Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [71]
One of the photographer’s cars, a small Dodge, suddenly pulls up on our right side. He has the usual complement of cameras around his neck, and he’s holding one out, shooting lots of photos. I recognize him from the time we took Thad to exercise at the club downtown, when we almost hit a wall. Just as I fasten my seat belt, Uber pulls into the side of the Dodge, the two cars grinding metal. I grab the dash as we’re pitched about.
—You want me to drive? I shout.
—No, that’s okay!
Uber clips his opponent’s front wheel, then swerves.
The guy tries to hold his car steady but a UPS truck comes to a dead stop in his lane. I hear the sound as the Dodge’s front end hits the rear of the truck.
When Thad and I go to the movie theater, we test our skills at driving with a game called DRAG RACE out in the lobby. He likes it when I strap him in to the plastic seat, and I always bring lots of quarters. Although some people think the object of the game is to get to the finish line in record time without hitting other vehicles or signs, for Thad it’s about the pleasure of crashing and burning, watching the way his Ford GT can launch into walls, partitions, palm trees, flag men, and desert landscapes. I wonder if Uber has the same feeling about the game.
—Don’t hesitate to let me drive, I say.
—Sorry. He’s been on my tail for months. I’ve tried to get a restraining order. So let’s see. Would you like to see a movie? Hit the shooting range? Indoor rock climbing? Fortuneteller?
—I’m afraid I get my fortune told more often than I’d like.
I start to explain about my brother when a police car overtakes us, sirens and lights, and Uber pulls over. The officer looks like he’s done a little boxing in his time. He stands about five feet nine or ten. Cheerless. Uber hands over his license and starts looking around the glove compartment for the registration while the cop shines his flashlight on us.
I’m trying to see this whole picture through his lens. A couple in flower delivery uniforms that clearly don’t fit, the woman with a bald head and the letter T stitched into the back of her scalp, the man with his head wrapped tighter than a mummy, with single-eye vision, and no flowers to speak of. The officer looks over Uber’s license, studies his half-shell face, and just as Uber opens his mouth ready to launch into an explanation that I would have paid to have heard, the guy starts to crack up.
—Oh man, am I happy to see you. Do you have any idea what my girlfriend is going to do when I bring home your autograph? You don’t mind signing something for me, do you? She’s your biggest fan. And I’ve been in the doghouse all week.
Uber removes his delivery shirt and underneath this is a button-down shirt that he also sheds and drapes neatly on the stick shift. Below this is a T-shirt he strips off, revealing his many scars, his recent cuts, and that fine torso. He stretches the T-shirt carefully over his lap and pulls a black marker from a leather bag, and scrawls his name.
—Mind? Uber says, and hands the supplies over to me.
—You’re her, aren’t you? the policeman asks.
—That would be me, I say.
—Damn, he says.
I add my signature above Uber’s. Meanwhile Uber fishes in his wallet and produces two front-tier tickets to his next competition.
—You guys need an escort anywhere?
—We’re cool, but there’s a Dodge back there that could use a little help.
After I’ve heard all the date offers again—water polo, nighttime boat ride, hot stone massage—I tell him what I really want is to just sit and talk for a while. So we head over to Peking Duck. Peking Duck gets a number of personalities that eat there regularly, like talking-head attorneys and owners of large car dealerships who star in their own bad commercials. No one ever bothers them. They never bothered Tommy or Allison either, so I figure we can eat a quiet meal.
Uber buttons up his shirt and I de-uniform. Once we’re seated inside, I watch Uber order cashew chicken, beef chow mein,