Chapter 11 #4
‘Let’s get back down before it gets too dark,’ said Nick. ‘You don’t want to be bumping around the property in the dark.’
Zoey folded her arms. ‘Why, what’s out there? Bigfoot?’
‘I truly hope not, because Bozo is not restrained with his Tannerite. And whatever else he’s stockpiling over there. Definitely a whole lot of canned food that he’s not rotating the way he should.’
They hopped back in the truck, cruising slowly down the hill.
‘Can I go through the fields?’ said Zoey. ‘The daisies are so pretty.’
‘Just avoid the one with the patch of clover in it. It tends to get boggy.’
‘It’s summer,’ said Zoey. ‘How boggy could it be?’
She floored the accelerator, and they went racing through the flower-filled fields. Tall daisies and lupines tapped at the side of the car like bright fingers.
Until. The truck slowed, then stopped.
Nick said nothing, but he didn’t have to.
Zoey jabbed the accelerator. The engine roared, and the wheels spun. But nothing happened.
Oh shit.
‘I’m not going to say it,’ said Nick.
‘No,’ Zoey said. ‘It can’t be bogged. It’s a simple fact of life that you can’t get bogged on your own property.’
‘I’d love to see the book you learned your facts of life from.’
‘Encarta. The CD-ROM and everything.’
‘Lies. Absolute lies. That would make you … forty.’
‘Thirty-ish. My dad was a bit of a Luddite. In the being-slow-to-the-tech-party sense. Not in the smashing-up-technology-for-the-proletariat sense.’
‘I was hoping for the latter, because then we could be friends.’
Zoey doubted this, but not because Nick lacked charm.
‘Anyway, I’m sad to say that getting bogged is absolutely a thing. Even if you own the land. Owning it doesn’t give you jurisdiction over the squelchiness quotient of the soil.’
Zoey guffawed in what was probably an extremely becoming way. (She hoped.) ‘Squelchiness quotient. Is that a mushroom- farmer thing?’
‘It’s the technical term, obviously,’ said Nick, deadpan. He had an astonishing aptitude for delivering a remark without a whit of a giggle. If he’d put his mind to it, he would have been the standout performer at the regrettable First Thursday slam- poetry night.
‘So, what do we do?’ asked Zoey. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, then jammed her foot on the accelerator once more.
The engine roared with determination, then sobbed at the brutality of it all.
The wheels spun uselessly, whirring with all the use of a yo-yo in a sleeper manoeuvre.
(Visually appealing, but not going anywhere.)
She cracked open the driver’s-side door and poked her head out, grumbling at the fact that the mud mark on the tyres was now a solid inch higher. ‘Fuck, it’s like we’re in quicksand, but mud. Mudsand. Quickmud.’
‘Tow truck,’ said Nick, mildly.
‘You really don’t think I can fix this by myself, do you?
’ Zoey folded her arms, scowling. Tow truck indeed!
When it came to car-related things she was quite competent.
In college she’d replaced the light bulbs on her ancient Toyota Corolla, guided only by a YouTube video!
When she’d moved to Portland she’d pumped her own gas, to the chagrin of the attendant, who’d still demanded a tip.
She’d even changed a tyre on the 405N on-ramp – a truly high-stakes situation.
She relayed all this to Nick, who seemed quite impressed.
‘It’s not that I don’t believe in you. I’m absolutely certain that with the power of YouTube behind you, you could change a timing belt or put a racing kit on your car. Assuming you can get signal out here. It’s just that some things are a job for a tow truck.’
‘Not this job,’ said Zoey.
Nick sighed. ‘All right. So, we need to get some traction happening. Let’s see if we can find something to pop under the wheels.’
Hopping down from the truck – it was a bit squelchy out here, truth be told – Zoey hunted about the field for anything sturdy enough to go under the truck’s back wheels. She wished she’d worn a cheaper pair of thrifted boots. She liked these, and now they were going to sport mud stains.
Ugh. Well, this was her fault.
‘What about this?’ she suggested, dragging a large, mossy branch out from a muddy divot heavily populated by ferns and worms.
‘Sure, we can give it a shot.’
Did he sound amused?
Nick helped her haul the branch over to the truck then jam it under the wheels.
Zoey jumped back into the truck, cringing at the globs of mud attached to her shoes. She’d have to pay for a wash and detail at that bikini carwash place with the neon elephant down by SE Grand. She revved the engine again, grumbling as the wheels spun without purchase.
‘All right, all right.’ She drummed the wheel. ‘Maybe you’re right. But … can we even get a tow truck this time of night?’
‘Sure, if you’re willing to pay.’ Nick scrolled through his phone, dialling the number of Tow Truck Guy.
‘You’ve done this before, I see,’ said Zoey. This made her feel a tad better.
‘Uh-huh. That’s how I knew you could get bogged on your own property. And also locked out of your own truck, although that one you can remedy with a coat hanger and some patience.’
The tow-truck guy picked up, and he and Nick had a quick back and forth.
‘He’ll be here in half an hour,’ said Nick. ‘And for five hundred bucks.’
‘Five hundred bucks?’ Zoey just about passed out.
She nibbled her nails, which Ainsley had carefully painted during a recent John Hughes movie marathon night.
The temporary tattoo on her wrist was all but gone, she saw.
‘Wow, and all this time I thought I was a cheap date. I promise I pay my own way.’
Nick shrugged. ‘Everything’s a learning experience. Although …’
Zoey cringed. ‘Don’t say it.’
Nick grinned. ‘Any other guy right now would say I told you so.’
A five-hundred-dollar tow-truck call-out. There was another one to add to the list of things she hated.