Read Online A Tale of Two Trucks by Thea Nishimori - Free Book Online

think of anything to say; I just wanted to sink into a black hole and never be seen or heard of again.
    “Look, Mike… I’m sorry,” Joe restated, obviously struggling. “I… I just wanted to tease ya, y’know? I didn’t realize…. I mean, I never even thought that you, uh… you know… slept in the buff!”
    “I don’t !” I pointed out, my voice two octaves higher than usual. “I sleep with a nightshirt !”
    “Oh!” he cried, realizing that he was still holding the wadded up T-shirt in his hands, and thrust it at me immediately. “I’m sorry! Really! I shouldn’t’ve…. I mean…. I’m so sorry!”
    Since we seemed to be at an impasse, I decided to escape to the bathroom, hoping to compose myself alone in a cold shower of Arctic proportions. I traded the shirt for the pillow, holding it in front of me as I scurried across the room to the door. It didn’t occur to me until much later that I’d given Joe an unobstructed view of my posterior as I did so.
     
     
    I ONLY had two options after a fatally embarrassing episode like that: (A) avoid Joe for the rest of my life, or (B) pretend like it had never happened and so hope that, in time, the memory would fade into oblivion. Since I couldn’t bear to even think about life without Joe, I really only had one choice. When I’d dressed and regained my composure, I took a deep breath and went downstairs.
    Joe, bless his heart, was trying to make up for his blunder by cooking scrambled eggs (which may have started out as sunny-side-up) and a stack of decent toast. It was almost noon, anyway, so we made do with that for the time being. A bit later I made some grilled chicken sandwiches and tomato basil soup for lunch while he read a few articles aloud from the paper that he thought might interest me. He didn’t mention our awkward little encounter, for which I was eternally grateful.
    By the time we’d finished lunch, we were back to normal. We sat in companionable silence in the garage as I painted the other side of his truck with a night scene of a prairie dotted with buffalo and a big bull (the patriarch of the herd, representing Joe) standing watch on a hill overlooking the plain. Again I put a full moon in the sky, explaining that otherwise, there wouldn’t be enough light for the rest of the scene to be visible.
    That was how the police officer—the same one as before—found us. I’d opened the garage door for ventilation, so he walked in and was struck speechless for a moment, staring at my painting.
    “You… you did that?” he asked. Which was rather stupid, I thought, since I was right there holding a paintbrush and a palette. “That’s…. Wow! That’s amazing!”
    “Isn’t it, though?” Joe agreed with a wide grin. “It’s even better than it was before!” And then he tacked on seamlessly, with perfect aplomb, “Have you found the vandals who did that to my truck?”
    “Uh… well, ah… no. That’s not why I came here today.”
    “Oh! You’re patrolling the neighborhood? How thoughtful!” I piped up.
    “Well, you see, we just had an incident report, late last night, about the man you claimed had done this to you.”
    “Brandon? What, did he do that to someone else’s car too?” I said indignantly.
    “No! No, nothing like that. In fact, he was the victim of a crime. Somebody roughed him up in the parking lot of a bar last night.”
    “ What ?” Joe exclaimed and I cried, “Oh no !” simultaneously. “Is he all right?” I asked, shock and concern written all over my face. I thought both Joe and I were putting forth an Oscar-worthy performance.
    “Oh yes! He was just shaken up, as you can imagine.”
    “Was he mugged?” I queried curiously. “I know he carries a lot of cash on him sometimes, but that’s just horrible …!”
    “No, no, he wasn’t mugged,” the officer clarified. “He was simply… slapped around the face a few times and threatened. And the description he gave us of his attacker is…