“I guess I like the flexibility,” Jorge said, “and the money’s not bad. It leaves me time for my music. That’s what I care about. Kind of like you and your French.” Jorge stopped, looking at Tom. “How long does it take to finish a French major, anyways? You’ve been at the U how long now?”
Tom thought a better question would be, how long had it been since he’d registered for a class at the U.
“It’s not like there’s a rule about how long it takes,” Tom said. “I’m doing a lot of independent reading. I’ll finish when I finish.”
Jorge’s eyes narrowed and he continued to look at Tom. “So you finish your French major or whatever. What do you do then?”
This was a question that Tom got a lot, and he liked it less every time somebody asked.
“It’s not like with a French major there’s a job that you do. I could do a lot of things. Like teach, or translate or—whatever.” He changed the subject. “The thing is, I’ll be qualified to do something. That’s what you need to be thinking about, Jorge. You need to have options. You need to have a Plan B in case your music thing doesn’t work out. You don’t want to end up like Earl, working at the impound lot when you’re sixty years old.”
“I got a Plan B,” Jorge said.
“Such as…?”
Jorge looked away from Tom. “You ever been to First Avenue?”
“First Avenue?”
“The club down by the Target Center. You know. Where Prince filmed
“I was there once, I think. Music’s never been that big a thing for me,” Tom said.
“Maybe not for you, but for a lot of people, First Avenue is like Mecca. People who know anything about music, they’ll, like, come thousands of miles to see First Avenue. Just to breathe the air. Just to say they’ve been there.”
“I’m having a hard time figuring out how this music Mecca ties in with your Plan B.”
A smug look settled on Jorge’s face. “I’ve got two cans of the paint they used to paint the place. The original black paint.”
Tom shifted around a bit. “I’m still not seeing two cans of black paint as being your Plan B.”
“It was when I was helping out with the sound system at First Avenue. I found the paint in a back room at the club. One of the owners said I could have it. I’m going to sell it on eBay. It’ll be worth a fortune.”
“That’s it?” Tom said. “Two cans of black paint from First Avenue? That’s your Plan B?”
Jorge looked disgusted. “You really don’t know anything, do you? Some guy just sold part of a cheeseburger Elvis bit into for thousands on eBay.”
Tom shook his head. “All I can say is, good luck.”
“Timing,” Jorge said. “Timing is the thing. If they close First Avenue—if Prince dies—my price goes up.”
Timing turned out to be important the third time Earl ducked.
Earl’s third duck came during what everyone was calling the storm of the century. It started as an eerily balmy January morning: the sun dim early on, heavy clouds gathering as the day progressed. The snow started slowly, purposefully. Like it had plenty of time to do whatever it wanted to do.
What it wanted to do was bury Minneapolis. Not once, not twice, but three times over a five-day stretch.
Tom, Earl, and Jorge had been in place behind the bulletproof windows for thirty-six hours, taking turns sleeping on an inflatable mattress Earl had in a corner on the floor, when the guy in the camel-hair coat showed up.
He came up to the window without standing in line. Ignoring the shouting from his fellow towees.
“Here comes trouble,” Earl said. The guy in the camelhair coat wasn’t your typical towee. The only thing he had in common with your typical towee was that he was mad. Really mad.
“Money on it,” Earl said. “He’s the classic white Porsche parked in A-33.”
Earl pushed the speaker button. “Back of the line, buddy.”
The guy stabbed a leather-gloved finger against the glass, his mouth moving furiously. Behind him, a towee clapped both hands on the guy’s camel-haired shoulders and started to move him away from the window. The guy spun, sucker-punching the other towee.
“That’s it,” Earl said. “I’m calling security.”
In the minutes it took for security to show up, almost everyone in line was involved in the fracas. Earl turned the speaker on to tell security to take the guy in the camel-hair coat. Then he yelled, “Everyone else. Shape up, or nobody’s getting their cars out of here today!”
The speaker was on long enough for them to hear the guy in the camel-hair coat’s final words.
“This isn’t over, jerkoffs. That car is worth more than the three of you will make in a lifetime. You don’t know who you’re messing with.” Then he threw the tow ticket on the floor.
To the guy standing nearest the window, Earl said, “You. Pick up that ticket and pass it through.”
Earl looked at the ticket and said, “Yeah. The classic white Porsche. A-33. Just like I said.” He tossed the ticket to the side and said, “Georgie. Frenchy. Watch yourselves when you leave. What I said first. This guy is trouble.”
Nothing happened, except two days later a guy came to pick up the classic white Porsche. Not the guy in the camelhair coat, but the paperwork was in order, so they released the car.
“A lackey,” Earl said. “Some guy he’s hired to clean up after him. Probably a full-time job.”
Earl ducked on the fifth consecutive day of the snow emergency.
Things had wound down, mostly because every car that could possibly be towed had been towed by then. Lines at the window had dwindled and Earl, Tom, and Jorge were spending hours back on the air mattress, too punch drunk to organize themselves back to a normal schedule.
It had been just Earl and Jorge at the window when Tom, on the mattress, heard Earl say, “Oh shit. Look what they’re hauling in. A junker. I’ve told them a hundred times, a car like that isn’t worth the price of the ticket. It’s just gonna sit here, and the city’s gonna end up paying to get it towed out.”
He turned. “Tom, take the window. I’m going out to tell the tow truck to get that thing the hell out of here.”
From inside the service center they couldn’t see what happened, but they heard it. First a small pop. Then a boom, followed by quiet, followed by a series of booms, sequential, one going off after the other. They could feel the explosions as much as they could hear them. The floor under their feet vibrated.
“I always said, the third time I duck I’m done with impound work.”
Earl was still at Hennepin County Medical Center, Tom and Jorge standing beside his hospital bed.
“Everybody said I’m lucky. Once they get the metal or whatever out of me, I’m pretty much okay. Damn lucky that the first explosive didn’t go full bore. Bomb squad said there were three bombs in the trunk. Then it hit the gas tanks on a couple other cars. Only by the grace of God it didn’t take down the overpass.”
He looked at Tom and Jorge. “Man, wouldn’t that have been something? The whole shebang coming down?” I heard that first pop and I knew what was happening. Gave me time to duck.” He paused. “I told them. Told the cops. It was the guy in the camel-hair coat. I can smell it. Knew he wasn’t going to walk away from what happened.”
“So they’re going to get him?” Jorge said.
Earl frowned. “That’s the only thing that really bothers me about quitting now. They say one chance in a million they’ll be able to tie it to the guy in the camel-hair coat.” Suddenly, tears welled in Earl’s eyes. He reached out, putting bandaged hands on each of their arms.
“Not the only thing that bothers me about quitting. I’ll miss the two of you guys. I won’t forget that it was you guys who pulled me out.”
Tears rolled down Earl’s face. Embarrassed, he smiled. “I’m gonna will you my dirty drawers. The two of you will have to fight over who gets to wear ’em.”
“It’s okay, Earl,” Tom said. “We’ve been talking. It won’t be the same without you. We probably should have moved on a long time ago. We’re through with impound work too.”
They stood in front of the hospital for a while before they headed home.
Tom said, “Time to implement Plan B, Jorge.”
