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Tow Me
James Austin Kerr |
It could have been New Year's Eve twelve years ago. It wasn't. It wasn't the big New Year's Dance at St. Robert's, Rick and Yvette in tux and shimmery gown in his boss's new tow-truck. It was New Year's bust on the outskirts of Carrington, frigid, blustery with snow knee-deep and her car's instrument pod blinking all manner of red idiot lights saying that emergency action was required immediately or else, or else Armageddon. A dozen years later, same night on the calendar, her car was a broken-down pumpkin and her prince charming Rick of lo' those many years ago was in coveralls, hooking up her six-year-old Saturn and telling her:
"Get in the truck."
"Rick, you're still driving a tow truck."
"Get over it and get in the truck," he ordered her. "It's too damn cold for that designer jazz you're wearing. You're in Carrington now. Not Babylon-on-Hudson."
She got in and the sadness of it all overwhelmed her. There was a large St. Christopher medal straddling the visors and a Rosary hanging from the rear view mirror. It was the same truck, a dozen years older, idling louder, with seats threadbare almost to the foam!
Her Saturn hooked to the tow-chain, Rick got in, slammed the door.
"So what happened to you?" he demanded.
"I crossed the drawbridge from Steeltown and suddenly all my dashboard's red lights started blinking--"
"No, no, I don't mean that," he waved his big tight-end's hand, "I mean back in Babylon. Wasn't he supposed to become a big playwright, put you in his plays and make you a shining star of the legitimate stage?"
"Well," she started reluctantly, "he did become a big playwright, as you know, he did put me in his first two small off-off Broadway plays, then shunted me to our trendy bohemian flat in Greenwich Village to type his scripts."
"Some legitimacy!" he laughed that robust laugh and she could see the muscles of his face and his arms, even under the coveralls, still had the same tensile-steel strength and tone. "Boy, did he hand you a can of popping corn!" Same old corny jargon, too.
"Look at you!" she shot back. "You think you made such a big success of yourself? Whatever happened to the big dreams of being your own boss-- and whatever happened to Miss Tow Dispatch with the sweet telephone voice and the ample you-know-what's? Huh?"
He grinded his large white teeth, started up the truck, said: "I'm taking your crate to the best mechanic in town-- but he won't be able to look at it until day after tomorrow on account of it being New Year's."
"Fine, then you can drop me off at my Mom's," she said, still staring across. "She's not doing so well."
"She's doing awful if you want to know," he snapped. "It's about time you came back to look after her."
"Who told you I was coming back to look after her?"
"Get some common sense, will you? Somebody's got to and you're as eligible as anyone from what's left of that woe-begone family of yours."
"Aren't you something? You driving the same old tow-truck, probably wearing the same old coveralls--"
"Don't you make fun of my lucky coveralls!" He was dead serious.
"Lucky coveralls, hah!" It was her turn to laugh out loud. "Well, aren't you going to tell me what happened to Miss Tow Dispatch? Did you marry her?"
"I married her, all right."
"And?"
"And we had a boy that doesn't look anything like her and has hands nearly as big as mine. Going to be a tight-end for the Pittsburgh Steelers."
"And where is he now?"
He owned up: "He's with his mother and his stepfather, Mr. Lincoln, in a half-a-million dollar condo outside Tampa. I get him for Easter and all of August. Any other questions?"
"Mr. Lincoln?" She plumbed her powers of recall. "Wasn't he the proprietor of the tow truck garage?"
He nodded. "She ran off with him the day after he sold me the garage. No wonder he kept me on the road all day," he smirked.
They turned into a large lighted lot with six spanking new flatbed tow-trucks in view.
"There are six other tow-ers where those came from, all out towing the heaps and headaches of drunk drivers on this night of nights, my dear. But for you I thought a sentimental journey in the old tow-truck with me in my lucky coveralls would impress for auld lang syne." He added: "Mr. Lincoln got her, I got the garage and built this out of it," Rick boasted, pointing to the big depot and open maintenance bay with its large overhead heaters.
He pulled the truck up to the front office, its lights burning inside. "Come on in, I'll get you some real coffee, none of that swishy cappuccino stuff in miniature cups."
Before he led her inside the warm office, he unsnapped his worn coveralls and climbed out of them. The suit, shirt and tie underneath must have set him back a grand or more but he looked magnificent in them.
She just stood there, awestruck, dumbstruck.
"Come on inside," he snapped again, "I want you to meet my new Miss Tow Dispatch. She's the one who told me it was you on the line from just past the drawbridge."
The woman was ten pounds-over-heavy-set, warm, friendly and, she informed him, had just bribed New Year's reservations at Homer's Steakhouse where they also served real coffee in real coffee cups.
"Get in the truck."
"Rick, you're still driving a tow truck."
"Get over it and get in the truck," he ordered her. "It's too damn cold for that designer jazz you're wearing. You're in Carrington now. Not Babylon-on-Hudson."
She got in and the sadness of it all overwhelmed her. There was a large St. Christopher medal straddling the visors and a Rosary hanging from the rear view mirror. It was the same truck, a dozen years older, idling louder, with seats threadbare almost to the foam!
Her Saturn hooked to the tow-chain, Rick got in, slammed the door.
"So what happened to you?" he demanded.
"I crossed the drawbridge from Steeltown and suddenly all my dashboard's red lights started blinking--"
"No, no, I don't mean that," he waved his big tight-end's hand, "I mean back in Babylon. Wasn't he supposed to become a big playwright, put you in his plays and make you a shining star of the legitimate stage?"
"Well," she started reluctantly, "he did become a big playwright, as you know, he did put me in his first two small off-off Broadway plays, then shunted me to our trendy bohemian flat in Greenwich Village to type his scripts."
"Some legitimacy!" he laughed that robust laugh and she could see the muscles of his face and his arms, even under the coveralls, still had the same tensile-steel strength and tone. "Boy, did he hand you a can of popping corn!" Same old corny jargon, too.
"Look at you!" she shot back. "You think you made such a big success of yourself? Whatever happened to the big dreams of being your own boss-- and whatever happened to Miss Tow Dispatch with the sweet telephone voice and the ample you-know-what's? Huh?"
He grinded his large white teeth, started up the truck, said: "I'm taking your crate to the best mechanic in town-- but he won't be able to look at it until day after tomorrow on account of it being New Year's."
"Fine, then you can drop me off at my Mom's," she said, still staring across. "She's not doing so well."
"She's doing awful if you want to know," he snapped. "It's about time you came back to look after her."
"Who told you I was coming back to look after her?"
"Get some common sense, will you? Somebody's got to and you're as eligible as anyone from what's left of that woe-begone family of yours."
"Aren't you something? You driving the same old tow-truck, probably wearing the same old coveralls--"
"Don't you make fun of my lucky coveralls!" He was dead serious.
"Lucky coveralls, hah!" It was her turn to laugh out loud. "Well, aren't you going to tell me what happened to Miss Tow Dispatch? Did you marry her?"
"I married her, all right."
"And?"
"And we had a boy that doesn't look anything like her and has hands nearly as big as mine. Going to be a tight-end for the Pittsburgh Steelers."
"And where is he now?"
He owned up: "He's with his mother and his stepfather, Mr. Lincoln, in a half-a-million dollar condo outside Tampa. I get him for Easter and all of August. Any other questions?"
"Mr. Lincoln?" She plumbed her powers of recall. "Wasn't he the proprietor of the tow truck garage?"
He nodded. "She ran off with him the day after he sold me the garage. No wonder he kept me on the road all day," he smirked.
They turned into a large lighted lot with six spanking new flatbed tow-trucks in view.
"There are six other tow-ers where those came from, all out towing the heaps and headaches of drunk drivers on this night of nights, my dear. But for you I thought a sentimental journey in the old tow-truck with me in my lucky coveralls would impress for auld lang syne." He added: "Mr. Lincoln got her, I got the garage and built this out of it," Rick boasted, pointing to the big depot and open maintenance bay with its large overhead heaters.
He pulled the truck up to the front office, its lights burning inside. "Come on in, I'll get you some real coffee, none of that swishy cappuccino stuff in miniature cups."
Before he led her inside the warm office, he unsnapped his worn coveralls and climbed out of them. The suit, shirt and tie underneath must have set him back a grand or more but he looked magnificent in them.
She just stood there, awestruck, dumbstruck.
"Come on inside," he snapped again, "I want you to meet my new Miss Tow Dispatch. She's the one who told me it was you on the line from just past the drawbridge."
The woman was ten pounds-over-heavy-set, warm, friendly and, she informed him, had just bribed New Year's reservations at Homer's Steakhouse where they also served real coffee in real coffee cups.
