Page 74 of Someone Like Me
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DREW
The next day, after work, I’m in Grandma’s garage, facing down the Supra.
It takes me twenty minutes just to make myself touch it.It’s just a car.I tell myself, over and over. But after staring motionless at Anthony’s car for so long, I decide I need to trick myself into tackling it. I find a dusty transistor radio and tune it to the station they’re always playing at C & C. I open the garage door, the side door, and the two windows to give the place fresh air and better light.
I’d give anything to tow the Supra to the garage to make it feel more anonymous, but that would be a waste of money, and without even looking inside her, this job is going to cost a bundle anyway.
A bundle and then some, I decide when I finally pop the hood. And it’s only when I see the damage, a set of individual and interconnected mechanical problems, that my hands stop shaking. The smell of rodent piss is unmistakable, and if I ever get this thing running, adding heat to that stench is going to be sickening. I need to look up ways to neutralize it without using anything corrosive.
But the smell is the least of my problems. Grandma was right. It’s hardly a clean job, but the starter wiring is stripped and gnawed up and down. A total loss. My first step is to remove the shot battery and clean the corrosion of the connectors before I do anything else.
And then I take stock of everything. At least, everything I can see.
The radiator is bone dry, and the greenish stain on the concrete under the Supra would suggest it leaked out a long time ago. Everything I can see that is rubber — valve cover gaskets, hoses, belts — is porous at best and crumbles to dust with my touch at worst.
I can only imagine that the resin in the brake pads is in just as bad a shape. And I’m going to need a frickin’ swimming pool of Metal Rescue to remove all the rust. From the rockers, to the cylinder heads, to the engine walls themselves.
And then once I get it started, if I can get it started, I’m sure a host of other issues will show themselves.
“Jesus, Anthony,” I whisper before I back away and head upstairs for a shower.
I walk home from the bus stop the next day carrying everything I could afford from AutoZone. A battery, a terminal brush, a socket wrench, and a gallon of Metal Rescue. I brought a backpack to carry everything, but even with that, this shit weighs a ton — especially after three blocks.
I switch shoulders, wondering if Grandpa Pete has the Phillips head I’ll need to disconnect the starter’s wiring. I’m cursing myself for not at least making a better inventory of his old tools when I notice the poster.
It’s neon green and tie-wrapped to the stop sign at the corner of Howard Avenue and St. Joseph Street. Giant, swirling letters in orange, blue, and red seem to shout:
FALL FIESTA BLOCK PARTY!
609 SAINT PATRICK
SATURDAY, 8PM-TIL
COME FOR THE FAJITAS!
STAY FOR THE MARGARITAS!
A multicolored — if simple — drawing of a sombrero takes up the top left corner of the poster while a pair of red and yellow maracas appear to shake on the bottom right.
Nothing about the sign gives me a second thought except the address. Grandma’s number is 609 Saint Joseph. The house behind hers, Evie’s house, is on the even side of the street. I don’t know the address, even though I’ve been in front of her house twice now. But the house across the street from Evie’s, the one where I last saw her, might be 609.
If it is, is Evie still there? And are her friends throwing a party?
This is the first hint I’ve had of her in days, and I’m stirred like a roux. I know Evie’s not back at her house. Her darkened window mocks me both night and day. And if she is still just across the street, then even if I’ve got the wrong house and one of her neighbors is hosting this party, I can only imagine that Evie will go.
I hate parties.
I didn’t even want to attend the welcome home gig Grandma Quincy threw for me. But I know without even thinking about it that Evie loves parties. The chance to meet people… watch people… make them laugh… dance and sing… She’d be in the thick of it.
Unlike me in every possible way. And now, whether she’s still in the neighborhood or not, I content myself with this image. It is her I see as I replace the battery and clean the terminals.
Friday, after work, I get to the bank in time to deposit my check again, and then I borrow Grandma Quincy’s car for a trip to Wal-Mart. The load of materials I need is much greater than I can manage on the bus, and while I’m sure I’ll have to resort to Pull-A-Part in the future, for now the discount warehouse is my best option for hoses and belts, and two more gallons of rust remover.
After two days of doing little more than staring at her innards, I’ve decided to let the cylinders soak in Metal Rescue while I change as much rubber as can be managed. It might take a day or two of flushing before I can even tell if the engine looks sound. And if she isn’t, well, I’ll just have to tell Grandma that the Supra is good for nothing but parts.
There’s a side of me that would like nothing better than to declare the job a wash. Walking into Grandma’s garage every evening hasn’t gotten any easier. It’s only after I get my hands dirty that I can stand being in there. Until then, I still shake and sweat and curse myself.
