Read Online The Art of Crash Landing by Melissa DeCarlo - Free Book Online Page A

take a tire-squealing left turn at what must be thirty miles an hour. Glancing back I see my car whipping out behind us like a water-skier hotdogging for an audience.
    Before long, we reach a part of town where the buildings have boards over the windows, and the railroad overpass has inventively obscene graffiti. As we pass a house with appliances in the yard and a sofa on the sagging front porch, I notice that there are actually a few chickens strutting around the scraggly grass and into the street. JJ leans on the horn and the birds flap and scatter back up into the yard. One, the rooster, I suppose, stays on the curb and crows an admonition.
    When we pass a vacant weedy lot, JJ slows the wrecker and pulls into a dodgy-looking gas station. He drives past the building, stops, slams the gearshift into reverse, and then, with a deft spin of his steering wheel, backs the car into the open bay. When he switches off the ignition and turns to face me, it’s the first time I see him smile, and I’m pretty sure it’s at the sight of my clammy, pale face. For a second I search for the snappy response his performance deserves, but in the end, I respond in the only manner Iam able—I put my head between my legs and vomit on the floorboard.
    I apologize with a promise to clean it up and then hurry inside where, in the most vile service station bathroom I have ever seen, the Father’s chocolates and Luke Lambert’s iced tea finish disembarking.
    P repregnancy, I had long stretches, years-long stretches, between vomiting episodes, including some pretty impressive hangovers. I am extremely disappointed in this new sickly me. Shaking and disgusted, I trudge back out to the tow truck, slowly of course, in the hopes that JJ will have already cleaned up the mess by the time I arrive. No such luck.
    Thank God for removable rubber floor mats.
    I coil the hose back alongside the building and go check on my car. JJ has the hood up and already seems to have some parts taken out and lying on the cement floor.
    â€œWell?” I ask.
    â€œLooks like you need a new transmission.”
    â€œSeriously? Shit.”
    He rocks back on his heels and tucks his hands up under his arms. “So what I’m thinking is . . .” He pauses and chews awhile on his lower lip. I get the impression that thinking is a struggle for the man, so I don’t interrupt. Of course it’s possible that I’m being too judgmental. I’m sure lots of really, really smart people listen to banjo music.
    â€œWhat I’m thinking is you should give me some money.”
    Without being obvious, I look up and down the street. Seeing as how this neighborhood is one big cry for help I’m not sure who I think would respond to mine, but I still start measuring the distance to the closest house.
    â€œSo . . . is this, like, a robbery?”
    He scowls. “Hell, no. It just looks to me like you don’t have a pot to piss in, and I’m sure as hell not putting seven or eight hundred dollars of parts in a car if I’m not getting paid.”
    â€œThat’s ridiculous. Of course I can pay.” I pull out my MasterCard and wave it in front of his face.
    â€œGreat. Come on in the office and we’ll run it through.”
    â€œYou expect me to prepay?”
    â€œJust the parts.”
    I’m pretty sure that he and I both know things are about to get ugly, but I can’t stop myself from trying again. “Don’t be silly. It would be easier to pay one time. Once the work’s done we’ll settle up.”
    â€œYou pay for parts now, and labor later.”
    â€œNo . . . I don’t think so.”
    He narrows his eyes, engaged apparently, in that difficult thinking stuff again. He picks up a Styrofoam cup and spits a glob of brown goo inside. “You don’t have the money, do you?”
    It seems Albert Einstein here has a firm grasp of the obvious.
    â€œI have money. Or