which she tossed to me. ‘ So you don’ t get road rash if we wipe out.’
Road rash? Oh no-I agreed to write, not ride. ‘ Thanks, but we need to get to the letter. I’ m in a bit of a hurry.’
‘ Hogwash,’ she said. ‘ But if you’ re that worried about time, we’ ll talk while we ride.’
Partly because of my newfound spirit of adventure, but more because I was afraid of Phyllis, I obediently straddled the seat behind her. It was like sitting in a La-Z-Boy; it even had a back bar and cushy armrests. The seat beneath me rumbled, and as Phyllis pulled out of her drive, I thought this was how it would feel to ride a speeding rhino, both thrilling and terrifying. When Phyllis yelled, ‘ How is it?’ that’ s what I told her.
‘ Most people say it’ s like an orgasm, but whatever floats your boat.’
‘ So what’ s the deal?’ I hollered over the growl of the engine when we stopped at a red light. ‘ You looking for a new job?’
‘ It’ s not about work. I want to write a letter to my daughter.’
‘ Your daughter?’
The light changed, and she roared forward again. We cruised past the movie studios located there and through old residential neighborhoods that were quaint by L.A. standards- brick-and-adobe houses and leafy trees. Over the course of the ride, Phyllis gave me the full story, letting the intimate details of her life scatter along the streets of the city like candy tossed at a parade. The story wasn’ t anything I hadn’ t seen a dozen times on the Lifetime Channel: Mom and live-in biker boyfriend have baby. They name baby Sunshine. If that alone isn’ t enough to piss her off for life, they proceed to drink too much and do far too many drugs and leave her with friends and relatives and foster care from the time she could barely toddle. Eventually Mom goes into rehab, and biker boyfriend goes God knows where, and the daughter, who by that time prefers to go by the name Sally, has put herself through college and has a nice job as an office manager and maybe a husband and kids, but we’ re not sure, wants to establish a relationship as much as she wants her toenail ripped off at the root, even though Mom has been clean and sober for ten years.
We pulled back into Phyllis’ s driveway. Life is funny, I thought as I hoisted my leg high and over the seat. People are living too much or too little, and I wondered if anyone out there is living the right amount.
‘ You’ re a good rider,’ she said.
‘ All it takes is sitting-I’ m good at that.’
‘ Not true. You’ ve got to lean when I lean. There’ s trust. And anticipation. You’ d be surprised how many people flip out when the bike takes a turn and they throw their body weight the other way.’
Changing the subject to the reason I’ d come over, I asked, ‘ So what do you want to tell Sally in this letter?’
Phyllis pulled off her helmet, and what she said next, she said quietly. ‘ That I know I was a shitty mother.’
‘ Okay.’
‘ And that I’ m sorry I hurt her.’
‘ Well then,’ I said, going to grab a pad of paper and a pen from my car, ‘ let’ s say it.’
Chapter 12
T he alarm woke me at five o’ clock, and as painful as it was, even that was going to be pushing it. I had to be at the gas station in Burbank in an hour. I needed to leap out of bed and jump straight in the shower. Unless I left the conditioner on for only one minute-that’ d buy me two more blissful minutes of slumber& .
I was out the door a little before six, which was later than I’ d hoped. Especially since I still needed to stop at the twenty-four-hour Vons for helium balloons, and-oh, the irony!-I needed gas.
The morning sky was brightening by the time I hit the freeway for Burbank, my Toyota so packed with balloons that if my life were a cartoon, the car would be floating away with me in it.
I scanned radio stations, excited about the day ahead. Martucci and Phyllis were handling the giveaway at the gas station near the airport. Martucci had plenty of experience running promotions, so they’ d be fine on their own. I’ d join Brie and Greg (who, even though he was the designer and didn’ t have a clue what he was doing, was the only other staff member I could get) at the Burbank station. If Phyllis hadn’ t been blowing hot air about her TV media connections, I’ d schmooze reporters while Lizbeth took interviews.
The idea was that we’ d lie in wait until a car with more than one person pulled up to the pumps. Then-wearing our festive T-shirts and carrying balloons-we’ d run up and say, ‘ Thank you for carpooling& we’ re paying for your gas today!’ They’ d cheer wildly, the TV crews would capture the moment on camera, and it would be splayed over TV sets across Southern California.
Each team had a debit card with a thousand dollars on it, which should last most of the morning. I’ d talked with Brie before I left home, and she and Greg were there and ready to go.
I tuned in to K- JAM. Troy had promised to make mention of the promotion several times throughout the morning. True to his word, I heard him report a few traffic snarls, then he added, ‘ And if you’ re carpooling, today could be your lucky day. The good folks at Los Angeles Rideshare might pay for your gas. They’ re at secret locations throughout the city& so watch out!’
What a guy. I felt the free publicity go cha-ching! in my head.
When I picked up my cell phone to let Brie know I was almost there, I noticed I had several messages. Hmm. Must have had it on vibrate.
The first call was from Brie: ‘ We have a problem here. Call me.’
The second call was from Brie: ‘ Shoot. We got a lot of people here. You need to call me.’
The third call was from Brie: ‘ I told you to hold on-June, where the hell are you?’
In fact, every message was from Brie, and her language grew progressively worse with each one. I was still picking up desperate messages from her when my phone vibrated in my hand. ‘ Hello?’
‘ Where you at?’ It was Brie. ‘ I don’ t know what’ s going on here, but we got a mess. There’ s a million people lined up screaming for their free gas.’
What was going on? ‘ I got stuck on the 405,’ I lied, pitiful as it was to do so, ‘ There must be some sort of-’
‘ Well, get your butt here as fast as you can. I don’ t know what to do. It’ s crazy. Everybody’ s saying we owe ‘ em free gas. Traffic’ s blocked on Ventura Boulevard, and some guy told me it’ s backed up to the freeway.’ Away
