Some Place Better Than Here

Chapter 1: I've Just Seen A Face

"Nice of ya to show up today, buddy," he remarked. Now, Rob was your typical American-Italian guy with a cropped goatee who always remarked. Always something dumb though, such as: "You're looking bigger" or, "you're looking smaller" or, "your hair's too long" or, "your pants are too low," "you look tired," etc. Rob was also one of those guys who wore white cargo shorts. But I never made that remark.

And then as I said, "Yeah, yeah. Thought I'd do you guys a favor today," he held out his fist for a bump. Rob was hip.

"I hope you showered this morning," he then said, shifting into all seriousness. "I know what you're up to, man. Banging all these chicks. Believe me. I was your age once too. I know you're getting blowies left and right!"

Now, that is where I tended to freeze up. As I never really knew if I should respond to Guy Talk with my forty-year-old boss. I just awkwardly smiled and went: "Ha ha yeah...."

Rob went on to tell me that it was alright. Healthy even.

"I just don't want you smelling like pussy hopping in these cars, buddy. You're gonna give the old guys a heart attack!" He then spun around to attend the cash register.

For some inexplicable reason, all the guys at Superior Carwash were under this belief that I was like this major Playboy. Possibly due to the rumors Rob spread about my sex life. Which at that point was, well, virtually nonexistent. Why? No reason in particular. It was rather simple: the girls at my high school sucked, and like, I don't know? Where does one four years shy of legally entering bars seek out girls to have sex with? How other guys my age found these girls was well beyond me. Certainly, they were not to be found within the confines of Superior Carwash.

But then in the instant that Rob turned from the register, I ceased being a delinquent and entered the world of Responsibility as he clasped the keys to the universe in my hands. Telling me, "Don't lose these," as I looked down at the glinting gold emblem and read the inscribed word: PORSCHE.

Rob warned me about what would happen if I lost them, which turned out to be a faux backhand to the face. He got a big kick out of my flinching. Guys like that are always getting a riot out of somebody flinching.

It was just then that the dryer fired up and quickly consumed all other noise in its vacuum; a car was coming down the assembly line.

Rob then did something totally unexpected.

He smacked my ass and said: "Hop in!"

I drive out cars. That's normal. It was the whole smacking my ass thing that was a little strange. Anyhow, I quickly slung my bag up on the hooks, snatched a pair of rags, hopped in the little Fiat (the steering wheel was practically sitting on my lap I was so cramped in there), slapped the gearshift into drive, and pulled out of the garage like an asshole clown in an asshole clown car onto the driveway where my buddy Max was drying down an Acura.

"Danny-O!"

"Maxwell!" I hollered back, returning the exaggeration.

After somehow managing to free my legs, I proceeded to basically flop out of the clown car and saw an old guy staring at me. Thank God I didn't smell like pussy, or I probably would've given that geezer a heart attack.

I whipped out the rags stuffed in the back pockets of my jeans and began wiping down the clown car.

"Rob give you his Porsche or what?" Max asked after the owner of the Acura got in and drove away.

I yanked the Porsche key out of my pocket and dangled it around my index finger, as I, using my other hand, slid the rags over the hood.

"Suh-weet!" Max said, "I love it when Old Robbie Boy goes to Fort Lauderdale for the weekend!"