NEW YEAR’S EVE by Mark Spencer

     “You hurt her, and I’ll come after you,” Rick tells the owner of the ‘53 Corvette, dangling the ignition key in the guy’s chubby, flushed face.      

     The guy isn’t worthy of the car.  A middle-aged bank president, he fidgets like he has to pee.  Or maybe it’s just the cold.  The wind has kicked up in the front parking lot, and the Christmas lights hang limp and swaying from the body shop’s eaves.  The Vette gleams in the cold sunshine.      

     The banker just stares at the car, runs his hand over his bald head as if he were smoothing back a wave of hair.    

     From Thanksgiving through Christmas week, Rick has worked  sixteen-hour days on the restoration, ignoring all the other cars in his shop.  This morning, New Year’s Eve, he did the final buffing.  At lunch time, taking bites from a Taco Shack burrito, he circled the car again and again, stroking it occasionally with a soft white cloth.  After the noise of the power buffer, the shop seemed quiet as a church.        

     Rick watches the Corvette edge into traffic, its passenger-side rear blinker winking at him, the chrome bumper dazzling as it catches the sun.  He’s so focused on the Corvette that he doesn’t immediately notice the black sedan pull up.      

     On the driver’s door of the sedan, painted in white block letters, are the words “DAVID HOLCOMB CERTIFIED PUBLIC ACCOUNTANT.”  Rick painted those words himself.  He did a good job.  He tries to find a flaw but can’t.    

     Holcomb gets out of the car, pulling a leather briefcase after him, says, “Mr. Parsons,” and offers a hand that seems huge, too thick.  His smile is tight, looks like it hurts.    

     Holcomb is wearing a gray suit that reminds Rick of the one he borrowed six years ago when his dad died, the last time he wore a suit.      

     “Come on inside,” Rick says, looking in the direction the Corvette went, but it’s gone.  “I just noticed it’s cold as hell out here.”    

     Except for the empty space left by the Corvette, the shop is crowded with cars and tools and piles of car parts, the air full of the smells of grease and paint and rubber.  On the wall where the Corvette sat there’s a large poster of a nude Marilyn Monroe.  Rick can’t help glancing at it as they head toward a corner of the shop.     “I guess you’re getting geared up for tax season, huh?” Rick says.    

     “Yes, indeedy.”      

     “Must be kind of like it is for me when there’s a chain reaction out on the highway.  Business galore.  Come on in my office.”    

     There is no office.  Rick grins and unfolds two beat-up metal chairs in a corner piled with oily rags.  A clipboardholding a wad of greasy papers hangs on the wall.  Rick takes the clipboard off its nail.     “This is my desk.” Rick puts the clipboard back on its nail.    

     Holcomb looks around, gestures toward three cars that all need minor body work: a Ford Taurus, a Dodge Neon, a Chevy Cavalier.    

     “Looks like business is good.”    

     Rick makes a sour face.  “I guess so.  Boring as hell working on things like them.  Ugly church girls at the school dance.”    

     “How you mean?”    

     “Dull.  No fun.  I wish somebody would wreck a Camaro or a Trans Am.  That would at least be like sexy trailer-park trash.”  Rick grins.    

     “Oh, I see.”  Holcomb frowns, and Rick realizes that Holcomb has that “church deacon” look with his tight smile and his big, well-groomed hands.      

     The men sit down, and Holcomb opens his brief case on his lap and sifts through some papers.    

     “Speaking of wrecks . . . .”  Holcomb smiles like he has hemorrhoids.  “I’m afraid we have to talk about your finances.”   

     “I know I’m not good at all that keeping track of expenses and taxes and stuff.  That’s why I asked you to help me get a handle on  things.  I can’t figure out what the hell’s going on.”    

     “It’s not just your business, Mr. Parsons.  It’s your personal finances, too.  You’re three months’ behind on your mortgage payments.”    

     Rick’s mouth drops.  “No.  No, I didn’t . . .   I let mywife pay that.  Linda . . . she used to work in a bank and . . . .”      “Did you know you’ve run up over sixty thousand dollars oncredit cards?”    

     Rick smiles, and he finds that smiling really can hurt.  “I haven’t myself . . . but I . . . I know my wife likes that new super Wal-Mart.  And a few other stores.”    

     “My advice is that you cut up every piece of plastic you can find.”    

     Rick looks across the shop and stares at the poster of Marilyn Monroe.  “I sure will,” he says softly.    

     “You’ve got interest rates on some of those cards that are close to your age.”    

     “I’m thirty-three.”    

     “Pardon me?”    

     Rick clears his throat and speaks a little louder.  “I’m thirty-three.”     

     “Exactly.  Does your wife make your truck payments, too?”    

     Rick is still looking at the Marilyn poster.  “I let her handle everything like that.  She doesn’t mind.  She used to work in a bank and . . . .”    

     “You can probably expect a visit from the grim repo man any time.”      

     Rick looks at Holcomb, sees that Holcomb is eyeing him like he’s a carnival attraction.  “My truck?”    

     “And don’t write any checks.”    

     “Checks?”    

     “You’ll be bouncing rubber balls if you do.  Hard, red rubber balls.”           Rick nods, wants to punch this son of a bitch.  “Happy New Year to you, too.”    

     Holcomb looks at the cars in the shop.  “At least business is good.”      

     Rick is looking at the grease-smeared concrete floor because looking at Holcomb makes him want to take a tire iron to his capped teeth.  “Yeah.  Business is . . . .”    

     “Then you have something to be thankful for.”    

     Rick looks at Holcomb’s polished shoes, then glances up at his face, but Holcomb is looking at the Marilyn poster.     

     “You know, Mr. Parsons, I married a church girl.  She’s probably a Toyota Corolla.  Not too flashy but reliable andeconomical.” 

__________     

     Rick pulls into the driveway of his house in his black Ram pick-up.  He twists the ignition key and pulls it out, but he doesn’t get out of the truck right away.  While the engine ticks and the cab quickly loses its warmth, he looks at the house, a ranch style, two bedrooms, two baths, an added-on three-car garage, a mortgage payment that will chase him into old age.  A lone, leafless tree stands in the front yard.  Christmas lights hang around the front windows but are not turned on.       

     When he steps through the front door into the living room, the first thing he sees is the cuckoo clock Linda gave him last Christmas, the pendulum swinging at a pace that seems awfully fast.  This Christmas she gave him a tie.  The clock hangs behind his lounge chair, and he always feels tense with it at his back–the Goddamn cuckoo like an assassin poised to stab him between his shoulder blades.       Linda is in the kitchen at the small, square pine table, looking at a multi-page Wal-Mart flyer.  She’s dressed up in a tight pink pants suit and high-heeled boots like she’s ready for a night on the town.  Paris Hilton lies on the center of the table, napping.    

     Rick stands in the doorway.  The cat wakes up, glances at Rick with its derisive green eyes, then goes back to sleep.     

     “I thought we were staying home this year,” Rick says.    

     Linda looks up at him, doesn’t say anything, her full lips blood red, her eyelids purple with some glittery stuff mixed in. Her eyes are emerald.  Rick’s sleeping penis stirs.  Linda looks back at the flyer.  He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.    

     He takes a deep breath, looks at the dripping faucet that he’s been meaning to fix for a year, and says, “Linda? Baby, we got to talk about some things.”    

     Linda turns another page.  Rick steps over to her, sees she’s looking at ads for computers.     

     “Linda?”    

     She turns a page of the flyer.    

     “You mad about something?”    

     He reaches over to the cat and starts stroking it.  He eyes Linda’s breasts.  “I ever tell you your titties remind me of the front bumper on a fifty-eight Cadillac?”    

     With a screech from the chair, Linda pushes back from the table, springs up and looks him in the eyes, her face tense, little muscle spasms going off at the corners of her mouth, the tips of her glistening white teeth just visible.      

     Rick backs up a step.  “You still mad about that Christmaspresent I got you?”     She explodes.  “You gave me nothing!”    

     “I had a star named after you.”  He gestures at the ceiling.“Up there in the sky right now is a star named Linda Parsons.  I paid a hundred bucks for it.  The guy said it would be recorded in a book and copyrighted in Washington, D.C.”    

     “You gave me a picture of the sky with a little tiny dot circled.”    

     “‘A Map of the Constellations.’  The one circled is officially and eternally named for all time ‘Linda Parsons.’”    

     “Quit saying ‘Linda Parsons.’  I was born Linda Dupre, and I think I like that better.”    

     “You want me to see if I can have it changed to ‘Linda Dupre Parsons’?”    

     “No.  What good does it do me anyway?  What can I do with a star named after me?”    

     “I thought it was special.  Romantic.”    

     “Diamonds are special.  Diamonds are real special.  Diamonds are an appropriate way to celebrate the birth of Jesus.  You paying attention to me is romantic.”     

     “Jesus Christ, Linda, you buy stuff every day.  I didn’t know what to get you.  What you want?”    

     “It doesn’t matter now.  I’m leaving you.”    

     Rick looks up at the ceiling, notices the buzzing of the florescent lights, then at the floor and starts shaking his head.  “I finished that fifty-three Vette today.”     

     Linda gets her face close to his.  “You think I give a shit?”    

     Rick grins.  “When the guy picked it up, I thought he was going to cry.  He stood there staring at her with a hard-on . . . .”    

     Linda makes a face.  “You’re a pig.”    

     “I mean, I wasn’t checking him to see but–-”    

     “You were the one with the hard-on.  I really am leaving this time.”    

     “I’m going to take a shower,” he says and walks out of the kitchen.    

     She shouts after him, “I’m tired of waiting to get your attention.  You’re never going to change.”    

     Rick halts in the doorway of his and Linda’s bedroom.  The bed is stripped to the bare mattress; the walls are bare; the closet door is open, and the closet is more than half empty; the ceiling-light cover is missing, and the bare bulb glares.  The bathroom door is open, and the shower rod is gone.      

     Rick turns around, and Linda is close behind him.    

     “You’re never going to change.”    

     “What the hell?”    

     “I’ve been moving stuff all day.  Wally will be back any minute to get me.”     “Wally?  Wally who?”  Rick stares at the naked shower rod.    

     “Wally Albright.  You met him last summer at my class reunion.”    

“The ex-quarterback asshole?  The guy who grabbed your ass and wanted you to do his favorite cheer?  You’re screwing him?”      

     “God, no! You’re thinking of Brad Brewster.  He’s gross.  Wally was the tall guy with the salt-and-pepper beard and the authentic cowboy boots.”    

     “Your science teacher?”    

     “Chemistry teacher.”    

     “He’s at least sixty years old!”    

     “He’s a genius.”    

     “You’re screwing your high-school teacher?”    

     “He hasn’t been my teacher for ten years.”    

     “Jesus Christ.”    

     “Anyway, he’s retired now.”    

     “Well, that’s good.  He’ll have plenty of time to makesixteen trips a day to Wal-Mart with you.  Jesus, your high school teacher.  Some guy on social security.  He can’t afford you, you Goddamn freak.”    

     “This will be my first divorce.  It’s your fourth.  Who’s the freak?”    

     Rick stares at her.  A car horn beeps.    

     Linda jerks likes she’s startled.  “There’s Wally.”  And she turns and hustles down the hall, Rick following.    

     “You . . . you got to stay.”    

     Rick’s at her heels as she enters the kitchen.  She scoops up the cat off the table, turns, and heads into the living room.    

     “You’re taking Paris Hilton?” he says to her back. 

     “What if I want to keep her?”    

     Linda ignores him and opens the front door.  Rick grabs her arm but not roughly.       “Baby.  Baby, let’s talk about this.”    

     Linda turns to him, cradling the cat in one arm.    

     “He pays attention to me.”    

     “I pay attention to you.  I pay attention to you all the time.”    

     “He wants to have babies.”    

     “I love you, Linda.”    

     She softens.  She lays her fingertips on the side of his face.  “Rick.  When I first met you, I thought you had been married to three insane women.”    

     “I was.  They were nuts.”    

     “Now wait.  Let me finish.  I couldn’t imagine how they could have let you go.”    

     He looks into her green eyes, tries to remember what it was like the last time they made love.  He tries to conjure an image of it, but he recalls that she wanted the room totally dark.    

     “I thought you were so handsome.  And I liked your old cars and the way you kept them so clean.  And you always had all that cash on you.  I guess you were trying to impress me.  And it worked.  Because I melted every time you looked at me.”    

     “We’ve got something good, baby.  We can’t throw this away.  We’ve got something special.  We’ve got a love that’s . . . that’s precious.  Yeah, precious.  Like the stars–-” He’s gesturing at the bare light bulb on the ceiling.    

     She frowns, drops her hand.  “Now, Rick, I can see why your first three wives left.  I’m leaving you all the living room furniture and the kitchen table and chairs.  I have everything I want from the house.  Good-bye.  Wally’s waiting.”     “Wally.  Yeah.  Wally.” Rick looks out at Wally’s car at the curb.  “Jesus, Linda.  The guy’s seventy years old, and even worse, he drives a Mercury Marquis.  How can you screw a guy like that?”      

     She glares at him, then clubs his head with her free arm.  She’s still cradling the cat in her other arm.  She clubs him again, then a third time.    

     Rick grabs her arm and holds it, and they glare at each other for a moment until Linda breaks away and runs to Wally’s car, stumbling in her four-inch heels.  Even wobbling over the frozen yard in her heels, Linda is sexy.      

     Rick watches the car pull away and, shaking his head, says to himself, “A Mercury Marquis.”  

 __________       

Rick sits on his bed’s bare mattress, his back against the French Provincial headboard that Linda couldn’t live without. He’s drinking beer out of a bottle and looking at a photo album, the light from the bare bulb on the ceiling glaring down off the slick pages.  Several empty beer bottles lie beside him.      

     The photo album is thick with “before” and “after” pictures of vehicles he’s restored over the years, starting with the ‘57 Chevy he resurrected when he was fifteen.  A ‘49 Merc, a ‘32 Ford, a ‘50 Studebaker, a ‘67 Cougar, a ‘70 GTO, and a couple of dozen others–-lusterless heaps transformed into gleaming show cars.      

     The pop and fizz of firecrackers come from far away, and he remembers that it’s New Year’s.    

     In the “after” photo of the ‘57 Chevy there’s a girl in a cheerleader outfit leaning against the front fender.  “Jaguars” is embroidered across her chest.  Cathy.  She still appears in Rick’s dreams occasionally.  They’re always in that ‘57 Chevy, roaring down some country road, Rick stomping the gas pedal and jerking the gearshift, the windows down and Cathy’s long blonde hair lifting behind her.     

     There’s a girl or young woman in every “after” picture.  Amber.  Kim.  Sharon.  Jenny.  Mona.  Sherri.  Jenny again (back for a second try with him).  Julie.  Nell.  Cassie.      

     The same woman doesn’t appear in more than two or three photos.  Rick turns the pages.  Eventually, he gets to Linda.  The last page of the album shows a smiling, sexy Linda beside a ‘68 Camaro convertible.  The Camaro is canary yellow and has white upholstery.  Linda is wearing yellow shorts and a white halter top.  A small diamond winks from her belly button.      

     He hears firecrackers again, the sound faint and far away, and sets the album aside but leaves it open at the last picture.  He crosses the room, flicks off the light switch by the door, then goes to the window and pulls up the mini-blinds.  Looking out at the hard, cold, black night, he can see nothing.   

 

Mark Spencer is the author of the novels Love and Reruns in Adams County (Random House) and The Weary Motel (Backwaters Press) and the collection Wedlock (Watermark Press). His work has received the Faulkner Society Faulkner Award for the Novella, the Omaha Prize for the Novel, The Bradshaw Book Award, The Cairn/St. Andrews Press Short Fiction Award, and four Special Mentions in Pushcart Prize. Recent short fiction publications have been in Steel City Review, Contrary, Storyglossia, The Chariton Review, Blood Lotus, Tattoo Highway, and The Istanbul Literature Review.