From a Deadbeat to an Old Greaser

 There was a tow truck in the parking lot when I got to work this morning. 

 

Since I’m the first one to show up, the lot was empty, except for the tow truck. It sat, idling, in the middle of the lot. 

 

When I parked, it made a long, graceful looping turn and started toward me. Its headlights were bright, even in the early morning sun. 

 

“Hey, buddy. Is this 417 Fifth Street?” He asked, through his open window. Cigarette smoke rolled out the window and up into the morning sky. He had a huge travel mug sitting on the dashboard.

 

“No, this is 23 Israel Street. Fifth Street is over that way, somewhere.” I said motioning toward the north. I knew my way to work, and back home, I could get to the grocery store, the liquor store, the bank and a few places to eat, but streets names and directions never really meant anything to me.

 

“I guess I should get one of them GPS things.” He said, looking at a folded map. He took the travel mug, worn and stained, off the dash board and took a long drink. “Mountain Dew, all the breakfast anybody ever needs.”

 

He burped, loud, a small amount of smoke followed the sound.

 

“I guess your car doesn’t need towing.” He looked at my car, a beat up Chevette, with mismatched tires, and fading, blue paint, rust spots bloomed in random places. “It could be a candidate for the repair shop.”

 

“Or the junkyard.” I added and we both laughed, an awkward chuckle, hollow and pointless, mostly just a formality.

 

He offered me a cigarette, and I took it, it was a Marlboro, I only bought the bargain brands. I really couldn’t tell much difference. It went well with my gas station coffee, though. 

 

“What do you guys do here?” He asked, looking at the old building, long, windowless, cream colored, dumpy and squat. It could have looked secretive, mysterious, menacing, if you didn’t know there was a women’s wear warehouse stacked in odd, messy piles inside. It was owned by clothes designers, young people, almost children, they had no idea about warehousing. They loved fashion, and clothing. 

 

There was no method to the madness, it was chaos, mixed with mindless neglect. One saving grace was everybody seemed to understand. If counts were off, nobody ever lost their temper. They just corrected the inventory until another pile was uncovered, and the missing skirts or jackets, or sweaters were found, when they would correct inventory again. All the customers were used to the on again, off again nature of ordering. It was one big happy, dysfunctional family.

 

“It’s a warehouse, or distribution center. I guess that’s the word we use know. Warehouse is old and out of fashion.” I said, inhaling the smoke, enjoying the burn, in my lungs, in my eyes. It was crazy how I enjoyed the pain. Hot coffee, smoke, touching all the right buttons.

 

“Yeah, I guess we’re dinosaurs. Hanging on to the edges. You know the other day I went a picked up a car, one of them hybrid things, down by the waterfront, some kid, really dressed, suit and tie, hair locked in place, was waiting. I was having a cigarette, and he asked me if it was hard to smoke when it was so hot. I told him it was still worth it, even offered him one. He was pissed.” He laughed, smoke coming from his nose. 

 

“We’ll, I’d better go find the car, it’s a 2012 Ford, Fiesta. Won’t start.” He said, looking at his map, his rheumy eyes looked tired and slightly out of focus. 

I pulled my phone from my pocket, found the address on the maps app. I showed him how to get there from our lot, tracing it with my finger on his map. 

 

“Hey, thanks, that’s pretty nice.” He said, putting his truck into reverse, and driving away. I went to work feeling better about life.

 

“From a deadbeat to an old greaser, here’s thinking of you.” Funny how little things are big things to a deadbeat.