No One Needs a Car That Shiny

The first clue, I suppose, should have been the man polishing his car in the street at 9:30 on a weekday morning.  We’d had our first hard freeze the night before, and at that hour the temperature was barely over 40F.

Yet even in that chilly weather he polished a quarter panel that already seemed perfectly shiny to me, watching absently in my rear view mirror.  As the moments passed, I noticed that he moved around his car in a decidedly random way.  In my youth I was my father’s lil’ car-waxin’ helper, and he’d never have tolerated the skittish way this man lackadaisically waved his rag around first the hood, then the side mirror, then the roof.  Something seemed off.

Within seconds the next clue arrived.  A car pulled up next to our polishing hero, who instantly stopped his rag and peered inside the vehicle.  A few words were exchanged, then almost too quick to see, something was passed between hands.  Off went the car, and then the stationary car once again went under the cloth.

Hm, thought I, glancing back to my little ones reading in the backseat.  Whatever is taking their mother so long?

But my thoughts were disturbed.  A young woman wearing a puffy jacket approached the parked car.  Once again I watched as the two shared a few words before their hands rapidly crossed.  The girl tucked something into the depths of her coat, the man placed his hand into his pants pocket, and without another word they parted.

I need to leave, I thought, looking up at my little ones’ mother’s window.  If she’s not down here in two minutes–

And then the door to her house opened.  Finally, I thought, mentally preparing the angry sentences I wanted to deliver to this young woman, this child, on the topic of requesting pick-up for a visit with small children next door to such a scene, but the person coming out the door was not their mother.

Instead, it was one of her past paramours, a young man whose face could fit in nicely here.  The routine was repeated:  quick words, meeting hands, pocket dip; then as quickly as he poked out he disappeared back inside the house.

Disgusted, I put the mini in gear, but at that moment their mother finally made an appearance.  A different woman would have yelled, I’m guessing, or scolded, or made demands.  My brain (at least not my brain on citalopram) won’t let me do this.

I told her what I’d witnessed later as we ate lunch.  “I’m not surprised,” she said coolly.  I told her we’d need in the future to come up with an alternative way to meet, as I was unwilling to expose the children or myself again to a situation like that.  She agreed with me, at least then, to my face, without the pressure of having to make some other arrangement immediately.

The well-polished car had gone by the time I dropped her back at home.  She hugged the children, then I stepped from the mini to embrace her.  “Please take care of yourself,” I said into her hair.  “Please be safe.”

“I’m always safe,” she said, clinging to me tighter (and longer) than I expected.  “Nothing bad ever happens to me.”

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Btw, did you hear about this: