Then he said, “You’ve got until tomorrow.” My mouth dropped open, then I snapped it shut, then I said, “You’re giving me a deadline?”
He loosened his arm but held me around the neck and pushed the cart with his other hand, moving us forward.
“You aren’t exactly a fast mover and any time I give you, you’l use to retreat. That’s not gonna happen. So yeah, I’m giving you a deadline.”
I decided it was a good time to stop talking.
We made it through the rest of the shopping ordeal without incident until we hit the check-out line. I wasn’t without incident until we hit the check-out line. I wasn’t paying attention and before I knew it, Eddie slid his credit card into the card-reading machine.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Paying for your groceries,” he answered.
I stared. Then I glared. “You can’t pay for my groceries,” I said.
“Why not?”
I didn’t know.
“I don’t know,” Then it hit me, “They aren’t your groceries,” I finished.
“I’m eating some of them, aren’t I?”
This was true, he was.
He turned from me, back to the cashier.
Guess that conversation was over.
I bent over and pounded my head on the little check-writing desk.
“I’d let him pay for my groceries,” the cashier decided to throw in.
I didn’t respond.
I walked to the end of the check-out, commandeered the cart the minute the bag boy put my last bag in it and, without looking back, motored out the door.
* * * * *
I saw Mr. Greasy Coveral s pul ing my car into the lot of the apartment building just before Eddie and I swung in. I felt a moment of elation. My car was not only running, it looked waxed and happy-shiny, like it had a new lease on life.
Eddie parked, I threw open the door to the truck and walked to Mr. Greasy Coveral s.
“It’s fixed!” I cried.
“Yeah, it had a blah, blah, blah, with its blahdity, blah, blah. Then there was the blah, blah blah.” Of course, he used words for the “blah blahs” but I didn’t understand a single one of them.
“How much?” I asked, looking happily at my car, which represented freedom, independence and no more borrowed rides or bus and taxi fares.
“Seven hundred and fifty dol ars.”
My breath caught, my heart seized and I was sure I was going to throw up.
I looked at Mr. Greasy Coveral s.
“Why didn’t you cal me before doing anything?” I asked.
Mechanics were supposed to cal , tel you what it was going to cost before sucking away your lifeblood. That’s how it worked. I thought it was the law.