E (6:01)
It's a little past midnight and I have just returned home from dropping my girlfriend Deborah off at the airport. Late at night is the only time of day I like the way my block looks. There are no panhandlers. The parking lots are all empty, and the constant noise you hear in the daytime from the exiting Lincoln Tunnel traffic is minimized. It almost looks like a real street, a place where people live. Remarkably, I find a parking space right in front of my building. I sit in the car with the motor running, listening to the radio and thinking about Debra. We live together. This morning I thought we were in love. Tonight I'm not sure if I'm ever going to see her again. The DJ plays a Freddy and the Dreamers tune. I'm telling you now. Suddenly I hear someone across the street yell something. I look up and a young woman is standing next to a red sports car, her head resting on the roof. Damn, damn, damn, she moans, pounding an alternate fist down with each word. She steps back, her hands on her hips, and looks around as if for a lost child. She has straight blond hair, which hangs down to her shoulders. She's wearing tight blue jeans, a yellow shirt unbuttoned down to her cleavage, and black spike heels. She's got on bright red lipstick and gold interlocking circles for earrings. They jangle when she turns her head. Oh, damn, she says again and throws her bag at the car. It's a Porsche. I shut off my engine and get out. I don't want to scare her, so so I call from across the street. Excuse me. You need some help? She's bending down on the sidewalk, picking up some things that fell out of her bag. She looks up and for a second I think she's going to scream. Then she smiles. I lock my f ing keys in the car. She says as she stands up, I can't believe I did this. Her hands do a kind of Betty Boop thing. I decide that she's Jersey here for a concert at the Garden. She just has that Jersey feel. You're in luck, I say, still from across the street. She purses her lips and nods. Why you gonna take me out for a drink till the tow truck gets here? She laughs but starts coughing in the middle. I go to my trunk and remove my car lockout stuff. A pretty stranded Jersey girl with a sense of humor, no less, I say to myself. There's something in her face that reminds me of a young Jessica Lang. I crossed the street with my Slim Jim in one hand. It's a thin silvery piece of metal, about 2ft long with some notches cut out at the bottom used to open car doors. I carry it at my side like a sword, like a knight wood. In my other hand I I grasp my tool kit. In my shirt pocket is the little leather case that contains my picks, which I bring just in case I run into any trouble. I step up on the sidewalk next to her. I'm a locksmith, I announce. I love these moments when I get to play the hero. She has a loopy smile on her face, which stays there even as her expression slowly changes. I can smell the alcohol in her breath. She looks at the Slim Jim and then back at my face. No s, she says. Well, I guess it's my lucky day. She lays a hand on my shoulder like we're old pals. She squeezes and then leans on me a little. Her head floats around in front of my face. You open it up and the drinks are on me, she says in a kind of half growl. I peer into the car window and see the keys dangling from the ignition. There are a couple of empty beer bottles on the floor on the passenger side. I look back at the woman. She's got a cigarette going now. At that moment, from behind us, we hear a long, clear Tarzan call. It's a perfect imitation, lasting about 10 seconds, complete with the jungle yodels in the middle. What the hell was that? The woman asks. She steps out toward the street and leans her head way back. She looks up at the parking structure that's a block north on 31st Street. I get a real good look at her then. That's Tarzan, I say. She tilts her head to the side, half closes her right eye and raises her left eyebrow. Friend of yours? She asks. I think he works in the parking structure, I say. Oh, she says with a look on her face that says, that explains everything. She puts her hands behind her and leans back. I momentarily think about Deborah. The woman in front of me couldn't be more different. In appearance. She's as tall as I am, with an accent out of a Stallone movie. She looks like a wild, fun loving gal. Good working Class stock. I wonder what she's like when she's sober. So you gonna do your thing or what? The woman asks. I hold up my Slim Jim. Action, she says. I dip my Slim Jim into the car door, feeling around. I try different angles, different depths. Nothing happens. She hops off the hood of the car and stands next to me. No luck? She asks. Not yet. It's a hot night. She takes a tissue from her bag and says, here, you're sweating buckets. I wipe my forehead. The tissue smells like perfume. She removes another one and dabs at her neck and chest. She flaps her hand in front of her face like a fan. I've got air conditioning in there. Once you get it open, she says. I'll have it open in a minute, I say. I start thinking about her behind the wheel of the car and where we'll go. She rummages around in the bag again and produces a pack of cigarettes. She lights one up, takes a drag, and blows the smoke up toward the sky. I haven't smoked in 10 years, but it still resonates for me. How it feels, how sexy it looks. Which is why I think people do it. She offers me one. No, thanks, I say. Sorry, I don't have anything stronger. She smiles. I smile back. She strikes a pose that smokers do, right arm bent at the elbow, forearm across the body. The left elbow rests on the right wrist and the forearm goes straight up, the fingers at the lips. I pull the Slim Jim out. Harder than you thought, huh? She says. Some foreign cars are tough, I say. Can I try? You want to try?
