The Fork in the Road: A Novel

THE FORK IN THE ROAD

CHAPTER ONE

Thursday, September 4th, 1985, 7:30 AM

When the alarm went off, it was like the bells of Notre Dame. His arm slung over like one long piece of dead weight and slammed into the alarm clock. It was purely instinct. He never even opened his eyes. He really didn’t want to. The water in Mexico may be Montezuma’s revenge, but tequila was surely the work of the devil himself. Not like this was the first time. Not hardly.

He turned over on his back, opened his eyes, and looked around the room. It was depressing. He was lying on a mattress on the floor, his clothing around him in boxes. He closed his eyes again. Slowly a smile broke across his face. He’d had a hell of a night last night. It was beginning to come back to him. Suddenly he sat upright and looked around the room again. There was a girl last night, wasn’t there? There was a faint odor of sex in the air…on the sheets…on him.

He jumped out of bed and grabbed a pair of gym shorts that was hanging on one of the boxes in the room. He walked, stumbled, and hopped down the hallway towards the living room and managed to pull his shorts on. A glance into the bathroom, kitchenette, and living/dining area told him he was alone. He stood in the center of the apartment and stared out to nowhere. This hangover was pretty serious, but he knew how to handle that. Still dragging his feet, he went into the kitchenette, got four aspirin, and forced down two tall glasses of water.

A hangover is caused by dehydration, someone had told him, so before going to bed, a tall glass of water and two more in the morning. The aspirin was just common sense. It was beginning to work, and he felt better already.

He staggered back to the living room and shook his head. Ah, what’s this? he thought when he spotted a note taped to the inside of his front door.

Dear Nicky, I had a great time, see you soon, love, Kim.

Below her name was a bright lipstick impression.

Kim…right, right, right…Kim. He began to get a flood of images. Kim…blonde, tall, blue eyes, waitress or secretary or something. Yeah, yeah, sure, wearing a tight red mini dress. God, how he loved those. And the shoes, red satin with those high stiletto heels. She wasn’t wearing any stockings and damn, those were great legs. Drinking, dancing, partying…yeah! And Max was with her friend. The Fucking Max. He began to wonder how Max had done. He got laid too, he always did. Speaking of which, he looked at the clock. It read 7:52. He’d better get moving. He had to be at the dealership by 8:30 and if he was late again this week, Stanton would kill him.

It was Thursday morning.

$  $  $  $  $

O’Hara Motors opened in the early fifties. Old man O’Hara ran it then. First used cars, but soon came a Rambler franchise. Success came steadily, mostly because Tucson was still a small town then. There wasn’t a lot of competition around and Rambler had a good reputation. In the sixties they became American Motors, and when they merged with Jeep, things really took off. Soon they moved off the dusty old lot and opened a large modern dealership at a good location right on Sunset Blvd. In the late seventies, old man O’Hara began to spend less time around, and all the day-to-day responsibilities were turned over to Richard O’Hara, his son.

Richard O’Hara was a nice enough guy, but he grew up rich so he had a little trouble dealing with the guys in the service and parts departments, and didn’t do much better with the salesmen. When Nick noticed the diploma in his office from the same Washington, D.C., university he had attended, Richard reminisced politely, but the look on his face showed disappointment that a salesman from his dealership attended his school, and his questions/remarks made Nick feel he was being quizzed on campus trivia to see if he really did attend. But salesmen were no more than a target for O’Hara’s terrible jokes and besides, they were Steve Stanton’s problem.

Steve Stanton was another story altogether. Stanton grew up on a farm in some Midwestern state, Kansas or Indiana or something. He was an all-state wrestling champion, and at thirty years old he looked like he was still champion. He was just shy of six feet tall, but still muscular. Not Arnold Schwarzenegger, but very healthy looking, like a model for an underwear ad. His hair was pretty long but well trimmed and blond. He had ice blue eyes and an all-American look.

O’Hara Motors lives with the saga of Steve Stanton. He began as a mechanic and was pretty good at it. Legend has it he came from the service bays and went to Richard O’Hara’s office (you should picture him in greasy overalls) to declare that he thought he could sell cars and wanted a chance to prove himself. O’Hara, being a generous soul, gave him a chance. From there, the legend is obvious to anyone who enters O’Hara Motors, for the Salesman of the Month plaques show Steve Stanton’s name continuously for four years with very few exceptions. His eventual reward was realized when O’Hara made him sales manager and himself general manager. The story is told to every new employee to illustrate how you can succeed at O’Hara Motors.

Nick was doing over forty when he got to Arrowhead Lane, the street that ran between O’Hara Motors and the Sunset Lounge. The directional on his motorcycle didn’t work, so he had to use hand signals while he downshifted the Yamaha and skidded onto Arrowhead. As usual, the bike went a foot in the air when he crossed the speed bump entering the car lot. He drove past the showroom to the back lot and came to a sliding stop in the sand. When he went past the showroom, he saw Steve Stanton standing on the display patio that ran along the front and both sides of the showroom, his arms crossed over his chest. Once Nick had shut the engine off, he looked at his watch. 8:42…shit.

Nice of you to show up, Nick, Stanton said.

Well, I like to at least make an appearance every day, Nick replied.

I hope you washed your face this morning, I know where it was last night.

No, not yet, Nick said, smiling and dramatically licking his mustache. I’m going to wait until these wonderful juices dry all over my face, peel it off like a mask, and nail it to the conference room wall with all the others.

That’s my boy, Stanton roared, as he slapped Nick’s back and they entered the glass enclosed showroom together.

The showroom was one big room with three new Jeeps in the center. Along the north wall was the receptionist’s desk and eight little sales offices ran the length of the three other walls. Nick’s office was the first office on the east wall. He entered it and tossed the backpack that served as his briefcase in the corner. The office was a mess. Like most dealerships, O’Hara’s worked a swing shift, 8:30 to 2:00 one day and 2:00 to 8:00 the next. Nick looked around but decided to clean up later, after some coffee. He made his way to the employee lounge and poured some hot coffee, then wandered out to the outside patio.

Three other salesmen were out there talking, but Nick ignored them. They were all new guys and he didn’t feel like small talk. Although O’Hara’s maintained a sales crew of ten, five per shift, thirty had come and gone in the ten months Nick had been there.

Car salesman fell into three categories. First, there were your career guys. They have worked in every dealership in town at one time or another, or else at the same one for ten years. These guys were good professional salesman…who for some reason hadn’t found a better job. Second were your natural bullshit artists. These guys sold, and generally did well, but were off to greener pastures as soon as they found them. The third type is the wandering soul. Out of work and rummaging through the want classifieds, sees car sales ad offering big money (on commission) and figures, I can do that. Nine out of ten can’t.

Nick was the second type, a natural. He could be a car salesman, but he wasn’t, he was an actor. All the world’s a stage, he often said. You want me to play a car salesman, I’ll play a car salesman. But he didn’t, not really. If you were to play a car salesman, you’d be Kurt Russell in Used Cars. He wasn’t. He played himself; tried to be likable, listened to what you said, answered your questions, and found you the car you wanted. In a way, it’s probably why he did as well as he did.

He poured the rest of his coffee off the side of the patio and turned to get another. He stopped and called out to the other guys.

Where’s Max?

On the showroom, someone called back. He looked through the window and only saw three parked cars.

Where?

In the red Cherokee. He squinted and sure enough, there was Max behind the wheel of the Cherokee, slouched down low.

He walked into the showroom and up to the car. Max was sitting there wearing sunglasses, trying to sleep.

Yo, Max, you look like shit, brother, he laughed.

Without moving anything but his lips he said, Go fuck yourself.

That was Max, a man of few words.

So, Nick asked, how’d you do with Kim’s friend last night?

We met, we danced, we did the horizontal bop. Now, beat it, I need some sleep. Still his head didn’t move. Nick smiled. He walked to the back of the Jeep, stepped up onto the bumper, and shook the car up and down. When he stopped, the door opened and a leg fell out, then another. Soon two elbows and a face in the palms of the two hands. You are such an asshole, Max muttered from between his fingers.

Oh, come on, it’s a beautiful day. Tell me all your little details about last night, Nick asked, as he came around the side of the car.

Get a life, Max grunted. Nick stopped and smiled. Max was grouchier than usual, but the I’m so hung over I could die act was a game they played almost daily.

Max was from the Chicago suburbs, but when he told stories, you’d swear he grew up in the streets of south Chicago with Mr. T. He was from a wealthy family and did well himself until a little over a year ago when he split with his wife and began partying. He only sold cars to pay his bar tabs. He was a type two salesman also.

As he got to his feet, he shook his head to rid himself of the cobwebs. They made their way to the employee lounge, drew themselves each a cup of coffee, and went and plopped down in Nick’s office. The Max dropped both of his feet crossed upon Nick’s desk and declared, I’m getting too old for this.

You and me, both, Nick replied, and the two of them sat back and drank their coffee.

So, are you set for tonight? I feel a party coming on, Nick asked over the top of his coffee cup.

Are you nuts? I don’t even want to hear about tonight. I’m not over last night yet. Besides, I’ve been thinking about staying in tonight. We haven’t done that in quite a while, you know.

You’re gonna stay home…sure. Max, you know if you’re not there by ten o’clock, Guido will send an ambulance to your house. Besides, it’s Thursday night, and all the dancers will be there. There were ten last week and those girls are fuckin’-A wild.

Oh, wow, I totally forgot…that wild babe, Lightning, will be there, too. Where does a girl get a name like Lightning, anyway?

From guys whom have been struck by her in the past, that’s where!

Sunset Blvd. was littered with a generous supply of automobile dealerships, topless bars, as well as regular nightclubs. The net result was a very active and alive street. Eight new car dealerships employ a lot of young, single (or not), and hungry men. Between six and eight o’clock each night, these men would join their friends and hit their favorite watering holes. Mechanics, sales, service, body shop, and office boys. Makes no difference, they all enjoyed a cold one. Some guys went home to their wives if they had one, or just home, if they didn’t. But that left plenty who hit the street. And they liked to hit the street hard and loud.

To fuel the fire just a bit more, each dealership had two softball and football teams as well as sales sell-off competitions where the city’s new car dealerships would invade a local shopping mall and try to sell a thousand cars in a weekend. This made for a competitive atmosphere that, from time to time, spilled over into other parts of their collective lives.

The girls were, in many ways, the same. They came from all over the country. Tucson is that kind of new transplanted society, one in which most people are from somewhere else. Some arrived in couples, with whole families, or alone. An awful lot were alone now. It may just be average, but it always seemed to Nick like a high number of separations occurred in Tucson. Especially young couples. High school sweethearts from Pennsylvania would come looking to start a new life together and would drift apart. Quickly, too. It was a damn shame. It happened to Nick that way. At least he had never gotten married…and then divorced…like Max did. He was just getting over it…by drinking and partying himself to death. I guess, he thought, a lot of guys handle the pain that way. After all, he did, too.

Once you find yourself alone, it was a quick scramble to keep a roof over your head. Most women found office or clerical work. Some in doctors’ or dentists’ offices. Maybe a law firm. They were the lucky ones. Waitress work is harder, pays less, and subjects you to a lot of creeps, especially in a bar, and you don’t get treated with a lot of respect, but it’s honest work.

Dancers were a whole different breed. In many ways, just like any other woman, only more so. It takes guts to be a stripper. And they all have a different story as to why they do what they do. Like any other group, they’re made up of a very diverse collection of individuals. Some are just trash, plain and simple. They make it hard for the others. But a lot of other women get involved from time to time, as well. A lot have kids…and need money now. And cash tips come in handy, too. You’ve got to respect someone who knows what has to be done, and even though they may not like it, they do it because they have a responsibility to themselves or maybe to others as well. Stripping isn’t the end of the world, but it is a last resort of types. And once you’ve done it, it’s not so bad. You can even come to enjoy it. Enjoy it quite a lot, actually. You develop a level of self-confidence and then an awareness. An awareness of how simple men really are. All men think with their zippers. And men control everything. So a girl who can control zippers can control everything. Or so goes the legend. But not many dancers were carried off to Camelot. Sort of like the legend of Steve Stanton, an empty promise of the good life.

Thursday was a special night at the Sunset Lounge. On Tuesday and Thursdays, all the dancers in town had one day or the other day off. Now, after being in a topless bar all week, you’d think the last thing these girls would want to do is go dancing, but not so. Every Tuesday and Thursday, they traveled in groups of four to fifteen, and one of the places they were likely to hit was the Sunset Lounge. Now, both Tuesday and Thursday are not normally big nights to do the town, so the lounge was usually less than half full. And then they come in. Say, seven or eight of them. Right away, smiles break out on every man’s face. These girls look like they just stepped out of a music video. Always giggling with playful attitudes, and dressed to kill. Very sexy, tight mini-dresses and always high heels. Exactly like men like them. And hair. Hair alive with sex so you can imagine it crushed into a pillow.

Hey, hey…snap out of it. They’re calling you to the sales office…Do you hear me? To Nick, it sounded like he was coming out of a dream.

Huh? Oh, yeah, sure. Nick stood and placed both hands down on the desktop And you, you’d better get some rest, because tonight, your ass belongs to me.

For that, you need to buy me dinner, Max said with a grin.

Nick turned and headed out the door, stopped, turned and said, Faggot, and was off to the sales office. Upon approach to the door, Nick considered knocking on it, decided against it, and just entered like a rush of wind. You called for me, Chief? Oh, Mr. Garcia, so nice to see you. Your car is ready.

Good, good, good, that’s what I like to hear, Mr. Garcia bellowed in a deep voice. Standing at six foot five and tipping the scales at three hundred pounds, Mr. Garcia was used to getting things his way. Born in Nogales, Mexico, and creating a produce empire from nothing gave him a confidence that matched his physical presence. You know, I still think I might have gotten more for my trade in Phoenix.

Steve Stanton rose. Mr. Garcia, you’re a valued customer. I assure you this deal is very fair to everyone. Nick, go get the car.

Absolutely, Nick said in his best Sylvester Stallone voice, and turned on his heels and vanished. Heading to the detail barn, he was thankful for this blessing of being excused from this last-minute price dickering. He entered the side door and went directly for the control panel that operated the electric garage doors. He quickly activated it and went around to the new car he’d be delivering, a 1986 Jeep Grand Wagoneer. The kind with the wood paneling along the sides. If you asked the guy on the street, he’d probably tell you they stopped making those cars years ago, but they didn’t. Actually, it’s the Rolls Royce of the towing crowd. Any doctor into horses or boating owns one of these. All leather and power, they’re much more comfortable than Chevy’s Blazer or Ford’s Bronco, and, Nick thought with a smile, they cost a fortune. This sale would bag him about four hundred and fifty dollars…cool.

The car fired up in a second as the big 360 roared to life. Nick looked around at the new additions. Garcia had special taste. He’d had the windows tinted charcoal, installed a cellular phone, and a first class Alpine stereo system with six speakers. We’ll just have to make sure this works, Nick said out loud with a smile. He quickly set the digital receiver to 104.5 FM and caught the tail end of Billy Ocean’s Caribbean Queen. He turned it up about halfway, which with this system was deafening, turned up the air conditioning all the way, and sat back and enjoyed. As the song ended, he slipped the transmission into drive and headed through the door. Too bad, he said as he snapped off the stereo, probably be Mexican mariachi music for you, pal.

Nick brought the car to the main entrance and backed it up the pad just outside the front door. With the car parked between two pillars and the Catalina Mountains as a back drop, it was psychologically a good place to make delivery of a new car. A person felt rich and powerful being up here, taking the keys, and driving off with a brand new car.

Just as Nick stepped out of the car, Steve Stanton and Mr. Garcia walked out of the showroom, shaking hands.

Nice, nice…very nice, Garcia said, as he circled the car.

Here you go, Nick said, holding up the keys.

Nick, Steve, thank you both, and I’m sure I’ll see you both again. Garcia gave a friendly wave and grin, climbed into his new Jeep (no minor task), and rode away.

Good work, Nick, a couple more like that and you’ll be making some real money, Stanton said as he put his arm around Nick’s shoulders.

Thanks, Steve, I always enjoy a good sale.

Nick, with the right attitude, you can do anything.

Nick began to walk towards his office, stopped, smiled, and turned to Stanton. Steve, gonna raise hell with us tonight?

Can’t…really, I’d like to, but I can’t…the wife almost killed me Wednesday morning…maybe Friday or Saturday…but I doubt that, too.

Nick smiled, turned, and said over his shoulder, Don’t get whipped, it doesn’t suit your personality.

When he entered his office, four of the five salesmen were gathered around his desk, and a cloud of smoke gathering at his ceiling seemed to threaten rain. Oh, man, what’s with you guys? Look at this fuckin’ place…don’t you guys have jobs or anything?

Relax, bud, sit down, Brian’s telling us about Screaming Mary.

Oh, man, that story again. Why don’t you guys get laid yourselves once in a while so you won’t have to listen to Brian’s fairy tales any more?

Brian stood up alertly and grinned from ear to ear. Fairy tales…fairy fucking tales…no way, boys, every word be the gospel truth, absolutely.

The whole gang broke out in laughter.

Well, look, why don’t you guys take it to the conference room? There’s a blackboard in there. Brian, you can draw pictures.

The group gave another united laugh and made their way out of the office, shadowboxing and joking all the way. Max stayed seated. Nick walked up to the window and crossed his arms and stared out on an asphalt ocean of shiny new cars.

What am I doing here? Nick stared in silence and Max picked at the soles of his shoes. A few minutes passed quietly. Nick turned, took a deep breath, exhaled, and sat in his chair. For a couple of minutes, he arranged the things on his desk. Mostly, he drummed a pencil on his desk and stared out into nowhere.

What are any of us doing here? Max said, as he stood up and walked out of the room.

Nick stared out after him. Really, he said out loud, in a blank voice.

After a few minutes, he strolled out into the showroom. The guys were all leaning on the showroom cars, gathered around the receptionist. Liz was the day receptionist, and Angel, the night receptionist from four thirty to the eight o’clock closing. Liz, to the eye, was a doll. An incredible body. Very full figured. Very pleasant to look at with a pretty face and a slim figure, but reportedly as mean as a snake. She would never date a salesman, and was wise to them from being around them so much.

The guys were just hanging around waiting for an up. An up is when a customer walks or drives onto the lot and starts looking at cars. The next salesman who is up in the rotation gets to wait on the customer. Andy, a new guy, was the only one not present. The rest were joking around.

Hey, who’s the geek with Andy? Nick asked.

Just got here, driving the green and white Ford four-by-four over there, Brian answered.

Nick walked up to the glass wall and gave the pickup a quick once-over. Looked like an ‘84 or ‘85, which probably meant the guy still owed money on it. Nice tires and rims. The body looked in good shape, but it had a trailer hitch. Trailer hitch meant towing, better check the transmission. Gun rack and wide tires on a four-by-four usually meant a hunter, better check the suspension. Nick knew all these things in a glance. He was relatively new at car sales, but he was smart, and business is business.

I hope he gets a sale, I could use the trade. I’ve got two off the top of my head who’d come in and look at it.

Yeah, it’s even got a crash bar and a winch, too, Brian added. You just can’t see it from here.

So, why aren’t you out there with him? I’ve never known you not to run when you smell money, Nick asked.

Well, what can I say, he got there first or I would have. You know me.

Really, Nick said, as he turned to the lot again. Hey, where’s the blue ‘84 Cherokee, the one with the wide Michelin X tires?

Sold it yesterday, fucking gave it away, but at least it sold. Stinking mini, though, Brian said in a voice torn between pride and embarrassment.

Sold it…for a fuckin’ mini. Oh, Christ, says fuckin’ who? Nick said in disbelief.

Says who?…says fucking Stanton, that’s who…the ride is gone…eatin’ pavement and killin’ bugs. Why? What’s the problem? Brian asked.

What’s the problem? I’ll tell you what’s the problem. I sold that Jeep to Carson two days ago, pending finance. That puppy is his.

No, man. TDs from all the banks. He’s upside down on his Camaro and has a bunch of strikes against him. The banks won’t touch him.

Oh, that’s bullshit, I had him at a full pop, too. That’s five or six hundred to me easy. Stanton okayed this?

Definitely, Nick. Talk to him or Ron in finance, but the car is gone. At that moment, the sales manager’s office door opened and Steve Stanton stepped out.

Hey, Stanton, come here, we’ve got to talk, Nick yelled out.

Stanton, no fool, spun on his heels and zipped back into his office.

Fuckin’ coward, Nick snapped, as he took off after him. The guys broke into a group chuckle.

The car’s gone, he ought to cool off, Brian said as their eyes followed Nick rush into the sales manager’s office.

Brian’s telling me that you sold the blue ‘84 Cherokee I had Carson signed for.

That’s right, Nick, I had to, Stanton said plainly, sitting behind his desk with his fingers locked across his stomach.

Had to…and for a fuckin’ mini? Why? With Carson, it was almost a two thousand payable.

No, it wasn’t. The bank won’t touch it. He’s too upside down on his Camaro, so I dropped all the profit and they still wouldn’t touch him, he’s got bad strikes. That Camaro is the last car he’ll finance. Sorry. You know, you should expect trouble when they just roll over like that. A flag should go up. Besides, Brian’s deal was cash. Not much profit but we got our investment back, made a few bucks, and moved a used Cherokee off the lot. What would you have done? Stanton asked and raised both hands in the air as if to emphasize What?

That really sucks, that’s all. Will the banks stretch if we pick a less expensive car?

No, not at all, the guy’s a credit criminal. He bought that Camaro from a south side sled lot and financed it there. Even they have strikes against him. Let it go. He’s no good. There’ll be others. Stanton rose and came around to Nick. You did good though, it would have been a biggie. With the Grand Wagoneer and the conversion van, you’ve got a good check next week. Besides, it’s only Thursday morning. Don’t let it get you down.

Yeah, easy for you to say. You get a cut from everyone’s commissions and a base salary besides, Nick whined as Stanton led him to the door.

Yeah, but that’s me. You, you get out there and sell another one. You’re in a great position. You want more money, sell another car. You set your own pay here, Nick, go make it.

Nick stood outside the door knowing he had just got the famous Stanton shuffle, but realized there was no percentage in whining.

When Nick returned, only Max was left, sitting on the edge of Liz’s desk. They were both laughing. Max was probably being charming again.

So, they just turned, looked at us funny, and walked away, Max said, and they both kicked their heads back and let loose a big laugh.

Max, you’re impossible, Liz said with a mischievous smile. Get away from here and let me do some work.

Okay, okay, but next time, you’ve got to come with us, he took a dramatic pause. Like tonight, why don’t you come with us tonight? We’ll have an outrageous night. Tell her, Nick.

Yeah, we’ll all stand around and watch you sleep. I thought you were staying in tonight, remember?

Oh, yeah, really, Max said in a sarcastic tone, No, seriously Nick, tell her. Liz, it’s a real nice place. The band is great and everyone has fun.

Oh, I hear you guys. The girls are all tramps over there, you guys go through them like water. I’m not like that, I’ll have you know.

And no place can make you that way. It’s not a bad club. If you want to join us, you’re more than welcome, but don’t let this bonehead talk you into anything you don’t want to do, Nick said in all seriousness.

Are you going tonight? she asked softly.

Yeah, I’m going home first, then I’ve got to be back here at six for Ryan’s delivery. I’ll probably go to dinner somewhere, then hit the Sunset around nine or ten, Nick said matter-of-factly, then added, Why?

Well, Liz said still sporting a sneaky smile, I’ll think about it.

Nick smiled and walked away.

Never sleep with anyone you work with or live near, that’s a cardinal rule, Max said below his voice, as he grabbed Nick’s arm and led him to his office. Once it falls apart, they’re there to watch you…and hate you. Remember, there’s nothing like a woman scorned.

I know that, besides, you were the one dogging her, remember?

Yeah, but it’s your dick she wants, Max replied with resentment in his voice.

Really, you think so? Nick said flippantly as he looked over his shoulder. Well, rules were made to be broken.

The rest of the morning went without incident. At two thirty, Nick, Max, Brian and the guys went their own ways. Nick punched out and headed towards the door.

Nick, Nick, come over here, Liz called out to him. A small smile broke out across his face. It was the type of smile his mother would have had concern for if she had seen it.

Yeah, Liz, what’s up? Nick asked, as if he knew a secret.

It’s what you said earlier. Dinner and then the Sunset, it sounds nice when you think about it. Now she had her best cute face on.

Well, it wasn’t an offer, it’s just what I’m doing tonight…why, do you want to go?

Well, if it was an offer, I could be persuaded.

Nick tried not to giggle. Okay, we’ll see. I’m not sure what time I’ll get out of here. How about I call you when I’m done with the Ryans? We can go from there, okay?

Well, my number is right here in my Rolodex. Maybe you’ll copy it for yourself? Liz asked. Her eyebrows wrinkled with that one.

Yeah, maybe I should, Nick said, as he stepped off the corner of her desk. Maybe I will.

$  $  $  $  $

The motorcycle came to a stop outside of Nick’s apartment. Riding a motorcycle in Tucson is torture. It’s a lot like sitting in front of a hair dryer blowing in your face at high speed for half an hour.

Although it was September, it didn’t help much. Nick had come to hate his motorcycle. Melody had taken her car when she left, and all he had left was this motorcycle. He had traded the engine in his muscle car he had back in New England for it. But sometimes he wished he rode the bus. And driving new cars all day didn’t help much, either. Being poor was something he wasn’t used to.

Back home he was the youngest of three, two older sisters and him. The baby. His family wasn’t wealthy, but comfortable. He had been doing well, too. In high school, he wasn’t so great. Above average grades and sports. And no serious trouble, that he got caught at, anyway. But college was much better. As a political science major set for pre-law, he did rather well. History and politics came easy to him, and making the Dean’s List most every semester was a welcome treat to Nick. When the University of Rhode Island faculty nominated him for a special semester in Washington, D.C., he jumped at it. For two days a week, he worked as an investigator for the Public Defender Service at Saint Elizabeth’s Hospital. It was wild. A person is entitled to a probable cause hearing within seven days of an involuntary commitment, so Nick’s job was to go to the holding wards of the nation’s largest federal mental institution and interview people for the attorneys. The doctors, police, judges, family members, employers, and the clients in question. He wrote up reports and submitted them to the P.D. attorneys. People’s lives were in his hands. He was seeing textbook examples of complex psychological conditions right before his eyes everyday, things his peers could only read about.

The other three days a week were spent going from one special interest group to the next. Then there were PACs, federal agencies, national monuments, the Capitol, the White House, the Supreme Court, embassies, prisons, and a hundred other places to go. He had heard, debated, and slept through everyone in Washington that had anything to say. And then it was over…just like that.

When he had returned to Rhode Island, he felt like a conquering hero. He had seen, mastered, and conquered the world. And no one cared. Within two weeks, he took the only job open to him, despite a handful full of recommendations from Washington. Jennings Truck Bodies. There they built special order trucks on an assembly line. From embassy parties in Washington, D.C., to assembly lines in a Rhode Island industrial park.

He somehow got a job a month and a half later as a legal assistant in one of the largest law firms in Providence, the capital of Rhode Island. Having been tipped off to Paul Levett, the firm’s senior partner, Nick called every day for forty days before he was finally offered a position. Many people interpreted it as persistence, which Nick never discouraged, but in reality, no one had to push him to make the daily call that could deliver him from his labor. The experience of eight to ten hours on the assembly line was plenty motivating as it was.

During his tenure there, he came to respect Mr. Levett as one of the most honest, intelligent, dedicated, and talented attorneys he had ever met, and hoped to one day be half as good himself. And Mr. Levett liked him as well, taking him along on many trials and introducing him to the important people in New England. But as September came closer, Nick knew he should return to school, and packed his bags and headed for the University of California. But this time he would take Melody with him. After all, she’d been patient enough. Before Washington, there had been trips to San Francisco and New Orleans in search of brighter skies. He had told her he was scouting ahead for both of them, but he realized now that he was just exploring the world. Construction work in San Francisco and oil rig roustabout in Louisiana weren’t serious, but they added to his character, so he recalled them without regret. The trip to California was an adventure in itself, but the arrival was a major disappointment. UCSB in Santa Barbara offers very little in employment for the many young people in the small valley, and affordable housing was nonexistent. It didn’t take long for them to realize they were in deep shit financially. Turning tail and heading to Tucson, where Nick’s two sisters lived, was among the most difficult things he had ever done. Watching a dream slip away is never easy. In times of despair, he wished Melody had stayed home and he had moved into the SAE chapter of his fraternity at UCSB, like he had in Washington. But wishing doesn’t change reality, so he tried to dismiss the thought.

He got off the motorcycle and entered the enclosed garden that was the entrance to the apartment…their apartment. Now, it was just his. Things happen fast. They moved in and both got work. She was a receptionist, he was in school at the University of Arizona and working as an actor/stuntman for a local group that had an exclusive contract at a major southwestern resort in town. It was a dream job for a college student who loved acting and athletics. The shows gave him a chance to play cowboy and make good money and still be able to attend school full time.

But it didn’t last long. Just before the semester was over, they had split up. She needed space and there was little discussion involved. Six months later, he heard from home that she had married a guy from work.

No big surprise.

So, it was over. And he was selling cars to pay the rent and letting another semester slip past, because his head wasn’t together yet. Excuses only satisfy those who give them, he knew. He didn’t need excuses to have self-pity, that came naturally. He rolled off the mattress that lived on the floor. It was 5:30. Time to head back to the dealership.

Another ride on that fuckin’ motorcycle.

$  $  $  $  $

When he came through the glass double doors of the showroom floor, he was a little surprised to see Max standing against the middle Jeep of the three on display there.

Hey, Max, what are you doing here?

I got a call at home that the Simpsons’ financing cleared and they wanted to pick it up right away. They should be here any minute, he said, as he lit a cigarette.

Are they trading in their Wagoneer?

No, we took a ‘77 Chevy van, sight unseen. They say it’s fixed up nice, but it’s black. Stanton gave them thirty-five hundred, but is really only figuring it at fifteen hundred.

A black van in Tucson, that should be easy to sell, Nick replied in a sarcastic snort.

That’s why only fifteen hundred, Max said, as he flicked an inch-long ash. Just before it hit the ground, he snapped his foot, catching the ash with the tip of his black cowboy boot. A smile came across his face when it burst into an explosion of cigarette ash. It was his favorite trick.

A soft voice broke the silence. Max, I think that’s them now.

Angel had only been with O’Hara’s for a little less than three months. She was a Mexican girl of about twenty-three. Short and thin as a rail, she looked like a Mexican version of a Barbie doll. An amazingly shapely little body with long thick dark hair, deep brown eyes, and distinctively high cheekbones. A real doll and shy, too. But Angel had a long-term boyfriend, also Mexican, who picked her up nightly and didn’t enjoy seeing the familiar atmosphere between O’Hara’s employees. Simply put, the man was very jealous, and no one blamed him.

Nick and Max approached the glass wall and looked out at the Simpsons.

Hey, that’s a nice looking van, Nick said, as his eyes and mind made a quick inventory of the vehicle’s options.

Max went out the door and down the stairs and began to greet the Simpsons. After a few handshakes all around, they entered the finance office and got down to the business of signing papers. Max stayed outside the office.

Nick, growing in curiosity, went down to get a closer look at the van. The closer he got, the more he liked it. Jet black with gold turbo rims sporting wide racing type lettered tires. And a chrome package. Chevy offered a chrome package in ‘77 that made all the trim chrome. The grille, door handles, bumpers, wheel-well moldings, and side mirrors were all in chrome, and against the black body, it really stood out. Mounted on the back, a chrome ladder and a spare tire with a black cover. Nick opened the sliding side door and a smile broke across his face. He liked it. It wasn’t a professional van conversion like they sold at O’Hara’s, but a homemade conversion done by someone pretty handy with tools. The stock seats had been replaced with high-back swivel captain’s chairs. Then it got creative. Behind the front seats had been built an arch. Constructed of wood and carpeted, it separated the front from the back. Directly behind that, a refrigerator was built into a counter. The last six feet of the van Nick stared at before he fully realized its multi-purpose construction. It was built in a U-shape. Along both sides and the back, there was a couch about eighteen inches wide. But along the edge ran a metal lip. Three boards hidden in the storage compartments beneath the benches fit on the bench lip, and by shuffling the cushions around, they appeared to make the whole rear of the van into what was a pretty good-sized bed. A nice stereo system to boot, and Nick really liked this van. Best of all, he had a little over two thousand dollars saved.

He stepped back to get an overall view of the vehicle. There were no windows other than at the front seats and on each of the rear doors, but they were tinted gold to match the rims. He hadn’t noticed that before. Must have been the light, he assured himself.

Nick, line two, please, Angel called over the dealership loudspeakers.

He turned and headed into the showroom, glancing back over his shoulder twice to second-look the van. This is Nick, he said, when he picked up the phone. His customer, Mr. Ryan, was calling and regretted he wouldn’t be able to get in, and could he reschedule for the same time tomorrow. Politely, Nick assured him tomorrow would be fine and hung up. After all, what could he do? You can’t scream at a customer for making you drive all the way back to the office for nothing. But, be assured, the temptation was there.

He looked up as the Simpsons came out of the finance office, again with handshakes all around. They went out to the pad, Max handed them the keys, and the whole Simpson family got in and drove down the pad, onto the lot, and up the street, waving to Max the whole way. Just like in the commercials.

Max re-entered the showroom, flipping a key ring around one finger and whistling.

Hey, are those for the trade? Nick called out.

Max nodded.

Toss them here, I want to try it.

Hold off, they need to be tagged. Max went to a counter on the back wall, got a key ring with a Jeep logo, wrote the stock number of the trade on it, and tossed the keys to Nick. Got a customer for it? Max asked.

Yeah, I do…me. I think I might buy it. Let’s go for a ride, Nick said, and made for the door. Max smiled, rolled his eyes, and followed.

When Nick stared out at the van, he thought it looked like a little tank. He got behind the wheel, a mahogany wheel, and turned the key to start it up. As soon as the engine turned over, they turned to each other and said in unison, Headers. The purr was unmistakable. Nick revved the engine and it went from a purr to a roar.

Sounds good and feels tight, Nick said with a smile. Feels like a 350. Let’s take her for a spin. He pulled to the curb and accelerated up onto Sunset Blvd. When they returned to the lot, they gave the vehicle a total poke and prod inspection that the van, it was decided, had passed. Nick entered the sales office and sat in a chair in front of Stanton’s desk. Steve was in his big chair with feet up on the desk, watching television.

Hey, Nick, you’re just in time. I look forward to this all day. Vanna’s coming out in another hot dress, Stanton said through a big grin. They turned to the television screen as Wheel of Fortune introductions were taking place. Pat Sajak introduced her and Vanna came out in a white strapless dress that fit her much-admired figure like a glove. Oh, yes! Stanton said, clapping his hands and grinning even wider. He was sitting on the edge of his chair, his face a foot from the screen.

Nick stood up. Let’s talk about the van Max just took in trade.

Steve turned the volume off the set. Okay, that’s the only thing I like about this show anyway. So, what’s up? You have a customer for it?

Yeah, he stands before you. Max says we got fifteen hundred in it, is that right?

Well, that’s what I allowed for it, but I haven’t even looked at it yet. I’m beginning to feel it’s better than I thought. Nick said nothing. After a few seconds he sat back in his chair. Oh, what the hell, one hundred over, just like the rule minimum, good enough?

Nick broke a big smile equal to Stanton’s for Vanna White. Good enough. And I’ll do all the paperwork myself. Thanks, Steve.

Well, we can’t have you driving that motorcycle forever, it’s embarrassing.

Nick turned and walked out the office door. When it fell shut, he jumped in the air and did a high five to a ghost partner. Yes! he cried out.

Once he finished the paperwork, Nick brought it back to Stanton along with a check dated for the following day.

All right, Nick, everything looks fine. Put your dealer plate on it for tonight, and you can lock your motorcycle in the detail barn, if you want.

You got it, Boss. I sure won’t miss that bike, he said with a grin. Standing in the office doorway, he turned to Steve. Come over to the Sunset after work, I owe you a drink.

Well, Steve said, considering, I suppose I could stop in for just one.

Absolutely, just one, Nick slipped out the door with a smile on his face. Just one, sure, he’ll be there till close, he thought with amusement.

$  $  $  $  $

After locking up the motorcycle, Nick and Max climbed into the van and went for a cruise. They headed east down Sunset then north on Campbell until they reached the foothills of the Catalina Mountains. Nick parked the van so it faced the glittering skyline of the Tucson night. They both got out and sat against the front bumper.

You got a screaming deal here, Nick, this van would have listed for $3,995.00 and probably sold for thirty five hundred or at least three thousand.

Yeah, Stanton has his moments. Good thing O’Hara wasn’t around.

Oh, man, you got that right, Max said, as he drew a pack of Salems from his shirt pocket. He fished out a cigarette, lit it, and kept picking at the pack. Nick looked over at him as Max drew a hand-rolled cigarette from the pack. Surprise! Max said with a grin.

Nick just looked at him and said nothing. In high school Nick liked to party, but college was a lot different and he had basically given up drugs. He never considered marijuana a drug really, and had stopped mostly because the people he associated with didn’t smoke, and he drifted away from use the same way he had drifted into it as a high school freshman.

But tonight, he felt like celebrating. Fire it up, he said casually.

From the moment Max lit the joint and the smoke drifted to Nick, a flood of memories rose to his mind. High school. Mark, Larry, and Chris had been Nick’s best friends in high school, and they had certainly smoked their share of pot in those days. Their share and a few others besides, Nick recalled fondly. I wonder how those guys are doing? I’ll have to give them a call, Nick thought with good intentions, but in the back of his mind he knew days would turn to weeks, months, and years before he saw the old gang again.

When they pulled into the parking lot of the Sunset Lounge, it was almost nine o’clock. Although the dealership had been closed nearly an hour, Stanton’s van was still there, Nick observed with a smile. When they turned the corner to the front entrance, Guido was there to welcome them.

Guido was the Sunset Lounge manager and had been for almost three years. No one knew for sure who the real owners of the Sunset were, but the collection of black Lincolns with Nevada license plates that gathered there every Thursday afternoon fueled the rumor that it was a mob front.

Max, Nick, right on time. That’s why you guys are my favorites, Guido said, as he shook both their hands.

How’s it in there tonight? Max asked.

Well, it’s a little quiet right now, but it’s barely nine o’clock. By midnight, it will be packed, Guido said cheerfully.

The Sunset Lounge was an old-style nightclub. White vinyl chairs and a lot of mirrors and red velvet. Nick always smiled when he entered it. He could swear someone had moved it here from Federal Hill in Rhode Island, the Italian neighborhood he had spent many a weekend in his teenage years running around in.

The lounge had a bar that ran along the left wall, and when they entered, they waved to the bartenders behind the counter. On the right, there were two groups of about a dozen tables each. Nick and Max sat at the first table of the most forward group, which was halfway along the two dozen tables and located on the aisle. It was their table. It held a reserved place card and they spent more time there than at their desks.

Before Max had a chance to light a Salem, Julie came over with their drinks. Max drank Captain Morgan’s spiced rum and coke, Nick had Crown Royal bourbon and ginger ale, both served in tumblers rather than regular cocktail glasses. The drinks arrived without either of them saying anything.

Hi, guys, nice to see you, Julie said with a smile, placing the appropriate drinks on cocktail napkins before them.

Hi, Julie, you look beautiful as ever, Nick said in a friendly voice.

Thank you, Nick, you’re always so nice. Hi, Max, she added.

He grunted something Nick and Julie assumed was an attempt at a greeting. Julie shrugged to Nick and walked away.

I’ll never know why you’re such an asshole to her, she’s such a fox.

Look, you be the nice guy, I’ll be the asshole. I don’t know why Guido keeps her around here, anyway, Max said, without turning to him. Nick shook his head, picked up his drink, and sat back.

Within a couple of minutes, Steve came over to their table. He had been at the bar with a group of O’Hara’s mechanics. Hey, boys, mind if I join you? Steve asked, as he began to sit down.

How about a drink, Steve, I owe you one, Nick offered.

Not now, I’ve got one, but you can get me later.

Just say when, Nick said with a nod.

By ten thirty, the crowd had doubled. Nick was dancing a slow song with a pretty Mexican girl that was probably underage. Max had moved over to a corner table with a blonde girl Nick recognized as one of his occasional girlfriends. Steve was sitting at the usual table with Brian, engaged in an animated conversation using lots of hand gestures. Nick hadn’t seen Brian come in.

Brian Allen, where did you come from? Nick asked upon returning to his seat. He reached across the table to offer the obligatory handshake before sitting.

I was at the Carnival with a bunch of the guys, Brian answered. They’re still up there.

Are any of the dancers coming here tonight? Nick inquired.

Oh, yeah, at least half a dozen, but not till after eleven.

Nick turned to Steve and they said both smiled. Excellent! they said in chorus.

After a few moments, Max came back to the table, leaned over to Nick and whispered, Let’s go do another joint.

Nick smiled and rose without hesitation. Let’s do it. They walked out the door, and after assuring Guido they’d be back, made their way to the van.

Max, let me ask you something, Nick said as they climbed into the van, What’s your problem with Julie?

Max took the joint from his cigarette pack and lit it. I really don’t feel like talking about it, he said in a sad voice. Nick took the joint and inhaled deeply. He didn’t reply. Max took it back, took a long drag, and let it out slowly. It happened a long time ago, before you started working here. When I first met Julie, I had just split up with my wife, and I fell for her hard. And she felt the same way, or at least that’s what she told me. But I sell cars, man, I’m a loser and she’s holding out for better. So, she kept dating other guys, you know, looking for better, and it kills me or at least it used to. Now, I just don’t care, about her, about any women…about anything.

Aw, man, don’t be like that. You can’t blame Julie for wanting more out of life. I mean you do, don’t you? Nick asked.

Yeah, sure I do, Max said, sitting up straight. And don’t start feeling sorry for me, I’m no loser. It’s just hard to be social with a girl you used to love.

Hey, I can relate to that, Max, and don’t forget, as soon as you think you’ve gotten over it, God will send you another girl to rip your heart out and stomp all over it. He does it on purpose, so we’ll know we have hearts at all, Nick said in a sympathetic voice.

Max stubbed out the joint in the ashtray. Not me, pal, my heart died after Julie.

Nick smiled. I don’t believe it, he said, as they got out of the van and locked it up.

Why do you have to be so fucking smart? Max asked, as he put an arm around Nick’s shoulder. Come on, let’s go give the girls a run for their money, and they returned to the club.

Max went right back to the girl he was sitting with. Nick joined the other guys at the table. About a minute later, the dancers came in.

There were nine of them.

Lightning was at the head of the group. She was dressed in a gold, skin-tight jumpsuit that displayed just enough cleavage to drive any man crazy. Combined with her long, wavy blonde hair, she looked like a bolt of lightning, hence her nickname. She had that kind of electric