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“I’d like you to announce it.” Her own words surprise her; it is her way to stay under the radar. “To everyone.”
His eyes narrow, and he frowns paternally. “It’s not exactly in the same category as Andy’s truck.”
“Practically everyone on the team buys a new car at some point.”
“Everyone but you.”
“I’m different.”
“And I thought I could help.”
She finds her mechanical nod again, the polite smile. “Something secure?”
“Yes,” he smiles, “something secure. That’s the good news. The bank wants to offer you a very, very favorable rate on a loan. As a reward. You could buy a little house, get an education finally, or even just take a break. Listen, they’ve authorized me to give you two weeks leave if you want to take a trip! Go to the beach. They’ve got eight vassal hotel chains. I’m really jealous of you, Charlie.”
“The bank told you all this?”
“That’s right.”
“Why didn’t they tell me?”
“They wanted it to come from someone you trust.”
Later, driving, she is still thinking about the interview with coach, and almost exits onto 22 out of habit, but remembers at the last instant, and muscles her way back onto the 97, earning the astonished glare of a woman whose margarita seems to have spilled. She herself is going for a drink with her best friend, Gwyn, but obviously hasn’t the freedom to drink now, like the woman in the newer car. It is a celebratory drink for her, but Gwyn doesn’t know that, won’t know it, no point. She has her secrets, but Gwyn is cherished nevertheless. Gwyn is the only person both rude enough and close enough to ask, last week, how old her car was, and although Charlie knew, the answer was so complex it left her speechless. The frame came off one of those magnetic experiments from the ‘30’s, to which she had welded the entire undercarriage, including all three wheels, from her mother’s lithium moto; the engine, however, was ancient, pre-nuclear, one of the last old diesels that had been re-built so many times, she wasn’t sure what age to give it. The driver’s seat is comfortable enough, lifted off a modern Trident wreck; the passenger seat doesn’t matter since no one ever sits there.
She wishes she lived close enough to work to ride a bike, but beggars can’t be choosers. Despite the army of commuters on the road, she seems to be the only person actually driving; the others are watching a movie, chatting with some lover on video phone, a glass of something soothing in hand. One woman is apparently practicing yoga, her fat little bottom reaching for the ceiling, the logo of a well-respected maker of athletic gear beaming proudly over her moon. Charlie’s car lacks the magnetic infrastructure for the hands-free technology, but even if it had it, she would never spring for the software. She doesn’t mind the driving, really. What would she do instead, watch a movie? These days they’re all about the wonders of living on the moon or Mars, and the glories of fighting the viral invaders. She’s never known anyone to come back from the moon and confirm how lovely, easy, lucrative, and glorious it is, but she doesn’t trust the movies. She has, occasionally, found a book worth the trouble of reading, but she’s tired after a day working, and it’s easier just to drive.
Gwyn’s question rankles, and that’s what she’s thinking about when the blue and red lights first touch the corners of her retina in the rear-view mirror. There is no law against buying used cars yet, but everyone knows it’s not right. The man who sold her that engine stank of unwashed beer and ashtrays; when she bought the chassis, she had feared for her life, behind barbed wire, the yard, sunken behind two windowless, unpainted wooden buildings, its dirt hard-packed with greenish oils. She told friends her mother gave her the car to avoid the embarrassed silence that would have followed the truth.
About Robert Woolridge
