looks like invoices and receipts, and several old coffee-stained Styrofoam cups. I like it. I look out the window. I am riding in a car with total strangers. I have been warned about this all my life.
Only Mrs. Johnson seems to know how to speak.
She is telling me about the time she went to New York City. The Big Apple, she calls it.
She came up to see the lights at Rockefeller Center and the Christmas Spectacular at Radio City Music Hall.
Had I seen it? How lucky. Did I do all my Christmas shopping on Fifth Avenue?
I think better than to tell her nobody shops on Fifth Avenue except for tourists, or that I’m Jewish and don’t have Christmas.
What am I doing in this truck?
I check my cell phone for calls. Voice message? Text? Nothing.
What am I doing?
Lorraine had assured me it was perfectly safe. She’s known the Johnsons all her life. She went to school with their kids and their cousins’ kids. Her husband works for a construction company and they just put a roof up for the Johnsons, just this last summer. But it was all pretty strange, since I didn’t know Lorraine either.
We hugged good-bye, as if we were old friends.
“You said the bus has an hour layover in Baltimore,” she told me. “Don’t worry. You have plenty of time.”
“Thanks for helping me,” I told her.
“I didn’t do anything. I mean, I wish I could. I’d drive you myself, but my car is in the shop, as usual.”
I looked around and noticed that another waitress had come in at some point and was wiping the counter where I had been sitting.
“That’s OK. That would be crazy. I think it’s pretty far . . . like half an hour, right?”
Lorraine nodded. “Yeah, but it would be an adventure, right? I hardly leave here. I hardly never go anywhere.”
“I suppose,” I said, smiling, and I got in with the Johnsons, who had pulled up outside Our Dog House.
I didn’t realize I had forgotten my grilled cheese until I looked back and saw Lorraine waving with one hand, holding a paper bag in the other, but it was too late.
“Put your seat belt on.”
Mr. Johnson’s voice startles me. We’ve been driving for about ten minutes already, in total silence, but it is as if her husband’s voice awakens her, and Mrs. Johnson starts telling me about her aunt Judy, who tried out for the Rockettes herself.
“What?” I say.
“The Rockettes,” Mrs. Johnson says to me. “At Radio City.”
“No, I mean . . . oh, sorry. My seat belt.”
Mr. Johnson watches me in his rearview mirror as I reach around and pull up the floppy cloth seat belt. It takes me another minute to adjust it and snap it into place.
Mr. Johnson doesn’t say another thing the rest of the ride, but his wife tells me about her younger brother, Troy, who married a girl from Troy, New York.
Can you believe that one? They have three kids of their own and seven grandchildren.
And now they all live in Buffalo.
Have I ever been to Buffalo?
How about Arizona? The Johnsons went to Arizona once to see the Grand Canyon.
Adam never wore a seat belt.
Never.
And before Adam, I had never gotten into a car and
not
automatically fastened my seat belt. It was like second nature, just something I did. So at first, I didn’t even notice that Adam wasn’t wearing his. He let his wrist rest limply on the top of his steering wheel. His other arm, he draped on my shoulder. I felt like a princess. He leaned back, not like my father, who drove sitting straight up, eyes ahead. My dad kept two hands on the wheel most all the time, and if he only used one, at least it was with a firm grip.
When Adam turned the car, he did it with only the palm of his hand, as if gripping the wheel was a sign of weakness, too much bother, or both.
I melted.
And the next time I got into the car with him, I reached for my seat belt and then stopped. I let it drop instead. Adam didn’t say anything. The car moved forward, and I tried to ignore the odd sensation of being unbelted, unencumbered. It felt
Only Mrs. Johnson seems to know how to speak.
She is telling me about the time she went to New York City. The Big Apple, she calls it.
She came up to see the lights at Rockefeller Center and the Christmas Spectacular at Radio City Music Hall.
Had I seen it? How lucky. Did I do all my Christmas shopping on Fifth Avenue?
I think better than to tell her nobody shops on Fifth Avenue except for tourists, or that I’m Jewish and don’t have Christmas.
What am I doing in this truck?
I check my cell phone for calls. Voice message? Text? Nothing.
What am I doing?
Lorraine had assured me it was perfectly safe. She’s known the Johnsons all her life. She went to school with their kids and their cousins’ kids. Her husband works for a construction company and they just put a roof up for the Johnsons, just this last summer. But it was all pretty strange, since I didn’t know Lorraine either.
We hugged good-bye, as if we were old friends.
“You said the bus has an hour layover in Baltimore,” she told me. “Don’t worry. You have plenty of time.”
“Thanks for helping me,” I told her.
“I didn’t do anything. I mean, I wish I could. I’d drive you myself, but my car is in the shop, as usual.”
I looked around and noticed that another waitress had come in at some point and was wiping the counter where I had been sitting.
“That’s OK. That would be crazy. I think it’s pretty far . . . like half an hour, right?”
Lorraine nodded. “Yeah, but it would be an adventure, right? I hardly leave here. I hardly never go anywhere.”
“I suppose,” I said, smiling, and I got in with the Johnsons, who had pulled up outside Our Dog House.
I didn’t realize I had forgotten my grilled cheese until I looked back and saw Lorraine waving with one hand, holding a paper bag in the other, but it was too late.
“Put your seat belt on.”
Mr. Johnson’s voice startles me. We’ve been driving for about ten minutes already, in total silence, but it is as if her husband’s voice awakens her, and Mrs. Johnson starts telling me about her aunt Judy, who tried out for the Rockettes herself.
“What?” I say.
“The Rockettes,” Mrs. Johnson says to me. “At Radio City.”
“No, I mean . . . oh, sorry. My seat belt.”
Mr. Johnson watches me in his rearview mirror as I reach around and pull up the floppy cloth seat belt. It takes me another minute to adjust it and snap it into place.
Mr. Johnson doesn’t say another thing the rest of the ride, but his wife tells me about her younger brother, Troy, who married a girl from Troy, New York.
Can you believe that one? They have three kids of their own and seven grandchildren.
And now they all live in Buffalo.
Have I ever been to Buffalo?
How about Arizona? The Johnsons went to Arizona once to see the Grand Canyon.
Adam never wore a seat belt.
Never.
And before Adam, I had never gotten into a car and
not
automatically fastened my seat belt. It was like second nature, just something I did. So at first, I didn’t even notice that Adam wasn’t wearing his. He let his wrist rest limply on the top of his steering wheel. His other arm, he draped on my shoulder. I felt like a princess. He leaned back, not like my father, who drove sitting straight up, eyes ahead. My dad kept two hands on the wheel most all the time, and if he only used one, at least it was with a firm grip.
When Adam turned the car, he did it with only the palm of his hand, as if gripping the wheel was a sign of weakness, too much bother, or both.
I melted.
And the next time I got into the car with him, I reached for my seat belt and then stopped. I let it drop instead. Adam didn’t say anything. The car moved forward, and I tried to ignore the odd sensation of being unbelted, unencumbered. It felt
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