Interference & Other Stories Read Free Page B

goofball kid who was trying to talk him into buying one of those machines that charge people for air.
    â€œI don’t sell air,” he told the kid while Mrs. Hanley’s seventeen-year-old Ford levitated like the miracle it was. He paused, caught the kid’s eye, and winked.
    â€œI suck wind sometimes,” he grinned, “but I don’t sell air.” He popped off the right front hubcap, reached for the compressor gun, and squeezed the trigger. Brrrppt.
    â€œBut you’re in business,” the kid stammered, “you’re in business to make money. To make money. Right?”
    Brrrppt. He palmed the lug nut. Brrrppt. Another Reagan baby. A suit off the rack, a binder of information, a rap his boss had made him memorize.
    â€œLook, kid, you’re wasting time.” He dropped the lug nuts in the hubcap. “You’re on commission, right? There’s nothing here.”
    The phone rang. “Walter? Walter, it’s Donny, Donny D. Your sponsee?”
    â€œDonny, listen. You can just say it’s Donny. I only know one Donny.” Jesus, was that really even a word, outside AA? Sponsee? But Donny was easy to help; he always needed the same advice. You can only say slow down so many ways. Be patient. Chill out. Easy Does It. Donny was racing from this to that problem—his bad teeth, his bad marriage, his bad job. One day he might have to haul off and say, “Look, Donny. You destroyed your teeth, your marriage, and your career with booze; now fix what you can and quit your bellyaching.” Some sponsors would have done that already, but he sensed that Donny would come to that on his own, that in fact all his worrying was a kind of defense against that insight, and that it was better for him to be a little further along, a little further from his last drink, before he had to feel that particular gut punch.
    So Donny was a good fifteen minutes. Then, as soon as he hung up, a cop came by to take a statement about a hit-and-run he’d witnessed two weeks earlier. That was nearly half an hour. When he went back into the bay, the kid was still standing there, sweating in his suit coat. “Just take a minute to look at these figures,” he said. He held out a page encased in plastic.
    Walter pulled the right front tire, bounced it, and rolled it at the young man who dropped the page, jumped back, threw out his hands and caught it.
    â€œJust roll that over there against the wall.”
    The kid propped up the tire and turned, holding his blackened hands away from himself.
    â€œAw, I’m sorry. Don’t want to get that suit dirty. Restroom’s round the side. Pay in advance, though. Water’s damned expensive these days. Mitts black as those?—about a buck a piece I’d say.” Brrrpt. He was working on the left front tire now. “But hey, tell me something. When you were a little guy, what did you want to be? An air salesman? Tell me. I’d like to know. I really would.”
    â€œScrew you, Pops.”
    â€œNow that’s the spirit! Tell you what. For you? For you the water’s free. In fact, I need a man out front for the full-serve pumps and to run the register. You give it some thought while you’re washing up. Twelve bucks an hour, no overtime. Best I can do.”
    When he had lowered Mrs. Hanleys Ford and parked it out front, he called to let her know it was ready. He decided to clean up before replacing the windshield on his daughter Nancy’s VW Bug. His son-in-law, Cal, had brought it by that morning. One of the old Beetles, the classic, the windshield was a simple, flat panel held in place with a rubber gasket. The whole job wouldn’t take more than an hour. He dipped three fingers in the tub of hand cleaner.
    â€œLeave it to me to park it right under a foul ball,” Cal had said. He detailed the flight of the ball off the bat, the few fans in the bleachers on the first base side ducking and covering their