Magic Street Page 0,1
a stop as he passed in front of them. In only a few moments, he set his hand to the handle of Byron's passenger door.
It was locked. Byron pushed the button to open it.
"Don't mind if I do," said the bag man. "Mind if I put my bags in your back seat?"
"Be my guest," said Byron.
The old man opened the back door and carefully arranged his bags on the floor and back seat.
Byron wondered what was in them. Whatever it was, it couldn't be clean, and the bags probably had fleas or lice or ants or other annoying creatures all over them. Byron always kept this car spotless - the kids knew the rules, and never dared to eat anything inside this car, lest a crumb fall and they get a lecture from their dad. Sorry if that annoyed them, but it was good for children to learn to take care of nice things and treat them with respect.
And yet, even though he knew that letting those bags sit in the back seat would require him to vacuum and wash and shampoo until it was clean again, he didn't mind. Those bags belonged there.
As the old man belonged in the front seat beside him.
Behind him, cars started honking.
The old man took his time getting into the front seat, and then he just sat there, not closing his door. Nor had he closed the back door, either.
No matter. To a chorus of honks and a few curses shouted out of open car windows, Byron got out and walked around to the other side of the Lincoln. He closed the back door, then reached in and fastened the old man's seat belt before he closed that door, too.
"Oh, you don't need to do that," murmured the old man as Byron fastened the belt.
"Safety first," said Byron. "Nobody dies in my car."
"No matter how fast we go, how far, how high," answered the old man.
Byron grinned. It felt good, to have someone know his poem so well he could quote it back to him.
By the time he got back to the driver's door, the cars behind him were whipping out into the leftmost turn lane to get around him, honking and screaming and flipping him off as they passed. But they couldn't spoil his good mood. They were jealous, that's all, because the old man had chosen to ride in his car and not theirs.
Byron sat down, closed his door, fastened his seat belt, and prepared to wait for the next green light.
"Ain't you gonna go?" asked the old man.
Byron looked up. Incredibly, the left arrow was still green.
"Why not," he said. He pulled forward at a stately pace.
To his surprise, the light at the top of the hill was still green, and the next light, too.
"Hope you don't mind," said Byron. "Got to stop and pick up dinner."
"A man's got to keep his woman happy," said the old man. "Nothing more important in life.
Except teaching your kids to be right with God."
That made Byron feel a little pang of guilt. Neither he nor Nadine were much for going to church. When his mother came to visit, they all went to church together, and the kids seemed to enjoy it. But they called it Grandma's church, even though she only attended it when she came to LA.
Byron turned left on Broadway and pulled up in the valet parking lane in front of I Cugini. The valet headed toward his car as Byron got out.
"Pay after," said the valet.
"No, don't park the car, I'm just picking up a takeout order."
The man looked at him in bafflement. Apparently he hadn't been here long enough to understand English that wasn't exactly what he expected to hear.
So Byron spoke to him in Spanish. "Hace el favor de no mover mi carro, si? Volvere en dos minutos."
The man grinned and sat down in the driver's seat.
"No," said Byron, "no mueva el auto, por favor!"
The old man leaned over. "Don't worry, son," he said. "He don't want to move the car. He just wants to talk to me."
Of course, thought Byron. This old man must be familiar to all the valets. When you spend hours a day at the curb in Santa Monica, you're going to get to know all the homeless people.
Only when he was waiting at the counter for the girl to process his credit card did it occur to Byron that he spoke Italian and French, and could read Greek, but had never spoken or studied