Jude shakes his head solemnly. “Oh, it’s dire.”
“Do it Saturday, then.”
“No can do, Marv—in. Like I said, we’ve been over it a hundred times, and Sunday’s the only day we can synchronize our schedules.” He puts a hand on Marvin’s shoulder, one man to another. “You understand, I’m sure.”
“Not really.”
“Well, we’ll be there as soon as we can, hopefully before the first pitch. That’s when the guy on the hill of dirt throws the ball at the bloke with the bat, right?” he consults me.
“Yeah,” I say, picking up the thread. “Good job.” To Marvin, I say, “I’m trying to teach Jude about baseball.”
“I’m a bit thick, though, aren’t I?”
“Totally,” I agree.
“I keep getting baseball confused with cricket—”
“Wait a second! He’s gonna be there, too?” Marvin stands up, dwarfing me and making even Jude look fairly short. There are sweat stains under his armpits, right at my eye level. I breathe through my mouth, just in case.
“You don’t mind, do you?” Jude asks genially. “I figured it’d be okay, since it’s just an outing amongst friends. Right?” He chuckles and says, “It’s not as if it’s a date, after all. Am I right?” He grins and nudges me, then Marvin as if the mere suggestion of it being a date is hilarious.
Marvin backs down. “Well, not really, no. I guess you’re right.” He looks fleetingly at me.
I smile what I hope is winningly. “I figured you’d appreciate having another guy there to share a beer with,” I improvise, again trying to prevent hurting Marvin’s feelings. Pointedly I say, “Jude doesn’t really have any friends.” And though it pains me to say it, I swallow my pride and add, “Plus, I’m sure you’ll do a much better job of explaining the game to Jude. I kind of get distracted by the players’ butts sometimes.”
“Anyway…” Jude grabs my arm and pulls me out of Marvin’s armpits. “Give me a ring tomorrow, if you want. I’ll buy you a pint or something. I really appreciate this. You’re a good bloke.”
It isn’t until we’re standing at the elevators that he starts laughing. “Thanks for the ‘Jude doesn’t have any friends’ comment. Nice.”
“You deserved it. The ‘players’ butts’ thing was too much, wasn’t it?” I ask self-consciously.
He shakes his head. “Perhaps. But it was rather amusing to hear you say it.”
We step into the compartment, and he pushes the button for the parking garage. I rest against the wall. “When did you decide to cook up that story?”
He shrugs. “I felt so badly for you! He was practically licking his lips at you whilst he sat there making his own gravy in that hot, close room. And you were trying so hard to be nice, since he’s doing us such a huge favor…”
“You thought of that on the spot? The couch shopping, the baseball game, all of it?”
“Yeah. What do you think I do? Sit around all day thinking of ways to rescue you?”
I blush… again. “No!”
The elevator doors open. I step out and walk toward the place where I parked my car, but I stop short. He stops at the same time, pulling out his phone and gesturing exasperatedly.
“Oh, bollocks. They still haven’t come to get my sodding car.”
But I’m barely hearing him. I’m too busy looking at the empty parking space where my car was parked less than an hour ago. “Shit!”
He looks up. “What’s the matter?
“Somebody stole my car!” I cry, feeling sick to my stomach. I walk to the now-empty spot. “It was right here!” I throw my hands up and put them on my head. Ouch. I’m getting a bruise where I knocked heads with him.
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” he utters sympathetically. “Are you sure?”
When I nod, he says, “Well, I’d offer you a ride, but...” He motions to his own car, sitting two rows over. “I don’t think we’ll get very far in mine. It was coughing a fair bit on my way here.” He joins me in the parking space, careful not to step in the huge puddle of oil left by the thousands of cars that have temporarily resided here over the years. “I suppose you should call the police, right? I’m going to call the car club and ask them what’s taking so long for them to come get mine.”
“I can’t believe this,” I mutter, trying to decide whether to call information for the nearest police station or to just dial 911.
My mind’s racing. What am I going to do without my car? Ride the El? The bus? Yuck! Following a train or bus schedule is a real pain in the butt. I like going where I want to go, directly, non-stop. By myself. Riding along with strangers, especially the weird ones, breathing my air, invading my space, makes me feel claustrophobic.
“No, you haven’t. I’m looking straight at it right now. … Madame, I think I know what my own bloody car looks like…. What? … No, I’m not hurt! I’m English; that’s how I express displeasure…. It’s a bit shocking, actually, that you think you have my car but don’t.” He gives me a look that says, Can you believe this chick? (or probably more like bird, knowing him).
She says something, to which he replies, “Well, then whose car did you pick up? Because it wasn’t mine. I’m positive!”
Hope shines through my despair. “Ooh! Maybe they took my car by mistake!” I say loudly to him.
He shakes his head dismissively at first but then seems to think better of it. “Hang on, Miss…. Yes, I know I’m a rude foreigner. Hold that thought. Do you know the number plate of the car you claim to have towed?” He waits while she looks up the information.
I tell him mine: “762-PLO.”
His eyes widen, and he nods at me. I hop joyously.
“I think I know what happened,” he tells the customer service rep. After he explains the mix-up and goes back to being a “rude foreigner,” chastising the car club for not being more
