10. Regan
Regan
“What are you having?” I turn to my companion, Sandro, the older of the two of us, and relatively speaking, still a stranger to me.
Why… he and his daughter Maria have barely arrived, what, the day before yesterday?
Two nights is all. Funny. Feels much longer.
It already seems normal, having them here. They’re certainly no problem.
“No, I’m buying,” the older man responds, and nods to the bartender.
Not Theo. Not this time of day. He’s usually around in the evenings, when it gets busy.
But this shift there’s just his son, Randy.
A man about my age. We get on fine together.
Always have done. I get on with most folk, to be honest. Seems to me life’s a lot easier that way.
Why cause a scene? Unless you want to, of course.
There’s been a few times—in the past now—where I haven’t minded making a scene.
Positively wanted it, in fact. Needed it, perhaps.
Needed to let loose. Feel my blood pumping through my veins, my heart beating in my chest, my muscles tensed, poised, ready to unleash hell at the slightest provocation—the slightest opportunity perhaps would be a more honest way of framing it.
But not anymore.
I nod to Randy and pull up a barstool. “My usual, Randy, how are your hens doing?” He keeps hens for the eggs, and sometimes brings me some when he has too many. He smiles, picks up a pint glass and puts it under the tap.
“They’re just fine, Regan. And the cars?”
“Also fine.”
“What can I get you, sir?” This to Sandro, who turns to me.
“What’s that you’re drinking?”
“That? That’s IPA. It’s a British-style beer. Stands for India Pale Ale. They brewed it because it was the only beer that could survive the journey out to India, back in the days when Britannia ruled the waves.”
“Tastes good?”
“I like it.”
“Okay, I’ll try it.”
Randy nods, and grabs a second glass, lining it up next to the first, ready to swap with mine when mine is filled. Randy hands me my pint and begins work on Sandro’s. I wait politely until this second pint is drawn, then I hold my glass up towards him.
“Cheers.”
“Good health to you, son.”
We each take a long drink, and I put the glass back down, one third empty, with a satisfied sigh.
“That feels better.”
“Yeah, it’s a dry day out there.”
“Sure is.”
“Say, Regan…”
“Yeah?”
“Where d’you learn to fix cars? Was it the army?”
“Yes. When I joined up… well the whole point was to learn a trade really. I’d always enjoyed tinkering with engines with my father.
He was a mechanic himself. Worked for the local bus company in Louisville.
I got into a bit of trouble at school—nothing major you understand—and someone suggested the army.
So off I went. Never looked back, to be honest.
“I started in the Armor Branch, as a Bradley crew member. Did a lot of scouting and infantry protection work. Got spotted as having potential—whatever that means—and was moved to Special Forces as an Engineer Sergeant. That’s where I met Grant and Abe.”
“And now you have your own car repair business?”
“Yep, sure do.” I grin. “Junior partner. Grant’s the boss. Suits me, to be honest. I just do what I’m told. Much the easiest way.”
“Seems to me like you make decisions mutually.”
I scratch my head at this, before taking another gulp from my pint glass.
“Yeah, I hadn’t really thought about it, but I guess you’re right. We each got respect for the other two. Why wouldn’t we want to consult?”
I decide to change the subject.
“You brought Maria up entirely on your own, is that right?”
“Sure did,” Sandro says. “And mighty proud I am of her. She’s the best thing that ever happened to me, though I take no credit for her. Any of her good aspects… well she owes them to her mother, my poor Theresa.”
“Must have been hard work though, on your own. Especially a daughter.”
“Hard work?” he considers the words. “No. Not exactly. I mean, sure, there were times… but that’s the same with any parent and child, right?”
I nod at this, though not having raised any children myself, I’m not really in any position of authority on the topic.
“What was she like, as a girl, I mean?”
“Growing up?”
I nod.
“Oh, she was fine. A good girl. Not a tearaway like I had been when I was a young lad. She was quiet, almost refined. Very mature for her age. Liked talking to anyone who’d listen.
Made friends easily, but knew her own mind.
Wasn’t the type to go around with the cool kids just because they were cool.
Quite the opposite, in fact. She wasn’t above giving people a piece of her mind, too, if she felt they could benefit from it.
” He breaks off and smiles with the memories.
“Used to argue with the teachers sometimes. Why, one day she came home in a terrible mood. The teacher had insisted that an object flying around a circle at a specified speed always takes the same amount of time to complete the circle, regardless of the circle’s diameter.
Apparently, the teacher wouldn’t listen to her explanations as to why he was wrong.
So she ended up telling him he was talking nonsense, and wasn’t capable of teaching simple math.
” He smiles again. “She had to go see the headmaster for that.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, nothing much.” He finishes his drink and I signal to Randy for two more.
“They couldn’t do much, really. After all, she was right, and the teacher was wrong.
But I tried explaining to her that… well…
that there’s a time and a place for being right, and sometimes it’s better just to nod and smile and say nothing.
Sometimes, that can be the hardest thing of all to do… nothing.”
I smile, imagining the scene. Seeing in my mind’s eye a younger Maria, fiercely defending her math against an unhearing teacher. I think back to my own school. If anyone had challenged a teacher like that in our school, they’d soon have known about it.
With fresh pints in front of us, we carry on getting to know each other, and I warm to the guy.
He’s a good storyteller, and he reminisces over all sorts of interesting things he’s experienced over the course of his life.
I especially enjoy his over-the-top descriptions of some of his more eccentric clients from his piano restoration and tuning days.
Seems he was well known all over New York forty or so years ago.
He even got to work on the Steinway grand piano that had originally been bought by John D.
Rockefeller himself, direct from the Astoria factory in Queens, New York City.
This particular piano had apparently been hand built for the oil tycoon by no less a person than William Steinway, the son of Steinway founder Heinrich Engelhard Steinweg himself.
Sandro’s just finishing another anecdote about his piano tuning days when Maria steps through the doorway.
Several men glance up at her, then down at their glasses again.
She doesn’t seem to notice, but I feel sure that that’s simply because she always gets that reaction from men, wherever she goes. She spots us and heads over to join us.
“How did the interview go?” I ask.
“Good.” She adjusts her hair, then puts her hands on her hips.
“He wants me to start as soon as I can—tomorrow if possible. I said I thought that would be okay, but I’d need to check with you first, seeing as I’ll be using your car.
He said that was fine, and he wants me there three afternoons a week, so we agreed on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Two until six.”
“Sounds good.”
“Yeah, it’s perfect. And… well… I don’t know what you guys have told him, but he said he’d pay cash. Twenty bucks an hour.” She blushes a little at this, which just makes her look even more beautiful in my eyes.
“Ideal,” I say. “No ID required then?”
“No.”
“Did you close on the deal?”
“Close on it? I practically bit his arm off.” We all laugh at this.
“Well done, my angel. That gives you a little bit of independence, which you’ll need.” Sandro smiles his congratulations, and gives her a hug.
“Right.” I stand up, draining my pint. “Time to go clothes shopping.”
Sandro drains his glass as well, and I give a cheery nod and a grin to Randy as we head for the door.
A soft snoring comes to our ears from the rear of the Civic, where Sandro sits, slumped a little to his left, his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling slowly and rhythmically.
Maria and I turn to each other and share a smile.
Two pints of Theo’s best IPA, followed by being dragged around an overly-warm clothing store—why do they do that?
—and forced to try on about half the store’s stock by an unrelenting daughter, then made to carry heavy grocery bags out to the car will do that to a man.
Especially an older one who’s not in the best condition to start with, and who recently spent an entire night in a motor vehicle.
Anyhow… whatever the cause, he’s out for the count.
Good. Just as I had hoped. I smile a congratulatory smile to myself.
The plan worked. And now I have about forty minutes all alone with the fair Maria.
A man with my skills can get a long way in forty minutes if he plays his cards right.
And I fully intend to play my cards very carefully indeed.
For some reason, this woman’s not just another conquest. Not a notch on the bedpost, or a tick off some kind of mental to-do list. She’s not a woman I’m looking to sleep with and then wave a cheery “goodbye” to in the morning, only to occasionally remember with a certain fondness on a cold November evening when we’re snowed under and there’s no chance of getting into town to meet anyone.
Oh no.
She’s much more than that. Though I can’t say why, exactly.
What I can say is that I want her. I want her in all the ways I usually want a beautiful woman.