unscrewed it, and snatched my hand back as it hissed and popped. I looked in, then spread the blanket and lay down and stuck my head under.
“Syd,” Joyce said, “I can have it towed.”
I slid back out and stood up. “Cracked hose. Probably been leaking for a while. Duct tape’ll hold it for now. I have some.”
“Are you serious?”
“Sure.” There was a gas station up at the corner. I said, “You can get some antifreeze there.”
“Will it be safe?”
“Till you can get it fixed right.”
She looked at her watch. “Can you do it in fifteen minutes?”
“If you go get the antifreeze. And some water.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
I walked back to my trunk and got a utility knife and the roll of tape. I found the jack in her trunk, raised the right front wheel, then slid under again. As I worked, I heard them come back, and my car open and close. I’d left it running. Then Joyce was squatting beside me. I could see her ankles and her coat and the back of her skirt heaped in folds around them, and a little ways up inside, into the darkness between her thighs.
“She got in your car, if that’s all right. She’s cold.”
“Sure.”
I ripped a strip of tape. The wind sang and shook the car, but it was strangely comfortable under there, sheltered and heated by the engine, and quiet. Joyce did not speak. And then I felt something on my thigh, above the knee, and looked down and saw that it was her hand. I finished the taping but continued to lie there. I closed my eyes and listened to the engine ticking as it cooled and felt her warmth and the slight pressure of her fingertips, and the stirrings of an erection, until she took it away.
After I filled the radiator and started the engine she said, “Amazing.” Her face was flushed. Tiny beads of perspiration sparkled in the faint blond hairs over her lip.
“Because I put some tape on a hose?”
“Because here you are.” She looked back toward my car, toward her daughter, then said, “I owe you a drink, at least. Do you ever go out?”
“Sure.”
“What are you doing Thursday?”
“Nothing. I’m off.”
“I’m working second, filling in. Some of us are supposed to go out after. Ever been to Krystal’s?” It was the area’s newest biggest disco, out on Route 3 south of the city.
“Once.”
“Well, maybe I’ll see you then.”
“Maybe,” I said.
She got in behind the wheel and Jessi came up and got in beside her. When I put my hand on the doorsill, Joyce placed hers over it. “Thank you so much,” she said. I stood back as she drove off, and felt the dampness from her palm lingering still on the skin of my fingers.
PART TWO
Recently, photography has become almost as widely practiced an amusement as sex and dancing…
—S USAN S ONTAG,
On Photography (1977)
FIVE
I t was twenty minutes from our house through the far south city and southward still until, after passing through a semirural truck-stop intersection of competing diner–gas stations and into the country, you came upon the incongruity of a neon-lighted building nailed down at the edge of a vast farm field, alone there fending off the night. Beneath the signs it was perfectly nondescript—rectangular, flat roofed, built of cinder block and painted brown. It could have been a warehouse, and as I thought about it I realized it probably once was. The deep gravel lot was lighted only near the building.
Past the bouncer and the cashier’s stall you came in through a long dark hallway that emerged into one end of a single cavernous room. The newness of the place didn’t save it from the usual tackiness, and it had already in its few months been impregnated with the permanent stenches of cheap cologne and stale smoke and beer. The centerpiece was a raised underlighted dance floor above which spun the requisite mirrored ball with colored spots and laser beams reflecting and refracting from it. It was surrounded by wide swathes of tables and chairs, and along the
“Syd,” Joyce said, “I can have it towed.”
I slid back out and stood up. “Cracked hose. Probably been leaking for a while. Duct tape’ll hold it for now. I have some.”
“Are you serious?”
“Sure.” There was a gas station up at the corner. I said, “You can get some antifreeze there.”
“Will it be safe?”
“Till you can get it fixed right.”
She looked at her watch. “Can you do it in fifteen minutes?”
“If you go get the antifreeze. And some water.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
I walked back to my trunk and got a utility knife and the roll of tape. I found the jack in her trunk, raised the right front wheel, then slid under again. As I worked, I heard them come back, and my car open and close. I’d left it running. Then Joyce was squatting beside me. I could see her ankles and her coat and the back of her skirt heaped in folds around them, and a little ways up inside, into the darkness between her thighs.
“She got in your car, if that’s all right. She’s cold.”
“Sure.”
I ripped a strip of tape. The wind sang and shook the car, but it was strangely comfortable under there, sheltered and heated by the engine, and quiet. Joyce did not speak. And then I felt something on my thigh, above the knee, and looked down and saw that it was her hand. I finished the taping but continued to lie there. I closed my eyes and listened to the engine ticking as it cooled and felt her warmth and the slight pressure of her fingertips, and the stirrings of an erection, until she took it away.
After I filled the radiator and started the engine she said, “Amazing.” Her face was flushed. Tiny beads of perspiration sparkled in the faint blond hairs over her lip.
“Because I put some tape on a hose?”
“Because here you are.” She looked back toward my car, toward her daughter, then said, “I owe you a drink, at least. Do you ever go out?”
“Sure.”
“What are you doing Thursday?”
“Nothing. I’m off.”
“I’m working second, filling in. Some of us are supposed to go out after. Ever been to Krystal’s?” It was the area’s newest biggest disco, out on Route 3 south of the city.
“Once.”
“Well, maybe I’ll see you then.”
“Maybe,” I said.
She got in behind the wheel and Jessi came up and got in beside her. When I put my hand on the doorsill, Joyce placed hers over it. “Thank you so much,” she said. I stood back as she drove off, and felt the dampness from her palm lingering still on the skin of my fingers.
PART TWO
Recently, photography has become almost as widely practiced an amusement as sex and dancing…
—S USAN S ONTAG,
On Photography (1977)
FIVE
I t was twenty minutes from our house through the far south city and southward still until, after passing through a semirural truck-stop intersection of competing diner–gas stations and into the country, you came upon the incongruity of a neon-lighted building nailed down at the edge of a vast farm field, alone there fending off the night. Beneath the signs it was perfectly nondescript—rectangular, flat roofed, built of cinder block and painted brown. It could have been a warehouse, and as I thought about it I realized it probably once was. The deep gravel lot was lighted only near the building.
Past the bouncer and the cashier’s stall you came in through a long dark hallway that emerged into one end of a single cavernous room. The newness of the place didn’t save it from the usual tackiness, and it had already in its few months been impregnated with the permanent stenches of cheap cologne and stale smoke and beer. The centerpiece was a raised underlighted dance floor above which spun the requisite mirrored ball with colored spots and laser beams reflecting and refracting from it. It was surrounded by wide swathes of tables and chairs, and along the