his mind, searching for some clue. No clues; he just knew he wanted a shower. First a shower, then a drink.
“What’re you waiting for, bud?”
Gil turned the key. His gaze fell on the dashboard clock: 4:27.
4:27. At that moment, he remembered Richie.
He snapped on JOC-Radio. A voice said: “We’ll be right back with the wrap-up and all the scores from around the league.”
Gil stomped on the gas. He shot through the gate of the car pound, fishtailed around a corner, clipping something, he didn’t know what; only to brake half a block later into a long line of rush-hour traffic. The phone buzzed. He grabbed it.
“Richie?”
But it wasn’t Richie. “Been trying to reach you.” Garrity. “How’d it go?”
“How did what go?”
“Everest. What else? Is something wrong?”
“Wrong?”
“You sound funny.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Gil said. His tongue found the jagged tooth edge and rubbed hard.
“Meaning what, in dollars and cents?”
“Can’t go into it now. I’m on a call.”
Pause. “See you tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Second Wednesday.”
“Sales conference?”
“You got it, boyo.”
Clouds rolled in from the north, grew heavier, sank over the downtown buildings. On the road, where the best ideas were supposed to happen, Gil waited for one, about Richie, about the sales conference, his tooth, anything. None came. He listened to something scraping under the car, squeezed the steering wheel until his hands cramped. He didn’t reach the ballpark until 5:18.
Gil sprang out of the car, ran to the nearest gate. It was locked. Beyond the chain link, unlit ramps curved away into the shadows. No one was around.
“Hey!” Gil called. “Hey!”
A veiny-faced old man in a red blazer appeared on the other side.
“Yeah?” he said.
“My boy’s in there.”
“Huh?”
“I was supposed to meet him. He hasn’t come out.”
“No way,” the old man said. “We do a sweep. There’s nobody.”
Gil glanced around, saw a few people on the street, but no kids. “Then where is he?” The question echoed through the concrete spaces under the stands, and Gil realized he’d been shouting. He lowered his voice.
“Fuck that.” Gil grabbed the handle of the driver’s door, struggled with it. The tow truck began rolling. Gil hung on, running alongside, screaming unbidden words through the driver’s window until the bumper of a parked car caught his left knee. He went down, lost his grip, looked up in time to see the 325i go by on two wheels, like a hobbled prisoner, and hear his phone buzzing inside.
Gil got to his feet. Suit pants ripped at the knee, blood seeping through the polyblend fabric. There was blood in his mouth too. He spat it out, and maybe a tooth as well. Cars went by. No one seemed to notice him. No one gave a shit. Well, he knew that already, right? A taxi approached. Gil stuck up his hand and it pulled over, proving he wasn’t invisible.
“Where to?”
“The pound.”
“Dog pound?”
“Car pound, for Christ’s sake.” As the cab pulled away, Gil saw his lucky tie curled up in the gutter. He opened the window and spat out more blood.
A twelve-dollar ride. At the car pound, he paid $50 for parking by a hydrant, $90 for the tow, and $25 for one day’s storage, even though the car hadn’t been there for twenty minutes.
Gil unlocked it, got in. He took a deep breath to calm himself. The nice smell of leather and wax was gone. The car smelled of piss.
Gil saw his face in the mirror, scratched and hard. He grinned. One of his lower teeth was chipped. He ran his tongue along the roughened edge, and thought of serrated blades pounding deep. Was he looking and sounding successful? Taking the offensive? Ignoring rejection? He ran the rules of the successful commission salesman through his mind, searching for some clue. No clues; he just knew he wanted a shower. First a shower, then a drink.
“What’re you waiting for, bud?”
Gil turned the key. His gaze fell on the dashboard clock: 4:27.
4:27. At that moment, he remembered Richie.
He snapped on JOC-Radio. A voice said: “We’ll be right back with the wrap-up and all the scores from around the league.”
Gil stomped on the gas. He shot through the gate of the car pound, fishtailed around a corner, clipping something, he didn’t know what; only to brake half a block later into a long line of rush-hour traffic. The phone buzzed. He grabbed it.
“Richie?”
But it wasn’t Richie. “Been trying to reach you.” Garrity. “How’d it go?”
“How did what go?”
“Everest. What else? Is something wrong?”
“Wrong?”
“You sound funny.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” Gil said. His tongue found the jagged tooth edge and rubbed hard.
“Meaning what, in dollars and cents?”
“Can’t go into it now. I’m on a call.”
Pause. “See you tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Second Wednesday.”
“Sales conference?”
“You got it, boyo.”
Clouds rolled in from the north, grew heavier, sank over the downtown buildings. On the road, where the best ideas were supposed to happen, Gil waited for one, about Richie, about the sales conference, his tooth, anything. None came. He listened to something scraping under the car, squeezed the steering wheel until his hands cramped. He didn’t reach the ballpark until 5:18.
Gil sprang out of the car, ran to the nearest gate. It was locked. Beyond the chain link, unlit ramps curved away into the shadows. No one was around.
“Hey!” Gil called. “Hey!”
A veiny-faced old man in a red blazer appeared on the other side.
“Yeah?” he said.
“My boy’s in there.”
“Huh?”
“I was supposed to meet him. He hasn’t come out.”
“No way,” the old man said. “We do a sweep. There’s nobody.”
Gil glanced around, saw a few people on the street, but no kids. “Then where is he?” The question echoed through the concrete spaces under the stands, and Gil realized he’d been shouting. He lowered his voice.
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