Car Maintenance During the Pandemic

I didn’t wait inside for my dar inside dealership, not safe during Covid. I took a walk while my Toyota was being serviced. No pavement to speak of along Edgewater Drive, only a bicycle path. Large trucks rambled back and forth making deliveries to the Alameda County Community Food Bank and offices of the State of California and the City of Oakland. I kept thinking about the text I’d received saying you wanted to talk. Part of me hoped you were calling to rekindle what we’d smothered years ago; the other part was terrified.

We had met online. I’d challenged you to come up with an inquiry that was more interesting than how was my evening, or what was I eating for dinner, the usual openers that online daters seem to feel is essential for getting to know another person.

You laughed and said you would think of a good question. I wasn’t counting on it. So I was surprised when I received a text with your question: “What band today has the coolest name?” That was a question that showed imagination. That was a question that deserved a real answer. 

“Just the names? Not the music?” I asked.

“Just names,” you said.

The Beatles would’ve been an obvious choice, but no for that reason. I skipped ahead to the Ramones, although I never did like the name of the group but loved their rendition of Sheena is a Punk Rocker with a sort of Beach Boy undercurrent, but nixed that also.  It had to be Queen, I decided. “Because it’s a double entendre.” I texted Alden. “The Queen of England and the Queen as in Freddie Mercury.”

“Pink Floyd’s my choice,” said Alden. “Because who would think of putting those two words together? A color and a weird name.” 

For the next few weeks we continued to ask each other questions and vote on the best answers like what did we hate most about going through a revolving door?  I hated when my timing was off and bumped my forehead into glass; he hated when three other people squeezed in with him because they were in such a hurry, but that was allowable if someone was late for a flight. 

“Still,” he said. “I hate it.” 

Then there were things we loved. I opted for early spring in Northern California when the hills were as green as Emerald City, and he said, “a beer on a hot day.”

“A beer?” I said. “That’s what you love?”

“A cold beer on a very hot day. Particularly on a boat.” 

Slowly, we built up our knowledge base—he had grown up around urban renewal, his parent’s home tossed aside to make room for luxury condo developments; I had grown up in the suburbs watching neighbors hide their addictions to pain killers. We didn’t have a high percentage of things we agreed upon, but we had strong opinions; however, living together changed things. Our opinions turned into vitriolic arguments that led to a final split. Six months after our break-up, I learned that Alden planned to get married. 

I hadn’t spoken to him in five years. I wanted to hear his voice, wanted him to inquire what was my favorite childhood fairy tale (The Little Mermaid) or my favorite Mo-Town song of all time (Ain’t No River High Enough), but I felt such a flush of emotion about his contacting me, I kept checking my text messages. But it didn’t until a few days later.

“Hi, how are you,” he said, and it was easy to pick up where we’d left off, and fell into an easy exchange with someone I’d known for years, family news, job updates, the easy laughter, and how we were handling Covid, spikes in both of our states, not wanting to hang up, but wanting to sound comfortable, offhanded, how speaking to Alden was thrilling, how I’d missed that easy camaraderie, which comes from two people understanding each other in a deep and nonverbal way, how I could smell him over the cellphone and taste his tongue, and then he told me his marriage was off—how it hadn’t worked out, and I told him several times how I was sorry without meaning a word, but wondered afterward, if he had refused to talk to her the same way he refused to talk to me, unable see beyond the curtain of his anger, and wanted to tell him he should work it out and to listen to what she had to say, which the moment I knew I didn’t love him anymore: I had walked away from a chance to grab him back into my heart. 

But before I could think about it anymore, I realized I was falling down a wormhole of past relationships. I did what anyone would do during these days of the coronavirus: went out for a brisk walk. Along the fire trail, I bumped into all my ex’s, and they were wearing masks. 

You’d think that I wouldn’t be able to recognize them, but I did; even a boy in my elementary school class who every Monday offered me a half of his bologna sandwich in exchange for a half of my peanut butter; they were all there, Ronald from high school who took me out on my first New Year’s Eve date to see Zorba the Greek near 59^th Street, and later that year, to a baseball game at Shea Stadium, Donnie from a college Political Science class, a Vietnam veteran who came to my bed briefly in the Bronx and left. Did I love them? More infatuation than love, I think, love is a slow exposure the way a developing picture comes into focus in a bath of chemicals. the chemicals in this case, being experience.

My husbands lined up in front of a eucalyptus tree all singing Billy Joel’s The Longest Time, sounding good together, a barbershop chorus, each one coming in at a different time of my life. They waved and kept singing, but this was totally freaking me out. Luckily, none of them wanted to talk and what would we say to each other anyway? Talk about the weather? 

The song in my ears was the one I wanted to sing with Alden, only I was afraid of getting hurt—Maybe the next time my car needed maintenance, say at my next 5,000 mile check up, maybe then I’d call, see if he still thought Pink Floyd was a cool name. 

I held on to that thought knowing that in the case of both stews and old lovers, it was better to let them simmer before either one was done. But actually, what happened a week before I’d brought my car to the dealership, was that I’d rescued a robin from the clutches of my cat who is a beautiful gray and white tabby with a penchant for hunting birds, salamanders, and bats that get deposited on my doorstep or inside the house, a feat that requires Bosco to burst through the cat door with his prey clamped inside his mouth. On this particular occasion, I heard several thuds, one following upon the other, and hurried to the living room, where saw the robin frantically circling the ceiling. Bosco was in pursuit. I opened the screen door hoping that the bird would fly to safety. Ten minutes later, the scene repeated itself, only this time Bosco was scrambling up the entertainment center. The robin was perched on the top shelf. I picked up Bosco and threw him to the ground. The bird flew to the top of a small lamp. I quickly unplugged it and carried the lamp outside with its cord dangling.  The bird seemed to sense what I was doing and remained until I brought it outside and it escaped. I was so glad it still could fly even with its loss of feathers. To his credit, Bosco accepted the situation and exited through the pet door.  

Word got out that I’d saved the robin. Along the fire trail, where thanks to the pandemic I take regular walks, a gopher snake slithered from the bushes and gave me a high-five. I suppose you’ll want to know how a snake can do that, but I assure you, it did. I also crossed paths with a rabbit that leapt toward me, reminding me of Monty Python’s killer rabbit in his search for the Holy Grail, but this brown and white creature only waved its ears hello and went about its business. Maybe it was something in my hand sanitizer or a symptom of Covid-19 that Dr. Fauci of the National Health Institute hadn’t bothered to tell us. Or maybe I was going crazy.

The following week Alden called. I was surprised. “What’s your favorite color?” he asked. I told him he knew that already and why was he asking. “Because I wanted to know if you had changed your mind.”

“It used to be turquoise,” I said.

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