I’m on I-10, driving from Phoenix to Pasadena. My wife sits in the passenger’s seat, silent, listening to her Coltrane. As I watch the divider strips pass by, I can hear the tinny sigh of the ride cymbal, the loose beat of the snare, the sweet tune of the sax. The jazz lifts us up onto a black cloud and we can see pairs of glowing eyes head in our direction, passing in long intervals.
I turn to my wife, but she pretends not to notice. I look back at the road. She turns to me, but I can’t keep my eyes off the divider strips. She looks back out her window. Our dance continues for several minutes.
“I’m hungry,” she says after the most recent song ends. She is seven months pregnant; eating for two. “I’m having a terrible craving.”
“It doesn’t happen to include peanut butter and broccoli, does it?”
“Not this time. I could really use some ice cream.”
“At least that’s somewhat normal.” I wink and she smiles. God, I love those lips. “There’s a gas station two miles up. Gas stations always have ice cream in stock. Someone’s got to feed the world’s pregnant women.”
“And the stoners.”
“And the stoners.” I grab her hand. It’s as cold as death. “Chilly? I can turn up the heat.”
“No. Just get me some ice cream.”
Odd combination, cold hands and ice cream. “Maybe you should use the bathroom while we’re there. It’ll be a while before we get to your mother’s.”
She says nothing.
When I park at the gas station, she stares me down until I leave the car. No bathroom break, I guess. The inside of the store is white, blinding. The smell of artificial fruit is in the air; it is a horribly sanitary stench. I walk past the cashier, an obese woman: red frizzy hair, purple sweater, and a smile that says, “You are welcome here, but not too welcome.”
The ice cream is in the back next to the beer. I open the freezer to realize I have no idea what she wants. A pregnant woman is a picky thing. There’s no accounting for taste when it comes to hormones. I don’t want to run to the car, so I open my cell phone and hit the speed dial.
“Hello?”
“What flavor did you want?”
“What do they have?”
“Vanilla--”
“No.”
I close the cold freezer door. “Hold on, now. Let me name them all before you go rattling off which ones you do or don’t want.”
She hesitates. “Go ahead.”
A young couple passes me and heads for the beer. They pull a twelve pack and some candy drinks for the girl. “They also have chocolate, rocky road, butter pecan, and Neapolitan.”
“Do they have any strawberry?”
“No.”
“Anything fruity?”
“Uh, no. There’s strawberry in the Neapolitan, though.”
“What’s that?”
“Neapolitan?”
“Yeah.”
I rear my head back. “You’ve never had Neapolitan?”
“Well, dammit, why would I ask if I’d had it?”
I’ve got nothing to say to that. “It’s chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry together in one ice cream.”
“Mixed?”
“Nah. They’re separate.”
“Like separate packages?”
“No, same package.”
A pause. “How can they be together and separate at the same time?”
“Not mixed, but separate. Pushed together.” I know she just wants some ice cream and probably doesn’t care what she gets at this point.
“Whatever. Sounds fine. Buy it.”
My wife’s enthralling lesson in the intricacies of novelty ice creams ends and now the store is busy. The line is six customers long, and the obese cashier is taking her time with a blind man scratching lottery tickets. No going around him, I suppose.
In front of me stands a middle-aged man with a red flannel shirt, blue jeans, and heavy brown hiking boots. He sees the ice cream in my hands and raises his eyebrow. “Late night snack?”
“Not for me,” I admit. “My wife. She’s pregnant and has these weird cravings.”
“Oh, I understand about all of that.”
“Married?”
He holds up his hand and shows me the mismatched tan on his finger. “Recently divorced. Three kids and everything. One day, she just up and went to her sister’s without a word. Left me a note that said she had stopped loving me about three years prior.”
I smile a half-smile, unsure what to say.
“Enough about me. I’m boring you, I would guess.”
“No,” I say, “of course not.”
“Sure I am. My name’s Gerald.”
“Tom,” I say back.
We shake hands, mine cold from the ice cream. He holds a bag of potato chips. “For my daughter,” he says. “She visits every other weekend. She’s my last. So is the one in your wife’s belly your first?”
“Yeah. Due in two months. There’s nothing like it.”
“You’re telling me. Just wait until it comes out.”
I nod. Gerald looks forward as if to see what’s taking so long.
The soon-to-be intoxicated couple I saw at the freezers stands in front of him. Ahead of them is some real slick guy: greased-up hair, fake tan, cheesy suit, gold chains. His whole appearance looks cheap right down to his thin mustache. The young couple talk to him as if he’s someone important. A genuine VIP.
“The thing to remember,” he says, “is that this business is not easy to crack. I’m offering you two the opportunity of a lifetime here.”
“Oh, I bet you say that to everyone you see,” the girl says.
“Now that’s just a wrong statement. Couldn’t be more wrong.” He slicks back his hair with a thin comb.
“What’s so special about us?” the boy says.
“I’m a talent agent, kid. I look for talent. Why, I just look at the two of you and know there’s some potential. Bona fide potential, no kidding.”
Gerald elbows me in the arm and whispers to me, “Hear that? Some guy offering them some sort of sketchy deal.”
“Definitely sounds odd,” I say.
“Yeah. My first girl’s about that age. Goes to school in Denver. Makes me worry about all the weirdoes out there.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Gerald.” I stare at the fluorescent lights coming off the anti-theft mirror. My face is distorted in the glass.
“I’m just not sure about all this,” the girl ahead of us says. “It feels a little odd. I mean we’re in the middle of a convenience store.”
The talent agent puts his palms out to stop them right there. “You’d never believe where I’ve found talent before, miss. It’s never where it ought to be, and even when it is, you can miss it. Believe me. One time I found a beautiful blonde bombshell working in a crummy little bakery. Best bread I ever tasted in my life.”
“I don’t know,” the girl continues. “It’s not something I want to admit, but the two of us aren’t exactly bombshells. We’re average people who get paychecks and have a mortgage.”
“Oh, miss, you don’t know the market, that’s all. My biggest stars are only ‘average people’. Just look at all the beautiful people on the TV all the time. Enough to make one sick. Now you get two average people, and everyone watching doesn’t feel so bad about themselves. Gives them some reason not to feel guilty about the whole thing.” He points his comb at the couple, dipping it at each word. “And that money problem, living check to check: gone. All gone. You’ll never have issues with money again…considering you continue to show up.”
The blind man finally finishes scratching. He’s spent thirty dollars, but only won ten, and the cashier is nice enough to tell him the truth of it. The line moves ahead one step.
“There’s a whole racket dedicated to people like you two lovebirds. So don’t go worrying that you’ll go unappreciated. It’s the best racket out there, I think. A wholesome one. It’s called ‘amateur’ and it only goes as far as you want it to.”
Gerald shakes his head and can’t help but whisper to the girl, “Excuse me, but I’d advise you not to get involved with this man. He looks like a creep. There’s no need to take off anything of yours for the likes of him.”
We move up another spot.
The agent sees Gerald whispering. “Sir, are you interfering? Son, tell this man to keep to his own business.”
“Keep your nose to yourself,” the boy says. “We don’t want your rotten opinion. Damn prudes taking over the country.”
“But--”
“I said knock it off, or I’ll punch you right in the mouth.”
The slick man smiles. “Prudes, indeed. Now kids, I’m next in line here and as it is, you’ve got to make the decision quick. I’m outta town in a few hours and there’s no way to reach me after I leave. The money’s gone then. You two are stuck in your rut once again with no way out.”
“We have to decide now?” the boy says.
“Right now.”
“What do you think?” he asks his girl.
“I don’t think we’ve got a choice. It’s what we’ve been waiting for.”
The man licks his thumb and forefinger and smoothes out his mustache. “So you’re in?”
“Yes,” the couple says as one.
“Great. I can set everything up in an hour. Here’s my card, and that’s the address there. I promise you won’t regret it a bit, not one bit.” Gerald and I take a quick look at the business card; it is surprisingly authentic. The man pays for his gas and leaves.
We say nothing as the boy and the girl buy their drinks and go.
“It’s a real shame what those two are getting themselves into,” Gerald says. His eyes ask me for help. “My daughter’s waiting in the car,” he pleads. “I have to get back.”
He pats me on the shoulder before leaving. I pay cash and hurry to exit. The electronic doors close behind me.
When I get back to the car, the ice cream is already melting and I have an angry woman on my hands. She opens the Neapolitan and sees that the chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry really are now mixed together.
“Long line, sweetheart,” I say, as if that could make anything better.
I start the car, then immediately pull the keys from the ignition. I place my head on the steering wheel.
I saw that business card and I saw that address. I could stop them from making the biggest mistake of their lives.
“What’s wrong?” my wife asks, the ice cream resting on her big belly.
“Nothing,” I say and grab her cold hand. “Now let’s get to your mother’s.” I start up the car once again and we’re off.
We’re back on I-10, going from Phoenix to Pasadena. My wife turns up her Coltrane and for a long while we get lost in jazz.
. He should have gone. Mean.
