Second First Impressions(7)
Time to settle my karmic debt. “I’ll pay for him. How much?” I dig out my special hundred-dollar bill.
The clerk hangs up the phone. “Twenty dollars. Aren’t you nice?” The way he says it doesn’t make me feel that nice.
I’m almost back to the car door when the clerk says over the loudspeaker: “Pump number two, please thank your Good Samaritan. Your gas has been paid for and you can leave.”
We are the only customers. So much for me just melting away into the night. I give it a try anyway. Tattoo Guy says behind me, “Ma’am, thank you so much.”
“No problem.” I fumble with the car keys and drop things. “Don’t mention it.”
“You’ve just saved my ass— I mean, my butt. I’m having the worst day ever.” He’s closer behind me when he adds, “I left my wallet somewhere, but I always find it. The world’s full of Good Samaritans, just like you. If you give me your details, I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.”
“Not necessary,” I say, but now he’s right behind me. I smell the cotton on his body when a breeze blows through it. When I look down at my loafers, there’s big inked hands picking up my dropped groceries.
No way am I going to say Pay it forward. Men probably think that’s girlie nonsense. But I’ll try to have an exciting story to tell Melanie. I turn on the balls of my feet.
“Here you go,” he says when all the chocolate is gathered up. When he straightens to full height, he’s obviously surprised. After a beat, he lets out a big joyful howl. Up at the sky, he yells at full volume, “Oh my God, you look absolutely amazing!”
Did Melanie pay a gorgeous local actor to perk me up?
“Oh shit, too good. You got me.” When I don’t reply, he continues, “I can tell you, from the back, you’ve absolutely nailed it.” His smile is white and lovely as he drags his hair back. “I love costume parties. Can I come?” His slender-muscly body shakes from laughing. It’s a full-body workout. He’s standing so close, for a moment I don’t process the words. Then I feel the slice.
“Excuse me?”
He is staring at my chest with open appreciation. The glasses that I wear for computer work are still hanging from a chain around my neck. “Perfect,” he says reverently before dissolving into laughter again. “Are you going as one of the Golden Girls?”
“No—”
“You just need a string of pearls and a walking stick. Look at those granny shoes.” He says it like a fond scold and taps my toe with his. “You’ve even got the old-person car to match. You’ve thought of everything.” He wipes a tear from his eye. “You look like Tweety Bird’s granny.”
“You don’t need to be rude.” The prim words are out of my mouth before it occurs to me that I should just say, Sure, I’m headed to a big party, I hope my costume wins.
I don’t think I’ve helped someone who really needs it. Tattoos are expensive and he’s covered himself in a fortune. His unusual biker-guy jeans have a lot of seams and diagonal lines, the result of skilled craftsmanship. My thrift-store eyes spot a tiny logo on his pocket: BALMAIN. Very, very pricey.
He’s noticed my attention and the corner of his mouth lifts in a mischievous way. “So how old are you? Are you an eighty-year-old with a facelift?”
“How old I am is none of your business.” The words I’ve ached to say to all the residents at Providence, and I blurt them in the face of a tattooed guy with a motorbike? “I paid for your gas because I thought you were in trouble. But I can see you don’t really need it.”
“I was just psyching myself up to call my dad.” This guy scratches his jaw and I can’t read the word printed across the knuckles. “I try to fuck up during business hours, so I can speak to his assistant instead. Less of a lecture that way.”
“I’ll give you my PayPal address. You can pay me back and I’ll find someone who actually needs the money.” I can’t write on the Parlonis’ receipt. I have one of Sylvia’s business cards in my pocket. I cross out her email and write mine. The gas station attendant gives me a grinning thumbs-up and I burn red with humiliation.
He studies the business card I put into his palm. “A retirement villa?” His eyes spark. The irises are mixed colors— familiar, but I don’t know what they remind me of. He is holding a new laugh in. “What’s going on with you, anyway?” I cram myself into the car and lock it. “Wait, wait,” the guy shouts. Now his I’m sorry is muted and far away. I’m sorry too. Funny how fast a good deed can turn bad in the outside world, like time-lapse footage of rotting fruit.
While I wait for a gap in the traffic, I look in my rearview mirror, praying he doesn’t try to follow. The heel of his palm pressed to his temple is universal language for, I fucked that up. At least he realizes it. Most people who hurt my feelings never have a clue they did. I just invested twenty dollars for a reminder of why I stay at Providence and tucked in my safe little forum in the far corner of the internet.
Outside World Shields Up.
“YOU’VE BEEN SO quiet today,” Melanie says behind me. “Did I say something, or … ?”
“I got my feelings hurt a bit last night. Not by you.” I keep staring at the parking lot, watching for a car.