Some Place Better Than Here

Chapter 8: Please Mr. Postman

8 
Please Mr. Postman

============DANNY===========

The brightness of the sun beamed off the hood of Rob's Porsche Boxster into my eyes like needles into my retinas. Perhaps I didn't need to use that much wax. Aside from the obvious years behind the machine, when all washed up and waxed, it looked pretty sharp. Despite the growing heat of noon roasting the back of my hair and neck, provoking a patch of sweat, I was feeling a little sulky and cold. No, it wasn't Rob's car that was depressing me, it was...well, I kept checking my phone for a response that by noon, I was positive would never come.

Karma had been kind last night and sought mercy on my love-struck soul, leading Rob's Porsche peacefully through the night without a single scratch. About time my life dispelled those ridiculous Murphy's Law rumors. Even though by the time I rolled in on home it was three in the morning, I woke up unconventionally early and got a sunrise start to my Porsche duties. I let Superior do the bulk of the wash. When I got there, Miller and the boys got a real hoot outta calling me Rob Jr. Which was annoying. Still, believe it or not, I played along with it, and they all died at my Rob impression.

Miller kept saying, "That's jokes, Bon Jovi!"

And then I came back home to do all the precise work, like scrubbing the corners with a toothbrush. In an alternate universe, I filed some Child Slave Labor lawsuit. Working with a toothbrush. Who actually works with a toothbrush?

So, as I slaved away, driving the toothbrush in between the crease of the gearshift and the center console, I grabbed my phone to see if it was yet the Perfect Time. The time on my phone read 10:07am when I clicked it on––not too early, not too late––and so I typed in two consonants, one vowel, and two improperly placed punctuation devices, sending:

Hey :)

Then chucked my phone into the backseat. Giddier than ever, my heart raced with anticipation for Mary's reply. The seconds felt like hours. After such an amazing night, anything other than her and I rolling into a procession of crystallized summer scenes—slow walks on the beach, cracking open bottled Coca-Cola's at Seaside Shack Candies, catching the double-feature at Americaviews Drive-In—seemed impossible.

Though, no matter how badly I didn't want to check my phone, about every twenty seconds I would dig for it wherever I threw it last and click it on to see nothing but the clock add on minutes and pack on hours. Completely submerging myself into whatever cleaning task was next at hand did not serve as the distraction I wished it would be. She consumed every inch of movement. A thick square had wedged itself in my chest. And more than the emotional distress, I felt stupid because it was the kind of day where the smell of fresh-cut lawn sweetened the air, and the sun was shining high and bright in the pure blue sky, printing the colorless reflection of the crosshatch of leaves onto the street. Even my microcosmic daydream of being the kind of guy who works on a car while listening to sixties music on the radio––alternating between the 1961 Marvelettes version of "Please Mr. Postman" and the 1963 version by The Beatles––was plucked away from me. All because of a girl and her silly, torturous mind games.

MARY

"You really can't reactivate my phone?" I said, plopping on my bed, cushioning my butt into the mattress.

"No sorry, miss. Your account has been indefinitely suspended due to continuous missed payments," the cell phone customer service guy said.

"What? This is bullshit. I had to help my dad pay for shit."