Memphis is stupid.
It’s full of all these little side streets that lead to nowhere important. There’s way too many car fixing places, none of which seem to be where my car actually is. I could stop and ask for directions, but I’d probably need to know the name of the garage, and I don’t. So… yeah.
In hindsight, I probably should have gotten a number from that mechanic girl, but I wasn’t really planning on my phone being disconnected.
See… when I left L.A, the plan was to get as far away from my douche of an ex-boyfriend as humanly possible. And I’d like to think I succeeded. The only problem is, I forgot that nearly every aspect of my life was linked with his.
A family plan for our phones. Joint checking account. The same insurance plan. All of those things that married people usually do, we did. Minus the marriage part, and I’m paying dearly for it now.
I’m just lucky I had the forethought to clean out the checking account. God only knows where I’d be if I hadn’t.
I pass yet another garage and frown at the two older, overweight men standing outside. Pretty sure that’s not it either. And if I’m not mistaken… one of them just spit tobacco on the sidewalk. Gross.
I know I probably sound like an idiot, but who wouldn’t freak out at a time like this? Put yourself in my shoes for a second.
You’re in a completely unfamiliar area. No friends, no family, and no cell phone. Seriously… it’s like the apocalypse or something. You’d panic too. And you’d probably cry a little.
I turn down a street marked West 19th, and kind of recognize my surroundings. I vaguely remember seeing the big gray building with the peeling paint, and the diner on the corner. I don’t know if this is where I need to be or not, but it’s definitely familiar.
I keep walking, trying to ignore the ache in my left foot. Heels probably weren’t a very smart choice for walking the streets of Memphis for hours on end.
I finally spot a large red and white sign, the name Joe’s Garage, written in big, block letters. I can almost make out the faint sound of The Rolling Stones and I nod excitedly.
Holy crap! I found it!
I step inside carefully, doing my best to avoid the various tools and dirty rags littering the floor. I sincerely hope a little more care is going into fixing my car. Cause this place is just nasty, and it smells awful.
“Look… B… all I’m saying is, it’s fine if you are. But, chicks who aren’t tend to do better with the men. I would be willing to take one for the team and nail ya, but we gotta keep the lights off. Cause that’d just be… fuckin weird.”
“Alright… one, it’s none of your business whether I am or not. Two, I don‘t care how desperate you are… you know what? I’m not even gonna dignify that with a response, cause… no. Just… no.”
“Fine. But it’s your loss Burke. I mean it… you’ve got one week, and then the offer expires.”
“Kyle… don’t you have, ya know… work to do?”
“Umm… excuse me?” I knock on the door and the two of them look up at me. The man looks utterly surprised that someone is here, and the girl just looks… bored, I guess is the best word.
“Beetle, right?” He grins and nods slowly.
“Yeah. I umm… my phone’s been shut off, and I was just… I wanted to see how everything’s going?”
The girl nods slowly and wipes her hands on her already filthy coveralls. She slides past me and heads for my car, parked over in the corner. She pops the hood quickly and shoves her hand down inside the engine, and for a split second… I’m terrified that she’s going to lose it.
“You wanna sit down, or are you gonna be ok?” She looks at me over her shoulder, her hand still down inside the car.
“Is it that bad?”
“I’ve seen worse.” She shrugs. “But, I’ve also seen better. There’s a pretty big hole in your radiator.” She pulls her hand up, and it’s doused in a light green liquid that smells like some sort of dead animal. “And the transmission is done for. I could try to patch the radiator, but there’s no guarantee it’ll hold, so you’re probably better off getting a new one.”
“Is that… expensive?”
“Depends.” She shrugs again. “If I can pull it from the junkyard, it shouldn’t be too terrible, but if we’re going all brand new parts… it’ll be up there. Especially since it’s a foreign car. Then you figure in labor, and… yeah, it ain’t gonna be pretty.”
Despite my best efforts, I can feel the tears welling up in my eyes again, and all I really want to do is crawl into a hole somewhere.
I really, really hate Memphis.
***********************
Oh shit… she’s crying. Again.
I’m not completely heartless. I do feel bad for the girl, but come on man… there’s no point crying over a car. Unless it’s a 1970 Z28 Camaro. I’d probably cry over that. But a Volkswagen Beetle? Hell no.
“Can you fix it?” She sniffles.
“Yeah… I can fix it.” I nod and shove my hands in my pockets. This is getting way too awkward. “I can talk to my dad and we can probably work out a payment plan or something.”
“Or ya know… for every date you let me take you on, I’ll do an hour of labor for free.” Kyle grins as he appears behind me and I can’t help but roll my eyes.
Before either of us are able to respond, Justin’s Escalade flies into the garage, coming to a screeching halt just before he hit’s the back wall. Trace quickly hops of out the drivers seat and I almost want to gag.
I cannot fucking believe Kyle called the rest of the idiot brigade down here. And yes… I guarantee you, he so called them. If you ask me, this is a perfect example of just how pathetic men are. This girls been here all of maybe ten minutes, and these morons haul ass down here like she’s the second coming of Christ or some shit.
Justin slides out of the passenger seat and even he is drooling over her. They’re disgusting, I swear.
“We just came to see if y’all needed some help.” Trace smirks proudly, like he’s outsmarted us all and no one can see through his brilliant cover.
“Oh my god…” Memphis Barbie gasps and that’s when I notice her eyes are fixed solely on Justin.
Shit.
How did I not see that coming?
I’m not going to sit here and tell you that it’s super easy to forget who Justin is. Because it’s not. My dad has chased those idiot photographers away from the garage more times than I care to count. Almost every time Justin comes home, he has some ridiculous story about how he got high with Morgan Freeman, or some other insanely famous person. I’ve heard him talk about performing with Michael Jackson more than you could possibly imagine.
The difference between me and the rest of the world is that I really don’t give a shit.
So yeah, it’s not like ‘oh no, he’s just Justin to me’, because there’s no such thing as ‘just Justin.’ He is who he is. I just don’t care about what model he’s banging this week, or what rapper wants to work with him.
But apparently Barbie over here does.
Hooray.
“You’re… you…” She stutters and I roll my eyes.
Like he hasn’t seen the ‘oh my god, I can’t believe you’re real!’ shtick ten thousand times. I almost can’t wait to see him laugh in her face.
“I know you probably get this all the time, but I’m a big fan.” She smiles shyly and tucks her hair behind her ear.
“Eh… always good to hear. I’m Justin.” He grins and shakes her hand.
If she passes out in here, I’m gonna be super pissed. The last damn thing we need is some chick losing her shit over Justin. Cause… ew.
“I’m Lyla. It’s really nice to meet you.”
I’m pretty sure her make up is going to crack if her stupid smile gets any bigger. And is it just me, or is this the worlds longest fucking handshake ever? Jesus Christ.
“I’m Trace.” The midget pipes up, damn near shoving Justin out of the way and I have to stop myself from laughing. They really are fucking idiots.
I turn to head back to the office, a tad surprised to find Justin right behind me. I figured he’d want to stay and drool over the homecoming queen some more, but he seems pretty intent on annoying me today, so go figure.
“You need something?”
“Just hanging out, B. Chill.” He laughs and throws himself into Kyle’s chair. “We doing Brewster’s tonight?”
“Depends.” I shrug and begin sorting through the invoices on the desk. “I’ve got a bunch of shit to do here, and I’m exhausted because Kyle is useless. So… don’t know.”
“Anything I can help with?”
“I sincerely hope that is some kind of sick joke that I don’t get.”
He laughs at me again and for a split second, I’d like to punch him. “I can do car stuff!”
“Right. Because you did a bang up job on that tire rotation. Now… go bother the other two stooges. I have work to do.”
“Alright, well… lemme know about Brewster’s.” He slaps my knee before rising from his seat and rejoining the Lyla fan-club.
Let me guess… you probably think I’m jealous, right?
Wrong.
Because seriously… what the hell do I have to be jealous of? There isn’t a damn thing that girl could have that I’d want for myself. It absolutely kills me that people always blame dislike on jealousy.
The bottom line is, I’ve never liked girls like her. I’m not saying I’m necessarily right in that opinion or anything. It’s just a fact. I’d much rather be who I am than some braindead bimbo who falls all over herself for some famous guy.
Plus, girls like her are the ones who made my teen years absolute hell. So fine… maybe I am a little biased, but can you really blame me?
*************************
I think if I could, I’d make sure there’s a Brewster’s everywhere I go. Like, I would refuse to play a city if they didn’t have a Brewster’s.
And yeah, that probably makes me sound like a jackass, but it’s the truth.
You know how there’s those certain places that you feel a hundred percent comfortable? That’s exactly what this bar is for me. It’s a second home of sorts.
When we were kids, me, Kyle and Trace would sit out on the sidewalk and talk about how we couldn’t wait to be old enough to get in. Even back then, it was the place to be, and when I finally turned 21, it sure as hell didn’t disappoint.
And I’m sure that to an outsider, it’s just some crummy old dive bar, but I fucking love it. It’s just… so country, if that makes any sense. Steer horns line the walls, country music is constantly blaring from the jukebox, and I’m talking the old school shit… Hank Williams, Patsy Cline, Johnny Cash, Charlie Pride, George Jones… the good shit, man. There’s god knows how many Jack Daniels posters, pool tables, horseshoes. It’s just fuckin awesome.
“So, do you guys come here a lot?” Lyla asks, casually mixing her drink with her straw. I don’t know what the hell she’s drinking, but it’s pink and it smells fruity.
I almost major ragged on her for it, cause when me, Burke, Trace and Kyle come here, it’s pitchers of whatever’s on tap the whole night, but then I remembered that I sort of want to impress her, and I held back.
I mean… I probably don’t have to try too hard with her. She knows who I am and I’d say it’s a pretty safe bet that she digs me on that alone, but I want her to see I’m a little bit more than that. Cause no matter what anybody says, I am a normal dude, and if I’m gonna legitimately be with a chick, she needs to know that.
“Yeah… we’re always here when I’m in town. It’s pretty kick ass, right?”
“It’s… well… it’s different.” She nods, an awkward smile on her face.
Alright, so it’s clearly not her scene. I can respect that. I mean, she’s from L.A. Obviously, she’s used to clubs and shit, but honestly… how can anybody not love this place?
“Ok… I’m going to the jukebox.” Burke mutters and slides off of her stool.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again… Burke’s a weird chick. But tonight, she’s just… off, and it’s starting to freak me the fuck out. Normally, she’s just as loud and obnoxious as me and the guys, but she’s barely said two words since we got here and that just ain’t right man.
I mean… I’m pretty sure she doesn’t like Lyla, cause Burke just doesn’t blend well with other girls, but Lyla’s awesome, so I feel like she could make an exception. Cause, ya know… I want my friends to like the chicks I date.
And ok fine… maybe I’m getting a little ahead of myself here, but I can honestly see myself dating Lyla. Trace and Kyle can drool over her all they want, but when it comes to chicks… I think we all know I’ve got the advantage.
She’s just… she’s really fucking cool. She seems to know a pretty decent amount about music and movies, she gets Trace’s stupid jokes, and she’s smart. Plus.. Ya know… just look at her.
I slide out of my seat and follow Burke to the jukebox, and to no one’s surprise… she’s flat out ignoring me.
“B…” I elbow her in the side and she doesn’t even flinch. Honestly… I don’t know what crawled up her ass and died, but this is seriously not fucking cool. “Burke….. Buuuuurke…. Come on… you know I’m just going to irritate the shit out of you till you answer me.”
She lets out a long sigh and rolls her eyes. “What the hell do you want?”
“Ok, seriously… who shit in your froot loops this morning? Huh?”
“Nobody. I’m fine.” She shrugs, her eyes never leaving the song listings. “I told you man… I’m just worn the fuck out.”
“You want me to take you home?”
“Uhh… nah. I’ll prolly just walk.”
Ok, it’s possible that I was a little quick to judge. I mean, I’d like to think I know Burke pretty damn well, but even I managed to forget what a cranky ass she is when she’s tired. I’m telling you, the girl makes a rabid dog look tame when she hasn’t gotten enough sleep.
“You sure? Cause I guarantee you… nobody will even notice I’m gone.”
“Oh, somebody would notice.” She rolls her eyes and laughs. But, it isn’t a normal, loud and obnoxious Burke laugh. It sounds kind of dark and almost… angry, I guess. And it’s fucking weird.
“So, yeah. I’m gonna take off.” She nods and pushes away from the jukebox. “Later Justin.” She slips past me, and out the door before I can respond.
Tired Burke is no damn fun man.
