My first car was a Plymouth Turismo. I bought it from a friend of my sister’s for a couple hundred bucks. He didn’t take very good care of it, but it started up, even in the cold, without requiring any sort of ritual beforehand, as was the case with most of my friends’ shitty ’80s Dodges/Plymouths. Everyone I knew at the time had a similar car. My sister’s lousy ‘80-something Dodge Aries K required the driver to start it up, let it stall, then start it up again while pumping the gas pedal to get it going; and it sounded like an old coffee urn once it did.
The stern march of time had turned my Turismo into a somber shade of maroon. Its interior was a dull beige. I wonder what she looked like when she came off the line. The Turismo was an awkwardly designed car that was lost somewhere between sports car and hatchback. However, in the right light, I thought it looked sort of like a Delorean.
She wasn’t much for driving either. The poor misshapen brute was not long for the world. I wondered if each trip would be her last. One day, I was on my way to work at the comic book store in the Staten Island Mall (once located where a uniform shop now stands). It had just started raining, and I was approaching a traffic light on Richmond Hill Road, just around the corner from the parking light. I pulled into the turning lane and applied the brake.
It soon occurred to me that I was going to hit the car in front of me. I couldn’t have been doing more than 15 mph, but the old Turismo just wouldn’t stop. To this day, I’m sure that the car had had enough. She wanted to die. I made solid contact with the white Toyota in front of me. The other driver and I emerged unscathed, and we inspected both cars: hers had a small scrape on the bumper; on mine, the entire front grill—headlights and all—had fallen off. Later, I discovered that the large plastic piece was fastened on to the car with wire hangers.
The white Toyota drove away, and I was left to push the Turismo off to the side of the road. I never drove her again, but the sad part is I don’t remember her name.
Medium
I went to the mall to get my cell phone number changed to something more New York. I though I could do that at the mall’s AT&T kiosk. I hadn’t been to the mall since I’ve been back. I should refer to it as a proper noun. The Mall is the epicenter of Staten Island. I used to work there at a comic book store, right across from the Applebee’s. The Mall always makes me think of Christmas and sex. The only reason to go there is to buy Christmas gifts; either that, or you’re on the look out for short skirts in the food court.
When I entered, Axe Body Spray (or its equivalent) was thick in the air. A Hollister’s has sprouted up near the Macy’s entrance; I assumed that was its source. I walked through a Hollister’s once before, and it made me feel like I was on safari: The animals didn’t bother me, but I could tell they knew I didn’t belong there.
The AT&T kiosk was nearby. As it turned out, I had to call a number to get my number changed. There was a term the man behind the counter had for it, a painfully obvious phrase that escapes me right now. Change of Location. Something like that. To do so, I’d have to pay a $36 fee, which seems to be applied to any customer service AT&T offers. So my visit wasn’t a complete waste, I went for a walk.
I didn’t get far until I was stopped by a blonde woman working one of the carts. She barred my way and bade me to come closer. She was cute enough, so I did, even though I knew I was about to be solicited. I think I just wanted to hear compliments. “32? No,” she said in her Russian (or thereabouts) accent. “You look so young.” They seemed to be biting, so I fished some more.
“Yeah, right…”
“No really. I was going to say 26. It must be because you never got married,” she responded coyly.
“Well, I do still get carded,” I said, because I’m a douchebag.
She continued rubbing my hand with some kind of serum. She said it was made from Dead Sea waters and kept asking me if I’d heard of it. I answered with fun facts about the Dead Sea Scrolls and how nothing can live there, which she paid no mind to. She was mid-pitch. When she was done rubbing, she patted me down with a cotton ball, showing me how much gunk had been exfoliated. It was a fair amount, and my skin was fragrant silky smooth.
“It’s awesome,” she suggested.
“It is awesome!” I echoed, because I love infomercials.
The price she quoted for the cream was remarkably high, at least to me. I’m sure there are boutique salves and ointments that J-Lo uses to keep her tush well preserved, and they probably cost in the hundreds and up, but I’m reasonably sure you can’t get them from a mall kiosk.
I tried to make a quick escape, but she wasn’t going to let me get away without a fight. I’m a sucker. I buy things from women at mall kiosks all the time if they flirt with me enough. Going to strip clubs fulfills the same need, for a slightly higher price. But today, I wasn’t willing to part with $50—or even $25—for anything, so I held fast and eventually slithered away. Sitting in traffic on the way home, my car filled with the smell of my perfumed hand.
