that’s...”
As I spoke, the mother watched the daughter, who interpreted my words. It was very disconcerting. The mother signed back.
“No no,” said the daughter, “she says she’ll pay for all the damage. She’d rather pay under the table, that’s all. Just get an estimate and she’ll send you a check. She’s good for it.”
Nothing invites cynicism more than the assertion that someone is “good for it.” Reading my face, Marvel Girl held up a finger and went back to her car. Awkwardly, I turned to the daughter.
“I’ve never talked to a deaf person before.”
“You hide it well.”
“What are you doing out so late on a school night?”
“Long story.”
“Oh. Don’t tell me you go to Melrose High School.”
“I don’t. I’m in eighth grade.”
“Really? You look older.”
“Thanks. You know, you’re awfully polite for someone who just got rammed.”
I grinned. “I’m on Prozac.”
“Good. Maybe you can lend some to my mother.”
Marvel Girl reemerged from the car with her insurance slip and a business card. After handing both to me, she signed to her daughter.
“She says if you want insurance, there it is. But please trust her. If you give her an estimate, she’ll give you a check. Or better yet, she can pay in services. She’s a professional web designer. Or so she likes to think.”
I looked at the card. Jean Spelling, Original X Web Design . Cute. She was definitely a comics fan.
She signed some more. The girl translated. “Again, she says she’s really sorry. I told her not to talk and drive. She was in the middle of chewing me out, as usual.”
Sensing that her daughter was going off-script, Jean tapped the hood again. The girl rolled her eyes. “Anyway, please don’t report this until she has a chance to pay you. Deal?”
I glanced at Jean. “Look, I don’t care how I get paid. If you can go out of pocket, that’s fine.”
On reading the translation, Jean pressed her hands, shining her relief at me. Thank you. Thank you.
“Just drive carefully,” I said.
She smiled and quickly signed to her daughter. “What’s your name?”
“Scott. Scott Singer. Yours?”
“Madison. I was the one asking. My mom wants your business card in case she needs to reach you.”
I took a card from my wallet and gave it to Jean. She looked younger up close. Early thirties at the most. I noticed her plain silver wedding band. I wondered if Madison’s father was deaf, too. Could deaf parents even have a hearing child?
Jean touched my wrist and, with a hint of strain in her face, mouthed “Sorry.”
I shrugged. “Take it easy.”
They waved and got back in the car. Sighing, I returned to my damaged Saturn and shut the door.
Miranda cocked her head at me. “So what happened?”
“Did you ever see The Piano ?”
“No.”
“It sucked.”
“So what happened? Was this woman drunk?”
“No. Just deaf.”
“She rear-ended you because she couldn’t hear you.”
“Apparently she was talking while driving.”
“That’s messed up.”
“You know what’s messed up? That I know the history of Wilshire Boulevard. I know the mating habits of the Hawaiian monk seal. And yet I didn’t know deaf people could drive.”
“That’s fascinating. So are we sleeping together, or am I just ugly?”
I took a deep breath and then a good look at Miranda. She wasn’t ugly.
________________
I moved to Los Angeles in 1991. Before that, I had never even been to the West Coast. I’d spent the previous four years in Georgetown, until Drea told me to flee. She had been my mentor, my lover, my sugar mommy, my idol. She represented everything I wanted to be. Then, at age thirty-nine, at the height of her career, she fell apart. Some publicists burn out. She went nova.
“Get out of Washington,” she told me. “I want you out of this game. If I ever find you working here, I’ll do everything I can to destroy your career.”
She had said it out of love, not anger. She
As I spoke, the mother watched the daughter, who interpreted my words. It was very disconcerting. The mother signed back.
“No no,” said the daughter, “she says she’ll pay for all the damage. She’d rather pay under the table, that’s all. Just get an estimate and she’ll send you a check. She’s good for it.”
Nothing invites cynicism more than the assertion that someone is “good for it.” Reading my face, Marvel Girl held up a finger and went back to her car. Awkwardly, I turned to the daughter.
“I’ve never talked to a deaf person before.”
“You hide it well.”
“What are you doing out so late on a school night?”
“Long story.”
“Oh. Don’t tell me you go to Melrose High School.”
“I don’t. I’m in eighth grade.”
“Really? You look older.”
“Thanks. You know, you’re awfully polite for someone who just got rammed.”
I grinned. “I’m on Prozac.”
“Good. Maybe you can lend some to my mother.”
Marvel Girl reemerged from the car with her insurance slip and a business card. After handing both to me, she signed to her daughter.
“She says if you want insurance, there it is. But please trust her. If you give her an estimate, she’ll give you a check. Or better yet, she can pay in services. She’s a professional web designer. Or so she likes to think.”
I looked at the card. Jean Spelling, Original X Web Design . Cute. She was definitely a comics fan.
She signed some more. The girl translated. “Again, she says she’s really sorry. I told her not to talk and drive. She was in the middle of chewing me out, as usual.”
Sensing that her daughter was going off-script, Jean tapped the hood again. The girl rolled her eyes. “Anyway, please don’t report this until she has a chance to pay you. Deal?”
I glanced at Jean. “Look, I don’t care how I get paid. If you can go out of pocket, that’s fine.”
On reading the translation, Jean pressed her hands, shining her relief at me. Thank you. Thank you.
“Just drive carefully,” I said.
She smiled and quickly signed to her daughter. “What’s your name?”
“Scott. Scott Singer. Yours?”
“Madison. I was the one asking. My mom wants your business card in case she needs to reach you.”
I took a card from my wallet and gave it to Jean. She looked younger up close. Early thirties at the most. I noticed her plain silver wedding band. I wondered if Madison’s father was deaf, too. Could deaf parents even have a hearing child?
Jean touched my wrist and, with a hint of strain in her face, mouthed “Sorry.”
I shrugged. “Take it easy.”
They waved and got back in the car. Sighing, I returned to my damaged Saturn and shut the door.
Miranda cocked her head at me. “So what happened?”
“Did you ever see The Piano ?”
“No.”
“It sucked.”
“So what happened? Was this woman drunk?”
“No. Just deaf.”
“She rear-ended you because she couldn’t hear you.”
“Apparently she was talking while driving.”
“That’s messed up.”
“You know what’s messed up? That I know the history of Wilshire Boulevard. I know the mating habits of the Hawaiian monk seal. And yet I didn’t know deaf people could drive.”
“That’s fascinating. So are we sleeping together, or am I just ugly?”
I took a deep breath and then a good look at Miranda. She wasn’t ugly.
________________
I moved to Los Angeles in 1991. Before that, I had never even been to the West Coast. I’d spent the previous four years in Georgetown, until Drea told me to flee. She had been my mentor, my lover, my sugar mommy, my idol. She represented everything I wanted to be. Then, at age thirty-nine, at the height of her career, she fell apart. Some publicists burn out. She went nova.
“Get out of Washington,” she told me. “I want you out of this game. If I ever find you working here, I’ll do everything I can to destroy your career.”
She had said it out of love, not anger. She
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