Girls and Cars and Songs About Loneliness, Songs About Love
I leave my place for the car show, and I see my neighbor from down the street, Kat, the lesbian, walking her dog. I wave and she waves and then I am gone.
#
At the car show — a show n’ shine for old cars really — I meet up with Dale, a guy I know from way back. Dale’s retired now. Like me, he has time to look at old cars.
He tells me that last year he’d gone to one of these in a small town a few miles down the road. There were a few nice old cars and trucks, and the event was held at a county fair. He says that an old man had come up to him, obviously drunk off his ass. It was three in the afternoon.
How are you doing, Dale said to the old man.
I am the happiest man ever, the old guy said, beaming. He’s wearing a Hawaiian shirt and one of those Harley-Davidson bucket hats. He has a cigarette in hand that he has so far forgotten to light. In his other hand he has a handful of cash.
See this, the old guy says, brandishing the money? Three-hundred dollars. Best in show. It’s for my truck. He jerks his head towards a line of cars and trucks, but it’s hard to say which one might be his from his directions.
Congratulations, Dale says. No wonder you are happy.
Yeah, the guy says, the secret is to wash and detail the underside of your hood. A lot of guys forget that. But the judges, they’re looking for those little things. I’ve placed in a few shows this summer. Two weeks ago, I won five-hundred. But that ain’t the best of it, not at all.
What’s the best of it, Dale asks?
I got a girlfriend out of it, the old guy says.
He looks really happy.
How’d that come about, Dale asks?
Well, the old guy says, after I won that five-hundred I thought I’d put out an on-line classified ad for the truck. Some good pictures — looking for a best offer — but no offers necessarily accepted – that kind of thing. I’m fishing a bit — I’m not real motivated to sell it — but I wanted to see if someone might offer me a stupid amount of money for the truck. I might take it, I might not. But then this woman messages me. She says she doesn’t want to buy the truck, but she likes it, and she wants to go for a ride. So, I messaged her back and one thing leads to another and we meet up and I give her a ride. I wound up giving her the five-hundred and we’ve been boyfriend and girlfriend ever since.
Do you give her money regularly, Dale asks?
No, no, no, the old guy says. Just the five-hundred up front.
Dale couldn’t think of anything to say to that.
She’s great, the old guy said, before he moved on.
Dale says that five minutes later he walked past the old guy who by then is talking to a uniformed police officer who is, in the performance of his duty, walking the grounds.
I am the happiest man, ever… he heard the old guy saying to the cop.
Dale thinks I should put my old truck in a few shows.
You might get a girlfriend out of it, he says.
I’ve had girlfriends, I say. I have never paid any five hundred dollars.
Two-fifty, Dale says?
We both laugh.
I tell Dale about some of them. Karen, who had a list of thirty-one things she wanted in a potential partner. I told her to title that list How to Die Alone, but she didn’t think that was funny.
It’s ok Karen, I said, all men have a list too. It has two items:
One, likes to do it.
Two, not a psycho.
She didn’t find that funny either. She turned out to have a lot of problems. Cluster B they call it.
Then there was Sharon, who told me, at an Appleby’s, old people love their vegetable medley, after I’d ordered the vegetable medley for a side.
I used to waitress at an Appleby’s, she added, stating her credentials.
I never spoke to her again. Not because of the vegetable medley, or because she’s waitressed at an Appleby’s. It was because she was really, really mean.
Susan – she alone I miss – her parents had died on the same day exactly one calendar year apart. Truthfully there was a time and distance issue there, but I told people it didn’t work out because knowing what I knew I thought she might be bad luck.
True story, Dale asks?
True, I say.
Dale, I add, it might be me after all. Not everyone thinks I am funny. I can accept that.
He laughed again.
I say nothing to him, but I’m going to run a classified for my truck. Best offer, but with a provision that no offer will necessarily be accepted. It’s the way to go.
#
Kat walking that little dog today, both of them moving slowly, like people with bad hips and bad knees and bad hearts even. I know she’s a lesbian because I know her and I have known her for years and her partner too. The dog is older now, and Kat walks ahead of him where once he used to strain at the leash. In her face, in the set of her jaw, I see the same expression that old married men have. Twenty years and counting, thirty maybe, waiting on someone else’s kindness, hoping for a little grace. C’mon, just throw me a bone, just this once, just something to tide me over. Please.
This is true: The loneliest people live with other people, have pets, and are mute now, tired of asking. This is true too, that they who care the least have all the power.
THE END
ABOUT THE ARTIST
Steve Passey is from Southern Alberta. His the author of many things, and no one likes him.
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