Dirty Work | Page 7

back and forth a little and
at one point the old lady put her arms around Lane and gave her a hug.
It made me feel lonely to look at them like that. Then Lane came up to
the counter. She took hold of the edge with both hands and waited for
me to talk.
"Look," I said. "I'm sorry I scared you. I've been out of work for two
years. This is just a job to me." She stared, no expression. "I thought
about the things you said, and maybe I don't trust this lawyer very
much either. What I'm trying to say is, you don't have anything to be
afraid of from me. If you're...I mean, if things are the way you say they
are, I would maybe like to help a little if I could."
She stared a while longer, and then she said, very quiet, "If you want to
help, just go away. Just get the fuck away from me and stay out of my
life."
"I can't do that right now," I said. "I have this job to do and it's the only
thing I've got. All I want is to try to make the best of it."
Her eyes teared up. "Make the best of it. Oh God. What do you know
about anything?"
She walked away and there was no use calling her back. I got my true
crime book again and took it over by the card catalog, where I could
see her if she left the building but she wouldn't have to watch me hang
around all day. At eleven I followed her to her class at the Music
building and back again after. I had an eggroll lunch while I waited and
if she noticed me she didn't let on.

It was another nice day. I sat outside until she left at two, watching the
clouds move around in the sky. She got on her shuttlebus and I sat there
a little longer, wishing things were different but not knowing what
exactly I would change. Just a mood, I guess. Then I started the long
uphill walk back to the Dobie Garage.
Dobie is the only place a non-student can park anywhere near the
library. It's across from Dobie Mall, which is this combination
shopping center and dormitory. Kids can eat, shop, sleep, go to movies,
have sex, live and die there without ever going outside. The garage is
always full so I had to park on the fourth level, one down from the roof.
Homeless guys, what we used to call winos, what the kids call Drag
worms, sleep in the stairwells, which smell of them peeing and
throwing up there. I can't stand to see those guys, I want to knock them
down to get away from them. If it wasn't for Charlene that could be me.
No work, no future.
I got up to level four and even from the end of the row I could tell
something was wrong. The truck was not sitting right. I felt sick. It
goes back to my days on the rigs. Your wheels are your livelihood. If
you can't get around, you can't work, if you can't work you can't feed
yourself, if you can't do that you're not a man anymore.
I wanted to run over and see what was wrong and at the same time I
wanted it not to be happening and the two things were pulling me in
opposite directions. By the time I got to the truck my heart was
pounding and my eyes were blurry.
It was all four tires flat. They weren't cut, not that I could see. The
valve stem covers were off and they'd let the air out with a Bic pen or
something. In addition they had taken their car keys or something and
put long, ugly scratches down both sides of the body. I walked all the
way around and then I started kicking one of the tires, which was stupid.
It wasn't the tire that had done it.
It wasn't Lane that had done it either. She wasn't out of my sight all
morning.

There was a note under the windshield wiper. It was in block capitals
on lined yellow legal paper. It said GO AWAY.
*
I called the Triple A and they sent a truck. The driver said something
about those fucking college kids and I nodded along. While he was
doing the tires I looked under the frame and inside the hood to make
sure there wasn't a bomb or anything. Then I had the guy wait to make
sure it started, which it did.
I stopped off at Airport Auto Supply and got some white primer and
sprayed it on the scratches and it didn't look