Words of Danny O'Bigbelly My idea of a good time

June 18, 2010

The author apologizes and offers assistance

Filed under: Travels with Danny — DannyO @ 12:57 am

Hello, dear readers!

One bit of feedback that I’ve received regarding the ‘Travels with Danny’ story is that it can be confusing, or at least a bit of an annoying puzzle, to understand what is going on because the entries are posted out of chronological order and there seem to be missing chapters.

The reason that there are missing chapters is because I haven’t written all the chapters yet. I post the entries in the order in which I finish them, which is not always in the order in which they would appear in a complete narrative. I do attempt to provide enough framing so that the reader will be able to assemble a coherent story, but, from the feedback I’ve received, I know that I have not succeeded.

The reason that the sequences of chapters that are complete also seem confusing is simply because my exposition is inadequately clear and detailed. I will endeavor to improve. The plot will either get easier to follow in the future (because as more entries are posted, more pieces of the puzzle will be available to the reader) or harder (puzzles with more pieces are harder). We’ll find out together.

In the meanwhile, I have provided the following list of entries, ordered and grouped by time represented by the present tense in each. Sometimes the dates are approximate, and I can’t promise that I won’t change things later, but I’ll update these lists regularly as things change or new entries are posted.

First, a chronology:

Next, the order in which reading the entries probably makes the most sense:

  1. Danny on the porch
  2. Danny makes an appointment
  3. Danny gets a mechanic
  4. Santiago’s Automobile Repair, Improvement, and Enhancement Shop
  5. Danny comes clean
  6. Danny learns about the Gusterfield
  7. Santiago takes the initiative
  8. Danny practices tuning in and turning on
  9. Not connected yet: Kate drops the ball

Happy reading!

June 17, 2010

Santiago takes the initiative

Filed under: Travels with Danny — DannyO @ 4:51 am

Santiago frowned. It was obvious that there was something on his mind. Danny didn’t know what it was, but he suspected that he was the source.

“Everyone is feeling the holiday stress this year. Mary is going crazy straightening up the house. We’re having my family up this year,” said Danny, to see if he could change the subject.

Santiago smiled. “That will be very nice. You won’t have to drive, and your daughters love it when their cousins visit.” Then he sighed and frowned again.

Danny exhaled slowly, and tried another approach. “So, you’re really letting Charlie do the Gusterfield? I am a little bit surprised, actually.”

Santiago shook his head. “Yes, but that is a story for another day. I will tell you how it comes out. But don’t worry; I wouldn’t let him do it if I thought that there was any chance of something going badly.”

Santiago shuffled through the alluvial stack of papers on his desk as if he was looking for something in particular.

“So, what are your plans for your drive across the country? You’re not going to leave while your family is still here, are you?” Santiago paused and gave Danny a direct look. “And how does Mary feel about this?”

“It’s a little bit complicated, but here’s the plan in a nutshell. Saturday the twenty-sixth, I leave at the crack of dawn. I drive across the country, arriving in San Jose on or before January third. My friend drives me to San Francisco airport, that night, and I take the red-eye home, and I’m back at my desk on Monday morning the fourth. Approximately three thousand miles in nine days of driving; an average of three hundred and thirty-three miles per day. Six hours or so behind the wheel each day. It’s achievable.”

Santiago clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “It’s going to seem like you’re doing nothing but driving. You’ll have no time to stop and see anything. The days are short at this time of the year. All the daylight hours will be spent driving. I think you will regret it.”

Danny smiled. “I know. But I’m not going to drive only during the day. There’s a full moon on the thirty-first; it will be good driving conditions at night, as long as it doesn’t snow, and I should be able to get a lot of miles in at night. You know I’m an early riser. I should be able to get at least a hundred miles in before most people start their breakfast. I can do three hundred miles before lunch, no problem.”

Santiago was unconvinced, but knew that arguing numbers with Danny was futile. “But why not take more time? There is so much to see.”

Danny’s smile returned. “It was all the time Mary would give me!” He laughed. “The girls are great, but it’s a lot of work to take care of them alone, especially when they’re not in school. She’s going to get a little vacation of her own sometime next year.”

“What’s she going to do?”

“I don’t know yet. She’ll let me know.” Danny smiled.

Santiago laughed. “She’ll probably think of something better than sitting in a car for a week. You know, I have always thought that she is the smart one.”

Danny laughed, but with a hint of annoyance. “Yes, I’ve heard that too. And it’s probably true.”

“But you must have something planned. People you want to see? Places you want to visit?”

“A few. Not too many. And I am making it clear to everyone that I am at the mercy of the weather. I want to visit some friends in Denver, for example, but if there is a problem with snow, then I’ll take a more southern route.”

Santiago perked up. “If you stop in Denver, I hope you will have an opportunity to visit my god-daughter Jenny Dalton. I’m sure you remember her, and she would love to see you. She has turned into quite a young businesswoman, and I am delighted that she has taken my advice and decided to follow in my footsteps.”

“She is a mechanic?”

Santiago forgave the unintended insult without even a grimace, but could not let the point escape without comment.

“Danny, you know that I am not a mechanic, no more than you are a mathematician,” Santiago began, recalling a previous conversation in which Danny had complained, in a way that Santiago had found somewhat ridiculous, that his job did not utilize his training and gift, such as it might be, for mathematical insight.

“I do know something about repairing, improving and enhancing automobiles. Perhaps more than some of the so-called garage mechanics plying their trade on unsuspecting motorists. But I am not an expert; I hire experts to handle that aspect of the business, and I make sure that they keep up with their training so that they are always at the vanguard of their field.”

Santiago paused, having corrected Danny. Danny did not rise to the bait of what he believed to be false modesty; he had seen Santiago at work with his team. Even though Danny wouldn’t claim to know one end of a wrench from the other, he recognized the respect and attention that the other mechanics gave Santiago. The other mechanics watched everything that Santiago did with the eyes of students, hoping to learn a new trick from a master.

“What I do is very simple,” Santiago continued. “I make the problems of my customers my own. My customers know that my staff and I will not be happy until they are happy. Any good garage follows this philosophy, but perhaps we do it slightly better than most. Our rates are fair, and we treat our customers well, and so our customers are happy and loyal. Automobiles inevitably need repairs, and therefore we are both successful and profitable.”

“So, Jennifer is running a garage?”

“No, although it would make me happier if she was.”

Santiago paused before continuing, still leafing through the papers on his desk. “She runs a small funeral home. A very interesting line of work.”

“I can’t say that I know much about it.”

“You will, someday.”

Danny shrugged his shoulders and both men exchanged a look. Both men shook their heads. At their ages, they knew that it was inevitable that they would be making arrangements for their parents in the not-to-distant future, and this had been a topic of previous conversations. Danny made a mental note that he really needed to buy a black suit. Funerals were becoming more frequent events on his calendar than weddings and he knew that the balance would only shift farther and farther in that direction. Eventually, he’d need a dark suite to be buried in. He’d be damned before he’d spend eternity dressed in tweeds or a blazer left over from his brief career at the chalkboard.

“Aha!” announced Santiago, fishing a heap of yellowing paper from the forgotten strata near the wood of his desk. “Some notes I made from my own travels, many years ago. I drove around some of the country for a while, exploring. A little aimlessly. Not like your dash from sea to shining sea with little more than pit stops along the way.”

He handed Danny the pile. He did not mention that for several years after his travels, he had imagined writing a travel guide based on his experiences. He hadn’t made it much farther than choosing a title: “Drive through your midlife crisis!” had seemed like a winning choice.

Santiago gave Danny a careful look, as he remembered his own travels. He laced his fingers beneath his chin.

“Now Danny, we must talk about the girl at some point. I think there may be more that you want to tell me about her, or maybe even more than you realized. You said that the story is complicated, but not in the usual ways, and this piques my curiosity. I enjoy complicated, unusual things. And, who knows? Maybe it will not seem as complicated, once we’ve talked about it.”

“Perhaps.”

Santiago did not press the point. He knew that it would be best to let Danny tell the story his own way, when he was ready.

“But now, Danny, I would like your advice about something.” Santiago leaned forward, with a conspiratorial tone in his voice. “Did you notice anything about the Accord that came in just after you? The young man driving the Accord, I mean.”

Danny confessed that he had not even noticed the man, but he did not confess that he hadn’t really noticed anything because he was so preoccupied by his worry that Santiago would call him into his office.

“Perhaps this will jog your memory. The young man came in, and sat across from you, next to an attractive woman with curly red hair, and blue eyes, wearing in a green sweater.”

“Yes, I remember her.”

Santiago had expected that her appearance would have been memorable.

“A very nice young woman. Just moved to the area a year ago.” Santiago gave a short sigh.

Danny did not ask how she had been able to jump the waiting list and become a customer of Santiago in a year, because such a question would be horribly rude, but Danny knew that it had nothing to do with her looks.

“She is very involved in her career. The details are unimportant, I think, but the fact is that she does not know many people here, and she is single. I believe that her family lives in Ohio, and she doesn’t see them much. In any case, the story behind the young man is in similar situation. Young, single, career-oriented, lonely.”

“How can you know this about these people?”

“Please, Danny. She drives a used Prelude! Is there anything else that I need to say about her? And I’ve seen the cabin of his automobile. The evidence is overwhelming.”

“You really go through people’s stuff?”

Santiago looked embarrassed. “Perhaps I exaggerate my forensic skills again via implication. To be honest, I should also mention that I have had conversations with each of them.”

Danny smiled. He wondered what Santiago was thinking.

“In any case, such information is only the background for the events of this afternoon,” Santiago continued. “To make a long story short–they have been having a cordial conversation almost since the moment that he sat down. In fact, this conversation is the high point in each of their days so far. I would say they are, perhaps, simpatico? Would you agree?”

Danny nodded. He could remember watching them talk. He had idly thought that they might be old friends meeting again after a long separation, rather than people who had just met.

“But he is a chowderhead when it comes to women,” Santiago continued, “And she is too traditional. Her automobile will be ready soon. In fact, it’s been ready for several minutes. I am giving him some time, but I can’t hold her here forever. I told her that her automobile would be ready at 4:00, and so, in about ten minutes, at 3:52, Cherry will tell her that it is ready.”

Santiago paused again, then pushed the intercom button on his desk. “Cherry, has their been any change in Mr. Green’s situation?”

“As far as I can tell, no change,” answered Cherry’s muffled voice.

Santiago looked disappointed. “You see, a chowderhead. Smart, nice, polite, but lacking certain elements of a practical education.”

“I’m afraid that I’m missing the point,” Danny said, after a short pause.

“The point is that if they don’t exchange phone numbers or email addresses or something in the next nine minutes, both of them are going to let a wonderful opportunity slip through their fingers.”

Danny was relieved. “For a moment, when you said that her family lived in Ohio, I imagined that you were going to ask if I’d drop her off in Ohio, or something like that.”

Santiago was unfazed. “Danny, you must learn to focus on the problems of the people around you, and not always on your own. And anyway, why would I ask you to do such a thing? Would you have considered doing it?”

“No. I don’t think it would be a good idea to sit in a car for all those hours with a complete stranger. Risky. We might not get along.”

“I think the two of you would get along fine. You both know how to get along,” answered Santiago. “But I wouldn’t ask you to do such a thing. For your trip, it makes no sense. Do you know that old Billy Joel song? About the stranger? My friend, when you drive alone across the country on this personal adventure, I think that the stranger will be sitting next to you for the entire time.”

Danny was distracted by his own thoughts, and the implication of Santiago’s prediction didn’t sink in until several days later.

“So, they’re both Honda drivers. Do you foresee them buying an Odyssey in a few years, and filling it with kids?” Danny joked.

Santiago gave him a sour look, quickly transitioning to one of forgiveness; Danny was kind-hearted but innocent, and could not have known what he was implying. “No. The fact that she drives a Honda is the outcome of a long string of irrelevant events, not an conscious and voluntary choice. He is a Honda man, but she is not. No, I see him in an Acura, and her in a Volvo v70 Cross Country. But first things first. As the poet said, ‘For all sad words of tongue and pen, The saddest are these, ‘I didn’t get her number’, or something like that.”

“But what can you do? How can you make sure that they exchange numbers?”

“I will infer from the fact that you ask the question, and your choice of phrasing, that you agree that it should be done. And so I shall do what I can, but there is no time to explain.”

Santiago pressed the button on his intercom again. “Cherry, please perform a ‘forget-me-not’ on Miss Reilly. If that doesn’t work, please send Mr. Green in to see me. Do not release Miss Reilly’s automobile without my OK.”

Santiago turned back to Danny. “Please excuse me now. I have some work that requires my attention.”

Danny rose and started toward the door, but Santiago stopped him.

“I almost forgot. The automobile of your friend–it is now a Santiago automobile. But in return, I hope that you will do me two favors: first, I never want to see that car in my lot again, and second, that you will tell me all about your trip in February, when you will bring in your Saab for its 60,000-mile tuneup.”

Danny and Santiago smiled at each other.

“I will tell you everything,” Danny replied. “Goodbye, until then. Happy holidays!”

“Yes, happy holidays! Best to you and the family, and give Mary an extra hug for me.”

Santiago turned back to the papers on his desk and Danny exited the office, closing the door gently behind him. The waiting room was somewhat less crowded than it had been, and Danny found an empty chair across from Mr. Green. He was still talking with Miss Reilly. Danny could overhear most of their conversation; they had been comparing notes on the best places to get bagels in Brookline, but while Danny listened the discourse pirouetted gracefully but unexpectedly in the direction of apple-picking and farm stands in Concord, a subject about which both speakers seemed knowledgeable and passionate.

Danny pretended to read a year-old copy of ‘People’ magazine while listening. In a moment, he saw Cherry approach Miss Reilly, carrying a clipboard.

“Miss Reilly, I have some good news; your car is almost ready,” began Cherry. “You’ll be on your way very shortly. But first, could you do me a small favor? The computer is having a problem. I can’t find your contact info. We like to have your contact info, so we can follow up if there’s any need. Could please you fill out this form and bring it up to me when we call you to tell you that your car is ready? Thanks.”

“Do I really need to fill out all of this?” Miss Reilly asked.

“Oh, no, honey”, answered Cherry. “I’m sorry; I should have said so. Just your cell phone number, or however you prefer to be reached. The important thing is that we have some way to reach you. We don’t want you to just drive away tonight and never be able to reach you again,” she added in a kidding voice.

Danny thought Cherry was overplaying it a bit.

Cherry walked back to her desk.

The clipboard had several copies of the form, and two pens. Miss Reilly wrote down her name and cell phone number and put the clipboard down on the table in front of her.

“You know, I was thinking…” began Mr. Green, somewhat bashfully, “Would you mind if I gave you my number?”

Miss Reilly smiled. It was a warm and honest smile. “No, not at all. And let me give you mine.”

As he pretended to read about alleged celebrities of which he’d never heard, Danny smiled too.

June 15, 2010

Kate drops the ball

Filed under: Travels with Danny — DannyO @ 8:00 pm

Kate never liked The Doors. Perhaps she had liked them when she was a kid, but by the time she had bloomed into young womanhood, thirty-some-odd years ago, her revulsion had been well established. There had never been a time that she could remember when she hadn’t reached to change the station the moment she recognized one of their songs coming out of the speakers on her dashboard while she was driving. Kate had long since discarded most of the affectations of her youth, and would now eat sushi, listen to opera, wear denim and sneakers, change poopy diapers, squish spiders, and say disapproving things when a boy driving a chrome-festooned, grumbling, muscle-car drove by, but she had never outgrown her dislike of The Doors.

Kate had discovered that she disliked The Doors at approximately the same point in her life that she discovered the wonders of french kissing. Although these two aspects of her personal taste were acquired at almost the same time, and under circumstances that were intimately connected, they did not occupy the same rank in the hierarchy of her passions. She could tolerate listening to The Doors, and often did–when a Doors song came on the radio of her friends cars, or appeared in a soundtrack of a movie she liked, or sometimes as background music at the mall. She could take them or leave them, but preferred the latter, when the choice was hers, and particularly when she was alone with her thoughts. If asked to name ten things, or twenty things, or possibly even one hundred things that she didn’t like, Kate probably would not have mentioned the music of the The Doors, but she disliked it enough so that when it came on the radio, she reacted.

But kissing was a passion for Kate. There was no leeway here. Kate craved kissing. Asked to name her ten things that she liked, Kate probably would have to fight against the impulse to name ten different types of kisses.

Kate had been fifteen when she discovered boys–or, more precisely, that boys would kiss her. Like any girl or boy of her generation, she had endured learning the clinical definition of the process of procreation at the well-intentioned but ice-cold hands of the public educational system. She knew what to expect, and what to do about it before, during and afterward, but the curriculum had omitted several very important points regarding what Kate was or was not actually going to enjoy. Her friends had compared rumors, speculations, and the occasional nugget of hard-won empirical data, and tried to fill in the gaps of their knowledge with information inferred from the innuendo of movies and television shows their parents let them watch, romance novels spirited away from their mother’s nightstands, and the lyrics of popular music that made their parents blush. They told each other that they were ready to go all the way, but their common sense spoke to them in quiet moments and reminded them of the opposite. Like all of her friends, Kate was a virgin when she entered her sophomore year of high school, but she was untroubled. As far as she was concerned, the risks appeared to far outweigh the rewards. Sex could wait.

Greg Loomis could not have agreed less.

At the ripe age of seventeen, Greg had been waiting to have sex with someone for as long as his hormone-addled brain could clearly remember. Although he was dimly aware of a time when the teenage girls he saw every day at high school and every night in his dreams had not held any particular fascination, these memories seemed to belong to a different person, a person without appetites, desires, or lusts.

Kate no longer remembered most of the details leading up to the day that she and Greg became an item, since they were completely overshadowed in importance by the life-changing revelations of the afternoon. She remembered that she had been excited about a plan to hike up to the summit of Mount Wilson with a mixed group of her friends, but for various forgotten reasons all of her friends except Greg had decided to hang out in town instead of making the climb. The weather was too beautiful to waste, so she and Greg had decided make the hike anyway.

Greg had no particular designs on Kate as they hiked through the woods. To the best of his knowledge, sex was conducted in bedrooms, in the dark, between clean, soft sheets. It certainly did not happen in the bright sunlight, especially in the vicinity of mud, chiggers, ticks, mosquitoes, and poison ivy. His thoughts were probably as chaste as they’d ever been at any time he’d been alone with a girl since his voice had started to change.

And yet, when they paused at one of the scenic outlooks, their skin flushed with exertion and minds overwhelmed with the beauty arrayed below them, they embraced, and then kissed. Kate could not remember who made the first move. It happened quickly and awkwardly, but the details were unimportant. She was not coerced and did not feel uncomfortable. She was carried away by the feeling.

The wonderful sensation of kissing amazed Kate with its power and complexity. It never felt the same way twice, but it always felt good. Kate wished it could go on forever, but after thirty minutes, her mouth was dry. They hadn’t brought anything to drink. They walked back to town. Kate couldn’t remember what they had talked about during the walk back. Her mind was elsewhere.

The romance lasted another seven days. It was based entirely on Kate’s bottomless hunger for kisses and Greg’s hope that their make-out sessions would lead to something more. They didn’t talk, and there probably wasn’t much to say. When Greg made his ultimatum–second base or it was all over–Kate ended it. There were no tears or drama.

Kate always felt thankful to Greg, in a small way, for showing her what she did and would always want most out of life, and starting her on her life-long journey for a man who could give her a perfect, hour-long kiss as well as making her happy when they weren’t kissing.

But all knowledge comes at a price. Greg had been an enormous fan of The Doors. It was his preferred make-out music, and at one point Kate was convinced that he really believed that reciting Jim Morrison’s lyrics would convince her to unsnap her Levis for him. Kate would always feel a small bit of disappointment that she’d given her first passionate kiss–lovely though it had been–to a boy who thought that the lyrics of “Light My Fire” were deep, meaningful, and seductive.

And thus, as Kate was traveling west on Route 70 through Kansas, and she heard the ascending drone that marks the beginning of “L.A. Woman”, she reflexively reached to change the station. Since none of the presets worked properly, more than 200 miles from her home outside Denver, it took her a moment to figure out how to change the channels in her husband’s car. This took enough of her attention away from her driving that she didn’t notice the state troopers waiting behind the ramp south of Goodland as she passed them at eighty-five miles per hour.

This close to the border, the troopers were uninterested in a car with Colorado plates, who was probably a local, going only ten miles per hour over the limit. They waited for better prey.

Ten miles behind Kate, Danny checked on his passengers in the rear view mirror. They seemed to be sleeping. He turned and smiled at his passenger in the front seat, but received only a sour look in response from Mr. Lin. Danny knew he was still unhappy that they were behind schedule. He did not feel reckless; the road was clear and dry, and Danny had the left lane to himself. Danny checked his cell phone to make sure that it was charged, on, and that his headset was working properly. Everything was fine. There were no speed-traps ahead; Kate would have called him.

Danny pressed the accelerator down slightly farther, and watched the needle on the speedometer creep toward ninety-five.

June 14, 2010

Danny practices turning on and tuning in

Filed under: Travels with Danny — DannyO @ 4:47 am

The neighbors probably wondered why Danny was freezing his ass off, sitting in a strange car in the middle of the night, playing with the dashboard, but Danny was unconcerned.
An important task on Danny’s to-do list before the trip was to master the technique of finding new stations on the radio in Madoka’s car, and that was first on his list of things to do tonight.

There was no point in pre-programming any particular stations, because he would probably only be in range of any specific station for a few hours at most. Since Danny’s usual habit while driving long distances was to dart from channel to channel to avoid commercials, songs he didn’t like, or annoying announcers, Danny believed that dexterity with the radio was a basic driving skill, essential to both enjoyment and safety.

Although Danny knew that each individual radio usually had a fairly simple and straight-forward way of seeking to the next station with a strong signal, Danny had learned from experience that these simple mechanisms were often remarkably different from one radio to the next. After years of frequent travel and thousands of miles driven in rental cars of every description, Danny knew this very well. He had once spent an entire weekend confusing the tuning knob of the radio with the volume knob, and the volume knob with the thermostat. An especially memorable weekend, it had turned out, because Danny’s travel companion, a senior sales representative, had strongly disapproved of Danny’s preferences for both music and temperature, and described his displeasure using particularly graphic and earthy analogies which might, in a different era, been answerable only by a duel.

Danny half-regretted not purchasing a satellite radio for a moment, but it was a brief moment. He felt that it didn’t make sense to drive across the country and listen to the same location-agnostic music for the entire trip–he wanted to hear local voices, local music, and local advertisements. Ten years earlier, Danny might not have believed that radio programs could vary so much from city to city, but his work, which had required regular travel to several cities, had taught him otherwise. In Boston, the oldies stations played Aerosmith; in San Francisco, Journey. In Saint Louis, he couldn’t find a station that wasn’t almost entirely rap or hip-hop, and in Austin he couldn’t find much rap at all. Lou Reed was only played in New York, and grunge had retreated to Seattle. In Los Angeles, Danny preferred to listen to the Spanish-language programs; even though he didn’t know what the announcers were saying, he enjoyed their style and enthusiasm.

Danny didn’t know much about the spaces between the cities he visited, but he hoped there would be interesting things on the airwaves there. He expected the voices on the radio to be his most constant companions on his long drive, and he looked forward to hearing new ones. He hoped that he’d hear something other than homogenized Clear Channel stations on his trip.

Danny reflected on the thoughts he had had about various “on-air” personalities over the years. What were those people really like, when they went home after the show? Was their on-air persona based on their real personality, or was it a completely scripted fabrication? If he met any of these people off-air, would their personalities be what he imagined? Would he even recognize their voices?

Danny had given this topic some thought in the past. He knew that most of his knowledge, such as it was, about the world financial markets could be traced back to his brief fascination–or perhaps infatuation–with Deborah Marchini, which co-chaired the morning financial report, with Stuart Varney, on CNN.

Danny had been a regular viewer because he found Deborah irresistible. There was something about her voice, which seemed simultaneously playful and serious, with a slightly drawl, that he found mesmerizing. Her hair and face were perfect, of course, as only the hair and face of a woman with a staff of makeup artists lurking off-camera between commercials can be, but Danny didn’t really know how she looked. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her in profile, or from any other angle than straight on. Her torso might have ended immediately below the table top, for all he knew, but he also knew that it didn’t matter. Her intonation made everything sound interesting and fun.

Danny suspected that female viewers would feel the same way about Stuart Varney. Perhaps there was a little something going on between them? They had a certain repartee. They seemed to be having a good time.

Danny also reflected on the voice of Laura Carlo on WCRB (Boston’s classical musical station, now also serving Cape Cod and the Islands on …), who he had, for years, listened to almost every morning, and Dick Pleasants on WUMB (folk music radio) on the ride home, because their voices possessed such amazing character.

Danny suspected that Laura Carlo could seduce him in thirty seconds over the phone. Her voice had the acoustic equivalent of a pheromone or some such similar basic biological phenomenon. There was never anything overtly sexy or flirty in her voice as she introduced each piece of music, or commented on the weather, but Danny knew that this could all change in a moment, and he could imagine the result. If she ever ended her introduction of a piece with something like “This is really long one, and it gets so lonely here in the station… the first man here can talk to me alone for thirty minutes” there would be a thousand men reaching for their car keys before the needle dropped on the record.

In constrast, there as something so calming, peaceful, and utterly serene about the voice of Dick Pleasants that Danny often wondered whether it was legal to listen to him without a prescription.

Danny once made the mistake of going to their stations web sites and found their press kit photos. He’d always imagined Laura to something like Deborah Marchini, but with darker hair. He had imagined Dick Pleasants looking something like Stuart Varney, but with a pony tail, a cigarette, and three-days growth of beard.

He was wrong on both counts. They looked like ordinary, professional people. There was nothing in their photographs that suggested the mesmerizing power of their voices–but then again, why would there be? They were already perfect, in their environment.

Danny knew that the faces he had imagined for Laura and Dick were symptoms of deep-seated prejudices, but he also that it was simply human nature to have imagined them to look like people whose appearance was known and pleasant. The face Danny had imagined for Laura, he had realized, had been based on his memory of Vanessa, a girl he had known in high school, and who had possessed a similarly playful voice, and whose physique and features had been fodder for many fantasies entertained privately by Danny and many other members of his cohort. Although Vanessa’s sphere of influence had been extensive, Danny was sure that it was smaller than the broadcast range of WCRB, and thus he felt reasonably sure that there were other listeners who, when hearing Laura’s voice, imagined a different face.

Danny idly wondered what had become of Vanessa. He hadn’t heard from her since Freshman year in college, and that was more than twenty years ago. He wondered if he’d recognize her, if he passed her on the street. He thought that it was unlikely, or that she would recognize–or even remember–him.

Danny fiddled with the radio controls until he felt comfortable using them, and could operate the important controls without looking.

He had an iPod full of music, and an iPod-to-cassette adapter, for times when he couldn’t find anything good, or needed to take control over what he was hearing. There are times when a man simply needs to hear The Faces or some old Billy Joel, after all. He had also prepared a thin pouch of his favorite CDs, as a last-ditch fallback.

Danny then moved on to test the power inverter he had bought earlier that day, to make sure that he could recharge his phone, laptop, GPS, and iPod on the move without popping a fuse. The inverter made him nervous, with its large heat-sink radiator, and he had visions of setting car on fire, but he knew that he might have to use it.

The most important unknown in Danny’s plan was the weather, which would determine his route. Danny hoped to take a fairly direct route, but knew that he might have to detour around any major snow storms. He was tempted to take a conservative southern route, but he knew that this could add days of driving to his trip, and he was unwilling to base his plans on such pessimistic assumptions. Instead, his trip plan was left undetermined–he would watch the weather, and gauge his weariness, and choose where to eat and where to stop each night accordingly. With the maps he’d downloaded into his computer and the GPS attached to the computer, he could find the nearest motel, truck stop, greasy spoon, or gas station from almost any location on the continental United States.

Danny was a careful planner, because he enjoyed careful planning, but he also recognized the limits of planning.

Gathering up all of his gadgets, Danny locked Madoka’s car and returned to the warmth of his house. There were other items on his to-do list, but he was nearly ready.

June 12, 2010

Danny learns about the Gusterfield

Filed under: Travels with Danny — DannyO @ 1:54 pm

Most of what Danny knew about the Gusterfield had been told to him several years earlier by Santiago, although since then he had heard additional–and sometimes contradictory–details from Santiago’s staff.

The Gusterfield, or, as it is properly called, the William T. Gusterfield Automobile Identify Exchange Challenge, has, in the modern competitive era, been held on the evening of the first school day after the Feast of the Vision of Jerome Tidswell of Worcester, which usually falls in early January.

The Feast of the Vision of Jerome, which is not recognized as a holiday by the Catholic church, but only celebrated by a humble sect of automobile mechanics, dealers, and related mystics, commemorates Jerome’s vision of the Virgin Mary, which came to him early one Monday evening in January, after the first major snow storm of the season. As is the long-established tradition in Massachusetts, during the morning of the first commute after the first major snow storm each year approximately half of the driving populace, self-selected by a mysterious process that some call fate, and others call destiny, remember that they have snow tires stored in the back of their garage, and go in search of someone with an impact wrench and a hydraulic jack who, for a reasonable fee, will mount them on their vehicles. And thus it was that Jerome, exhausted after a thirteen-hour day of wrestling tires, was surprised by the sensation of the small hairs on the back of his neck standing straight up. Complete silence fell over the garage, even though Jerome’s partner, Jessie “Squeaky” Lynn was working in the adjacent bay, because good mechanics know that it is dangerous to work alone. Jerome turned to call to Squeaky, but stopped, astonished. She was there. She seemed to float a few inches above the floor and radiate a soft yellow light. Jerome was ready to chalk it up to a waking dream, brought on by the monotonous but physically and mentally exhausting work, but then she began to speak.

They had a brief conversation, and then she was gone. The glow faded, and Jerome heard Squeaky working again. Squeaky hadn’t seen or heard anything. Jerome shook his head, and then asked Squeaky to join him for a cup of coffee.

Jerome told Squeaky of his vision, and later that evening he also told his girlfriend, but he didn’t tell anyone else. Nevertheless, word began to spread of Jerome and his vision, until one bright day in April, a few months after the incident, Jerome was visited by three gentlemen from the Vatican.

Two of the men were young, perhaps in their thirties, and reminded Jerome of the secret service men he had seen on television protecting the President. They did not speak very much, but seemed extremely alert and aware of their surroundings. The third man was middle-aged. In manner, he reminded Jerome of the priests he had had as teachers in his days as a student at Immaculata High School. He spoke English well, but with an accent that Jerome could only identify as European. He did not think that the men were Italian.

The older man asked Jerome a few questions about what the Virgin Mary had said to Jerome, but he did not have many answers. It had been a short conversation. When he ran out of questions, Jerome told the older man what he had missed.

“She didn’t tell me about world events, or prophecies, or anything like that. What she told me was that she wished her son had given her grandchildren for her old age, and that she was disappointed that he’d been so absorbed in his career that he never came to visit her. It was very disappointing to her.”

The two younger men exchanged meaningful looks, eyes wide.

“And then she gave me this,” Jerome continued, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a miraculous medal on a thin silver chain. “She told me you’d come,” he said, handing the medal to the middle-aged priest, “and she told me to give this to you. She said that you should give it to your mother, immediately. She said your mother misses her little Nico. I’m guessing that that’s you.”

There were tears in the eyes of Father Nicholas as the three men left Jerome. Two days later, there were more tears as he visited his mother in the hospital of his home town in Austria, and returned to her the medal she had traded for food to feed her son during the turmoil after the great war. There were more tears two days later, when it was discovered that she has passed away in her sleep during the night.

As the Vision of Jerome is considered by some to be evidence of the divine, the Gusterfield is unquestionably profane, but both are joined by a certain element of undeniable grace.

The origins of the Gusterfield are the subject of much argument and controversy, but a central and widely accepted canon has emerged. Some time in the early Fall of 1996, Thomas Gusterfield, a junior mechanic in the city of Utica, New York, was working on the power window assembly of a Chrysler Town & Country minivan belonging to a pleasant and well-regarded elementary schoolteacher. In an accident whose exact nature is as contentious as it is irrelevant, Thomas, or possibly one of his coworkers, dropped either seven or nine 3/8-inch locking washers through the window gap and down into the open door assembly. Whether Thomas knew that this had happened before he reassembled the door and reinstalled the window is a question that only Thomas can honestly answer.

At the end of the day, the schoolteacher picked up her minivan, and, having proven to her own satisfaction that the window was working properly, drove home.

The next morning, the schoolteacher reappeared at the garage in a somewhat less than affable frame of mind. The minivan, she explained with the careful diction and patience of an annoyed schoolteacher, had a new problem. It rattled, and the rattle was tremendously annoying. It seemed to get worse with each bump in the road.

“It sounds like someone dropped a handful of change into a blender,” she asserted.

A test drive proved that her metaphor was adequate, although not precise. Dominic, the senior mechanic, voiced an opinion that it sounded more like dried pinto beans rattling around in a kettle, and Freddy, the cashier, could not be swayed from his position that 1/4-inch ball bearings must be involved somehow. Chuck, the owner, and perhaps the most worldly-wise of the staff, thought it sounded like a pair of belly dancers hip scarves tumble-drying on low heat. In the moment, nobody thought to question the provenance of these theories, and the stories behind them have, unfortunately, been lost forever.

“I don’t care what’s making the noise. I just want it to stop. You broke it; you fix it,” the schoolteacher summarized.

Many ideas were discussed. Few were considered worthy of deep consideration. Years later, Santiago had explained, some friendships have still not completely recovered from the stress of those arguments.

Because Danny was not a mechanic, and did not have a deep understanding or appreciation of the difficulties involved, Santiago had elided most of the detail about the strategies used in the various attempts to removed the washers, although he did stress that the mechanics were clever, competent and professional, and their painstaking taxonomy of approaches could be used, in his opinion, as the basis for a case whose careful study would benefit every mechanic working in the milieu of Chrysler minivans, if not the profession as a whole.

But nothing worked. The washers were impossible to locate or remove. It was as if the door contained a hidden oubliette for small washers.

At the end of the afternoon, in the golden hour of the day, the schoolteacher returned to the garage to find that no progress had been made. When the schoolteacher overheard the mechanics seriously debating whether supernatural forces might be involved, she interrupted them and refocused their attention on the problem with a few carefully-chosen words.

“I want my car fixed, and I don’t expect to pay for your screw-ups. Have it done tomorrow, or I’m taking it to another shop and I’m taking you to small claims court for whatever it costs, plus whatever else I can think of. I don’t care how you do it. Just do it.”

Dominic, the senior mechanic, sent his workers home to rest, but not before asking them to spend the evening wracking their brains for new ideas. It had been a long day, and tomorrow would be even longer, because they had lost so much time that day. Only Thomas Gusterfield remained behind, haunted by the feeling that he had overlooked something.

The next morning, an exhausted Thomas called the schoolteacher and told her that her minivan was ready to be picked up. She arrived shortly thereafter, gave the minivan a test drive, pronounced it fixed, and drove off.

Exactly how the mystery of how Thomas had solved the problem was revealed to his coworkers is a point of impossible, endless debate, but what was revealed is a matter of agreement.

In the small hours of the morning, Thomas, having thought of an experiment he wanted to try, found himself sleepily preparing to disassemble the door handle assembly of the wrong minivan–another Town & Country that had been left overnight.

“It’s not that the two minivans were that similar,” Santiago had explained, “It’s that nobody cares about the difference. Minivans are not personal vehicles. They are anonymous. The differences between them are ignored or assumed to be unintentional.”

Thomas immediately understood the implication of his mistake, and the rest of the idea came quickly.

Thomas carefully exchanged the contents of the two minivans, including the ignition switches and keyless entry systems, and license plates. It required great attention to detail. After reprogramming the radio stations and updating the vehicle inspection histories and stickers, he felt confident that his deception would work.

The success of the exchange depended, as deceptions often do, on personal knowledge of the owner of each minivan. While the schoolteacher was intolerant of noises, the owner of the second minivan, a middle-manager at a local canning company named Laurie Jensen, might be described in the opposite terms. She was intolerant of quiet. She liked to listen to music while she drove, usually at the maximum sustained volume achievable by her vehicle. It was not an exaggeration to say that her arrival was anticipated long before her car was visible.

Laurie Jensen drove her minivan for years before changes in her musical tastes permitted the rattle to be noticed, and by then Chuck had been able to have prepared a suitable long-term solution. In the meanwhile, the story of Thomas Gusterfield slowly spread through the community of mechanics, until eventually the idea of basing a competitive sport on the exchange of automobile identities was developed, refined, and codified.

Thomas Gusterfield, however, never competed in the competition that bears his name. Not long after the events of the story, Thomas left his position in Utica, and moved somewhere out west. Nobody seemed to know where he had gone, or whether he was even a mechanic any more. Not even his parents knew his whereabouts.

As Santiago told him this, Danny half suspected that his leg was being pulled expertly, although Santiago was not the kind of person to take any joy from a joke at the expense of a friend or customer, and so he thought carefully before answering when Santiago ended his story with a question.

“Now, Danny, I would like to test your powers of observation. Did you notice anything about the story of Thomas Gusterfield that struck you as unusual or inconsistent? Some missing detail?”

Danny did not hesitate, because there had been something about the story that had seemed out of place.

“The schoolteacher. What was her name? All of the other people you mentioned in the story had names–even though the names were not really relevant.”

Santiago smiled. “Very good. Very good. Most people do not notice that, especially mechanics. It is a point of professional discretion that customers are not normally named in such stories.”

“But you mentioned the name of the other customer–Laurie Jensen.”

“Yes. I thought perhaps a clue would be necessary.”

“So, you don’t really know the name of the other customer?”

“Well, in this case I do. But it is irrelevant to the story.”

“But you said you gave me a clue. You wanted me to notice.”

“Yes, but I was not expecting the conversation to unfold so inelegantly. Now I am a bit unprepared.” Santiago shrugged.

“The thing that most people notice is that Thomas left. He left very soon after the time of the story. But why? That is the question most people ask. Perhaps it is a symptom of the entire story being bullshit–or perhaps there were further events? What do you think?”

“You told me that my observation about the schoolteacher’s anonymity was good. Therefore perhaps these two things are related.”

“Yes, very good again.” Santiago paused. “I think in a moment you will understand the collective shame many of my peers feel about the Gusterfield, and the reason why Thomas left the area so soon after.”

Santiago collected his thoughts. Danny gave him time.

“Danny, this is why I hate the Gusterfield. It is a terrible thing to deceive a customer, even for a harmless reason. But it is even worse… The name of the schoolteacher is Anna Gusterfield, and Thomas Gusterfield is her youngest son.”

June 11, 2010

Danny comes clean

Filed under: Travels with Danny — DannyO @ 2:19 am

As soon as the door had closed behind him, Santiago smiled at Danny.

“Please, take a seat,” he suggested, with a smile. “It is good to see you again. It’s been too long.”

Santiago could see that Danny was still on guard.

“We might as well get this out of the way now,” Santiago continued. “I would like to know about the vehicle.”

“It’s not mine, but I’m borrowing it for a while, and it needs work done. So even though it doesn’t technically belong to me, it’s my car. It’s the car I’m using. The car I depend on,” Danny explained.

Santiago paused and waited for further information, but Danny did not continue.

“I apologize for my rude greeting earlier,” Santiago began again, from a different angle. “You must appreciate how this looks to my other customers, who, in some cases, had to wait for years before getting their first appointment. When they see you drive up in an automobile that is not your own, how do you think they feel? They feel that I am unfair. Trust is the cornerstone of my relationship with my customers, so this is an issue. I would like to know how to resolve this.”

Santiago rubbed his temples for a moment.

“The easiest thing would be for me to kick you out. That would make the other customers value their relationship with me more highly. But you know that’s not what I’m going to do, because that would be unfair to you. Please, I ask for your assistance. Explain to me why you have brought this problem to me. I know that you would not do this without a good reason, but I do not know what that reason is.”

Danny was confused.

“Do you think your customers–the people in the waiting room–will know that this isn’t my car?”

“Without question.” Santiago rolled his eyes and sighed. “Didn’t Cherry tell you to park in the back?”

“There wasn’t anywhere to park back there. The lot was full,” Danny replied.

“Regrettable. In any case, some people undoubtedly thought that this car was not your own from the moment you drove up. A man of your age and profession, driving a car known to be popular among young, single, professional women? A red car? Tell me, are you the kind of person to drive a car that color? And the fact that you couldn’t figure out how to lock it, and pressed the trunk release instead of the lock, well, that’s a giveaway.”

Danny shrugged.

“This is not a car that you would willingly buy, cannot rent, and are obviously unfamiliar with. People will notice, and people will talk,” Santiago concluded.

“Do people notice things like that?” Danny asked.

Santiago considered his answer. “Some people do not. Maybe most people… but the people who do notice are the people whose opinions I value the most. People who pay attention to the details are important, because details are important.”

Santiago paused for a moment, and consulted a scrap of paper covered with hand-written notes before continuing on.

“Let me tell you who I think this car belongs to, and then you can tell me how much I get right. Based on a cursory examination of the contents of the passenger cabin, this car does belong to a woman. A short woman, slender woman, certainly of Asian ancestry and probably Japanese, who owns a small female dog, perhaps a schnauzer, with grey hair, which she walks regularly on the Fenway. She has horrible taste in popular music, but good taste in classical music. She is between the ages of thirty and thirty-five, lives alone and considers herself single, but has been involved in several emotionally significant relationships with men during the last several years, most recently to a divorced professor, who has a daughter approximately her age. Given her age, and the fact that she attended the same college where you taught, I think you might have known her for some time. And perhaps she has a thing for professors?”

Despite his attempt to show no reaction, Danny’s eyebrows rose, slowly but uncontrollably, during this recitation, like a helium balloon escaping from the grip of a young child.

“You can tell all this, just from things you can find in her car?” he asked.

“Elementary, my dear Frenelli,” answered Santiago, grinning with obvious pleasure.

“The preset on the seats, the hairs from her and the dog, the fact that only one seat in the car shows much wear at all, the pre-programmed radio stations, the collection of CDs and tapes, things like that,” continued Santiago.

“But all her age, and where she went to college, and all that other stuff–how?” asked Danny.

“Ah, that sort of information cannot be learned in such an easy way. No, that requires the latest technology.” Santiago paused for a moment, leaving Danny in suspense. “You know, like on those CSI television shows?”

Danny shook his head. Danny didn’t watch much television.

Santiago laughed. “Danny, don’t overlook the obvious! Her registration, complete with her home address, was in the glove box. She has a facebook account, a MySpace account, and Friendster account, and according to Cherry, an account on something called ‘Plenty of Fish’, whatever that might be.”

Danny let out a brief laugh. “Well, she has an active social life, I know. Maybe she has a thing for professors–I don’t know. But I don’t think she has a thing for me. I think I would have noticed by now.”

Santiago looked serious again. “Perhaps, perhaps you are overlooking the obvious again. But let us deal in the concrete. I know who you are. And I know something about who she is. But I want to know whether you think that there is any, how shall I say, relationship between the two of you.”

Danny shook his head. Santiago did not release his look.

“It could never work, you know,” he continued. “You are not the cheating kind. The guilt would kill you. If Mary didn’t kill you first, of course. But sometimes men are stupid. Especially the men who are smart, and who reach a certain age, and who wish to prove that they are still young. Oh, such stories I could tell you. None with happy endings, though. None.”

Danny said nothing for a moment, and then found voice.

“It isn’t like that. We’re just friends. It’s a long story, but it’s not a complicated story. Not complicated that way, anyway.”

“But here you are, having repairs done on an automobile that belongs to a young woman who is not related to you by marriage or blood. And so we return to my original question. Please tell me why you are doing this.”

Danny could see no escape except the truth.

“She’s moving to California next week. She wants to take the car. I’m driving it across the country.”

“You are driving across the country with her? That could be so easily misinterpreted, Danny. So easily.”

“No. I’m driving across the country alone.”

It was Santiago’s turn to raise his eyebrows.

“This is an enormous favor that you’re doing for her. A grand gesture?”

“No. This is about me. When I found out that she was going, I asked if I could drive her car. Originally there was some thought that maybe we’d drive across the country together, but it didn’t work out that way.”

“So, she teased you with a promise of a cross-country jaunt, and then reneged, leaving you to do all the work yourself? And you are going to go through with it anyway?”

“I can understand why you might think that, and perhaps I’ve been manipulated, but if so, then it was done flawlessly. I’m the one who convinced her that she didn’t want to make the drive, and that I could do it alone. I’ve always wanted to drive across the country, but I don’t think she’d be a very good traveling companion.”

“Oh?”

“Her dog is a complete pain in the ass, and her taste in music–all music–is unendurable. And her main topic of conversation is her problems, which are numerous. There’s no way I could put up with that for three thousand miles.”

Santiago looked bemused. “Any other reason?” he asked.

Danny looked at a poster hanging over Santiago’s desk–a still from “The African Queen”.

“Yes… there is one other thing. When men and women spend a lot of time alone together, emotions can develop. She’s a very attractive woman. I was afraid that I’d do something stupid, given enough time and opportunity.”

“Yes, that is a common occurrence. But as long as you are afraid of doing something stupid, in my opinion, you are probably safe. The men I know who cheat do not think that they are doing something stupid–they believe that they are doing something clever. Maybe sometimes they are. But it would not be clever for you, with such a wonderful wife and family.”

Santiago shifted his position, leaning in towards Danny.

“But yet, you are fond of this woman?”

“Yes, you could say that. But not that way.”

“I’m sure Mary is glad that you’re not driving across the country with her.”

Danny laughed. “Yes, but maybe not for the reason you think! She is more worried that I’d leave Madoka and her dog in a shallow grave by the roadside after about three days than that I’d have an affair.”

Santiago smiled.

“So, why all the work on her automobile?”

“Because I don’t want to get stuck in the middle of nowhere without snow tires. She isn’t much of a believer in regular maintenance, or snow tires, for that matter.”

Santiago clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

“Anyway, the work is for me. She won’t need snow tires much in San Jose.”

Santiago reached across his desk, picked up his phone handset, and dialed an extension.

“Cherry, please tell Charlie and Ernest to give Mr. Frenelli’s car the Robert Edwin Peary service, and to please make it their first priority. Yes, this is more important. Thank you.”

Santiago replaced the handset and looked again at Danny.

“So, you’re just going to drive across the country for the hell of it?”

Danny smiled. “Yes, that’s just about it.”

“It sounds like fun, maybe. An interesting way to spend the holiday.”

Santiago shrugged, and continued. “I’m sorry if I seemed a little forward. I suppose that the holiday stress is getting to me. That, plus the damn Gusterfield coming up.”

June 10, 2010

Mr. Santiago’s Automobile Repair, Improvement, and Enhancement Shop

Filed under: Travels with Danny — DannyO @ 5:18 am

Danny was not surprised to find the customer lounge of Santiago’s Automobile Repair, Improvement and Enhancement Shop crowded with people having last-minute work done on their cars before driving off for their Christmas holidays. He’d noticed that the parking lot was crowded even before he reached the building. He’d been unable to find a parking spot behind the building, near the entrance to the service bays, where Cherry had suggested that he park. He had circled the parking lot twice before he was able to snatch a spot near the front door, beating a trolling minivan with a move, it could be argued, did not reflect either the proper holiday spirit or basic good sportsmanship.

Danny knew that it wouldn’t take long to perform the service he had requested for Madoka’s car, once someone started work on it, but with a crowd like this, he worried that maybe Cherry had been wrong about there being time available and the car would have to wait overnight. That would make things very complicated. He’d need to call someone to get a ride home, and that someone would almost certainly be Mary, and Danny was already having trouble simply servicing the interest on his karmic debt to her.

Cherry, the wizened receptionist, gave Danny an inquisitive look when he approached. Danny resisted the temptation to tell her everything. Without comment he handed her the keys to Madoka’s car, and then asked whether Charlie could do the work, because he knew that Charlie enjoyed the challenge of getting the car in and out of his bay as quickly as possible.

Cherry shook her head. “Charlie is not available. He’s not working today.”

“But his car… I thought I saw his car in the lot. He’s not here?” Danny asked.

Cherry shook her head again, and paused, as if considering how best to answer. She checked to make sure that nobody else was in earshot, and then leaned forward so she could speak in a hushed tone.

“You know Charlie, I guess, and Mr. Santiago knows you, so I guess it’s OK to tell you, but don’t tell else. Charlie is here, but he’s not working today. He’s practicing–getting ready for the Gusterfield competition. Mr. Santiago has given him some time to himself.”

“Oh,” Danny had been disappointed. This was unexpected. “Santiago is OK with that? With Charlie competing?”

“Mr. Santiago knows that boys will be boys, although I wouldn’t say that he is exactly happy about it. But if Charlie is going to compete, then Mr. Santiago will try to help him win. It’s better to win than to lose, the way he sees it.”

Cherry’s expression betrayed her disapproval. Danny suspected that Santiago had had considerably more to say about Charlie and the Gusterfield, but that such comments were not to be repeated in front of customers.

“That’s really why it’s so crowded in here today,” she continued, nearly whispering. “Most of these people don’t need much work, or their work is already done, or could be done quickly. But we’re going a little slowly so that Charlie can look over every car. There’s a rumor that the Gusterfield is going to be different this year. Not minivans this time. It could be anything. Any kind of vehicle. And Charlie is weak in coupes.”

“But it would have to be a family car of some kind–not a sports car or something like that,” Danny reflected. “I don’t see how they can do coupes. It wouldn’t work.”

Cherry gave him a look that Danny remembered well from elementary school, having received many such looks from exasperated teachers of subjects ranging from finger-painting to Mexican hat dancing.

“You’d think, wouldn’t you? But they had to do something. Last year was too easy–six winners! That’s not a contest. There were only eleven entries–how can you have more than half the entries win?” Cherry went on. “Personally, I think it’s the people, not the cars. Some people are more detail-oriented. Other people are just oblivious.”

Danny knew that this was a topic that could lead to a very long and interesting discussion, but his goal was to get Madoka’s car serviced as quickly as possible, and that would never happen as long as Cherry was talking to him instead of posting his work order. Fortunately, Danny knew exactly how to redirect and terminate the conversation.

“Well, if Charlie can’t do it, is there someone else who is good? I’m in a bit of a hurry today,” Danny goaded.

“All our people are good,” answered Cherry, with a slight tone of annoyance. “Do you think Mr. Santiago would let someone work here if they weren’t good? And don’t you think I’ll give you someone good? But I understand your desire for rapid service and I will see what I can do,” Cherry continued, somewhat tartly. “Please take a seat in the waiting room, and I’ll let you know how things are going.”

The waiting area was crowded, and Danny felt lucky to find an empty seat. It was directly under the television, which many of the other waiting customers were watching. Thankfully the sound had been turned off, but this made the viewers more intent, as they strained to read the blurry closed-captioned text on the ancient RCA tube. Danny felt somewhat ill at ease at having a number of strangers staring intently at a spot six feet above his head, as if waiting for something to drop, but this did little distract him from his fear of talking to Santiago.

Danny hunched down in his chair and scanned the magazines arrayed on the table in front of the row of chairs. There appeared to be nothing but old issues of “Glamour”. One hinted that it contained “twelve ways to turn him on”, another promised “nine sex moves you should try”, and another “thirteen ways to add sizzle to your love-making.” After scanning the covers, Danny idly calculated that a subscription to this magazine would give Mary, each year, somewhere in the neighborhood of one hundred and twenty pieces of amorous advice she wouldn’t take, but thankfully didn’t need.

Out of a mix of boredom and anxiety, Danny picked up the closest issue and began to leaf through it. The advertisements seemed to target a demographic with priorities and spending habits that Danny was not confident existed–on a pair of facing pages, Danny found a list of tips for how to save pennies every week via an intricate but efficient laundry-sorting protocol, and an article about the smartest way to purchase pieces of diamond-encrusted jewelry that cost more than Danny’s car. Danny calculated that it would take a long lifetime of incessant and careful laundering to save enough money to buy even the cheapest item mentioned, but he also knew that there were people for whom those pennies would make a practical difference.

This is how men think about cars, Danny realized. If he was holding a copy of Road and Track, he might be reading an article about driving habits that improve gas mileage on one page, and the latest Lamborghini or Bugatti on the next. Danny didn’t know how many years it would take of shifting at precisely the correct RPM in order to save enough money on gas to afford to even enter a Bugatti showroom, but he suspected that the numbers were too large to calculate without a pencil and a large piece of paper.

Danny added this observation to his ever-increasing pile of evidence that men and women differed in subtle ways. Someday he hoped to unravel the mystery of, for example, men seemed to prefer physical slap-stick while women preferred emotional slap-stick, but he suspected that his hope was in vain.

Over the top of the magazine, Danny watched the door to Santiago’s office. It hadn’t opened since he had sat down fifteen minutes earlier. Perhaps Santiago wasn’t in the office today. It was the weekend, after all. Perhaps he didn’t work on the weekend, or perhaps he had already left for his holiday, Danny hoped for a moment, before admitting that it was nothing more than wishful thinking. Santiago was here, somewhere. He had to be.

A passing customer deposited a dog-eared copy of “Car & Driver” onto the table in front of Danny, and he quickly exchanged his copy of “Glamour” for it. He leafed through the pages, absorbed by fanciful tales about the performance characteristics of cars he would never see on the road with his own eyes. For a moment, he forgot his fear of Santiago. And thus it was that he was caught by surprise when he looked up and noticed that Santiago’s office door was open, and that Santiago himself was standing in front of him.

Santiago’s face wore a look of intense concern. He looked at Danny, and then looked down at the enormous clipboard he was holding. He looked over his shoulder at Cherry and shrugged his shoulders. She nodded. He looked back at Danny, and his eyes tightened.

“Mr. Frenelli, if you would join me in my office for a moment, I would like to talk to you about that car you brought in,” said Santiago, in a soft, calm voice.

A hush fell over the room. Nobody had ever heard Mr. Santiago speak to a customer in such brazen terms before. To refer to an automobile as a “car”, and even “that car” instead of “your car”! And Santiago had not used “please”, “thank you”, or “you’re welcome” at all. A nearby mother held her child closer, and a man reached for his cell phone, gripped with a sudden urge to tell his wife that he loved her. This was a hidden side of Santiago, a dangerous side.

It was a side Danny had seen before, and had been dreading seeing again.

Without a word, Danny replaced the magazine on the table, rose, and walked across the waiting area to Santiago’s office. A dozen pairs of eyes followed him, some with curiosity, some with sympathy, and a few with the finely honed sense of schadenfreude possessed only by long-time fans of the Boston Red Sox.

Santiago followed him into the office, and closed the door behind him.

June 9, 2010

Danny gets a mechanic

Filed under: Travels with Danny — DannyO @ 3:27 am

Danny Frenelli, Ph.D., and associate professor of applied mathematics for another six weeks, was already packing up his office. Although his appointment did not officially end until July, there wasn’t any real point in occupying his office any longer. The semester was over, exams had been graded, and final grades had been filed with the registrar. Students were packing up and moving out, and Danny felt he should join them. It was time for him to move on as well. He would come back for graduation, and to help one of the post-docs he’d been working with on a journal article, but there was no need to keep all his books and papers for that. He didn’t want to be on campus during the solitude of the beginning of June, and he was sure that the arrival of students for the care-free summer session would only make him wish he was still a professor.

Danny felt a bit disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to keep his office. It was a large and well-located office, with a view of the quad. It was much nicer than his seniority merited, and he knew that he had been fortunate to get it. The previous occupant, Professor Rosenfeld, had left abruptly, and under circumstances that had never been publicly explained, at the end of a semester nearly eighteen months ago. None of the other professors had wanted to move–moving would waste valuable time, and increase the distance they had to travel to drop in on the warren of graduate students and post-docs in the sub-basement. Danny, on the other hand, was happy to get a view and enough space to pace.

Danny took a moment to rest, and sat down on the full-sized chesterfield sofa that filled the space between two over-sized bookcases on the long wall opposite the window. It had been left behind by the previous occupant, and, as far as Danny was aware, was unique in the department. Some of the other junior professors had brought in their own couches or futons, on which they could sleep during the crunch times, as tenure decisions loomed, and the time needed to commute home to sleep in their own beds was too precious to waste. This couch, however, had gravitas, and perhaps history. So many profound thoughts had been thought on this couch, and so many great naps taken–and, Danny mused, if the rumors about his predecessor were true, several legendary coeds as well.

A knock on the door brought Danny out of his revere. Through the frosted glass, he could see the silhouette of a petite female. It must be a student, Danny thought, because there was nobody in the department who satisfied both criteria.

“Come in,” Danny shouted. The door opened enough to admit the head of Jennifer Dalton, one of Danny’s former students. He recognized her immediately, because she had come to his office hours several times, having been determined and motivated, but having little natural aptitude for the subject matter.

“Professor Frenelli, do you have a moment?”

“Yes, please come in, Jennifer,” Danny answered. He rose from the couch, crossed to his computer table, and sat on the surface, feet on the floor.

Danny watched as Jennifer entered the room and sat down on the couch, taking the spot he had just left. She was dressed in a short sun dress with spaghetti straps and a low back. It was an outfit which, in contradiction to the usual saying, could provide a wealth of of opportunities to the imagination. As she sat, she crossed one leg over the other, and pulled the hem of her dress down to cover as much of her legs as possible, but the effort ended futilely well above her knees.

Danny was aware that she had closed the door behind her when she came in. Whatever happened next, he thought to himself, it would be better with the door open.

Danny opened the door and kicked the doorstop in place underneath it, wedging it open, and then resumed his leaning posture against the table.

Jennifer noticed the change, and her expression conveyed some sense of dismay, but said nothing.

“I hope you don’t mind if I keep the door open. I’m expecting someone,” Danny lied transparently, since the door had been closed a moment ago. He did not want to share his phobia of being caught by the department chair with an undergraduate in his office and his door closed–the chairman had become quite strict about such policies, due to a rash of alleged incidents of inappropriate professor/student relationships on campus. Danny knew that anyone in the hall–any straight male, at least–would have made a careful and detailed mental note of seeing Jennifer walk down the hall, and they probably would remember her closing the door behind her as well.

“That’s OK. I can understand. You must get a lot of visitors at the end of the year.”

“No, not really. Not many. People are too busy packing up, saying goodbye to their friends, getting ready for graduation and the summer. After the exams, after it’s too late for me to answer any more questions, I don’t get many visitors.” Danny smiled, in a way that he hoped didn’t make his words sound bitter.

“Oh, it must feel weird. Anyway, I came by because I wanted to thank you. I don’t think I would have passed the course without your help.”

Danny knew that the grades had been posted already, and so he wasn’t surprised that she knew her grade, which was little more than passing. He braced himself for the inevitable complaints that his grading had not been fair, had not taken extenuating circumstances into account, or had not reflected the effort made by the students, or had been biased in some way or another. Danny had heard every complaint imaginable, including several that challenged his ability not to laugh in the face of his students, or, in some extreme cases, their parents.

But Jennifer did not complain.

“I really worked hard in the course, and I probably would have dropped it, but you kept me going. I was really afraid after the first midterm. I really thought I was going to fail, and I’d have to switch majors, or get put on academic probation, or something. But you didn’t let me.”

Jennifer paused and looked at the rug for a moment.

“I really appreciate your thanks. It’s the nicest possible thing that a student can say to a teacher,” said Danny.

Jennifer looked up. “I don’t really know how to say this and I’m afraid that it’s going to sound bad. I’m going to drop out of the program. I’m not cut out for this–I do a lot better in my other courses, and I don’t have to stay up all night doing the homework. But I don’t want you to think that it’s because of you. It’s not you. You’re great. I wish every professor was like you.”

Danny had no response, and Jennifer had nothing to add. She looked around the room and saw the tape, bubble pack, and stacks of book boxes.

“Moving to another office?” she asked.

“Sort of. Moving to another job. I haven’t been reappointed.”

Jennifer looked puzzled.

“I’ve been let go. Fired,” continued Danny.

“That sucks.”

“I’m fine. I’ve got some solid leads on another job.”

“No, I mean it sucks for us! Students; people like me! I’m sure you’re going to be OK, eventually anyway, but who is going to teach your courses? Nobody else gives a shit!”

“I’ve met my replacement. She’s great, and she’s a great teacher. I don’t think it’s fair to say that nobody else cares, but everyone has his or her own style of interacting with students. Everything will be fine for you, and fine for me.”

Jennifer could see the lie on his face. Danny didn’t really know where he was going.

“I’m sorry. You’re a good teacher, and you’re a nice person, and it’s a loss to the college.”

“It’s not a big deal. I’ve been expecting it for a while.”

Jennifer looked down at the rug again and was silent for a moment. Danny could see that she was thinking something through.

“Listen, I want to do something for you. A going away present, I guess,” Jennifer said in a soft voice.

Danny checked that the door was still propped open. He could be in the hall in two quick steps. He could hear people talking just down the hall; potential witnesses.

Jennifer smiled, and then continued. “The other day, I overheard you talking to Professor White about the problems you are having with your car. If there’s anyone who deserves a reliable ride, I think it’s you. And I this is something I can help you with.”

Danny had no idea what she might mean, but since he had long experience dealing with students, who often communicated in dialects of English with which Danny had little familiarity, he patiently waited for clarification.

Jennifer rummaged through her purse, extracted a pen and a small pad, tore off a page, scribbled something on it, recapped the pen, and restored the pen and pad in her purse in one fluid motion.

“Call this number and make an appointment. It’s my godfather. He’ll fix your car. I mean, he’ll really fix it. I’ve told him about you. He likes you already.”

Rising from the couch, she crossed the room, stopped in front of Danny, and held out her right hand. Danny recognized the gesture, and extended his own hand to shake hers. When he let go, she pressed the piece of paper she held in her left hand into his hand.

“Goodbye, Professor Frenelli. I hope we’ll cross paths again, someday, and I hope your new college appreciates you more than this one did.” Jennifer said.

Danny wanted to tell her that there wasn’t going to be another college, but it wasn’t something he was ready to discuss, and before he found any words, she turned and quickly and walked out of the office. Danny could hear the flap of her sandals fade and then end as she reached doors to the stairwell. She was gone.

Danny looked at the piece of paper. It had a phone number, and beneath, a name: Santiago.

June 7, 2010

Danny makes an appointment

Filed under: Travels with Danny — DannyO @ 6:22 pm

Danny hung up the phone and crossed off the name of the last reputable auto repair shop within easy driving distance of Madoka’s home. Nobody had any appointments available until after Christmas. Every shop was overrun with people having their snow tires mounted for the Winter, or having last-minute repairs done before they drove off for the holidays.

He regretted that he hadn’t planned this earlier, but he had procrastinated, and now he was running out of options.

With a sigh of resignation, Danny accepted the truth. His fears had become real. He would have to call Santiago’s.

Santiago’s was the best–all of his customers agreed, and enthusiastically recommended Santiago’s to their friends, who were then disappointed to discover that Santiago had a waiting list several years in length for new customers. Santiago’s could afford to be selective.

Danny knew that Santiago’s crew would do the work expertly, quickly, and charge him a reasonable price. Danny also believed that he could get an appointment at Santiago’s. He’d always been able to get into Santiago’s on short notice before. He was on a first-name basis with half of the staff.

But Danny also knew that by taking Madoka’s car to Santiago’s, he was taking a terrible risk. He didn’t know how Santiago, proprietor and soul of Santiago’s Automobile Repair, Improvement, and Enhancement Shop might feel about working on Madoka’s car, and dreaded having to explain the reason for having the work done.

I’m not doing anything wrong, Danny told himself. People must do this sort of thing all the time. Well, some of the time. Occasionally. But the rarity of an event has nothing to do with whether it is moral or ethical, he rationalized.

Danny suspected that the fact that he was about to do something he didn’t want to explain to his mechanic was probably a sign that something wasn’t quite right, but then he reconsidered. He really wasn’t doing anything wrong–he was just doing something that he didn’t want to explain. His reasons were personal, and Danny treasured his privacy.

Danny took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as he dialed the number from memory.

“Hello, this is Santiago’s Automobile Repair, Improvement, and Enhancement Shop,” answered a feminine voice with a drawling southern lilt. “How may I help you?”

Danny immediately recognized the voice of Cherry, last name unknown and perhaps unknowable, the receptionist, maitre’d, and majordomo of Santiago’s.

“Hello, Cherry. This is Danny Frenelli. I’d like to make an appointment for a winter service.”

Danny was careful not to claim that it was for his own car.

“Danny! How are kids? And how is Mary?”

“Everyone is great. The kids are very excited about Christmas. We’re hosting this year.”

“Ah, that’s great. They must be excited to have the whole family up. So, is this for the Saab, or the Toyota?”, responded Cherry, switching back to business.

“Neither. It’s a different car. I haven’t ever brought this one in. It’s a Mitsubishi Galant, 2002. Not sure exactly what trim level.”

“What exactly do you need?”

Danny could hear the surprise and curiosity in Cherry’s voice, but decided to ignore it.

“Snow tires, fluids and filters, new battery. I need a cold-weather battery. I’ve got the tire size if you need it.”

“Don’t worry; we’ve got the tires. We see a lot of those.” Cherry paused. “You need this right away?”

“I need to have it done before Christmas. I know that it’s short notice. Don’t sweat it if you haven’t got time.”

“Before Christmas? What color is the car?”

The question surprised Danny. “It’s red. Burgundy. Something like that.”

Danny could almost hear Cherry thinking, and he dreaded what her next question might be.

“Can you be here in an hour? We can get it done by closing. It’s not a hard service and the guys have been putting on snow tires.”

“That’s fantastic. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Danny–one thing. Could you park it around back? Instead of in the front? It’ll be quicker that way. Trust me.”

“I’ll see you in less than an hour. Thanks again.”

Danny hung up, reached for his shoes, and considered who to call next: Madoka, who would have to walk home from the bus stop because he wouldn’t have her car back until that evening, or Mary, to tell her she’d be late for dinner.

Might as well start with the easy one. He dialed Mary’s cell phone.

May 7, 2009

Danny on the porch

Filed under: Travels with Danny — DannyO @ 4:13 am

Danny wiped the dirt from his hands and started to work loose the soil trapped under his thumbnail. The sun was bright on the porch.

“Thanks for helping me thin and re-pot the morning glories,” said Madoka. “I didn’t know how many would come up, so I just put all the seeds in two pots.”

“I hope they survive,” commented Danny. “I don’t know if they do well being transplanted. I’ve heard that they don’t. I’ve never tried it. Still, you’ll probably get a better yield than I did.”

“What happened to your glories?”

“I started them very early indoors this year, and when I took them outside, almost all of them died in a few days. I think they couldn’t take the transition. Maybe I coddled them too much.”

A woman walked by along the sidewalk, nodding her head in rhythm with the private music playing on her iPod. Madoka reached for the broom and began sweeping the dirt that had fallen outside the pots.

“I also started some seeds in soil outside, and they did much better. I guess I’ve learned something.”

“That’s too bad,” sighed Madoka. “Your trellis looked so good last year, covered in flowers.”

“There’s still time. I can plant more. But no moonflowers this year. They don’t seem to like the climate. A huge vine, and exactly two flowers. I’d rather have a few hundred morning glories.”

Danny watched the neighbors clean out their garden for a moment. It wasn’t clear what they were trying to do, but their garden was an obvious success. Danny wondered what he could learn from them.

Madoka picked at the rose bush that was climbing the pillar at the corner of the porch. Danny wondered if the glories would climb up the rose. It might be a nice combination, if they didn’t kill each other.

A man wearing a Red Sox cap emerged from the house across the street, climbed into his car, started the stereo and then the engine, and drove away. The bump-bump-bump of the music faded as he turned the corner at the end of the block.

“Are you still thinking about California?”

“Yes,” Madoka answered without pause. “It could be very good for my career. The lab director there really wants me in his program.”

“It’s too bad you have to move around so much in your field. I’m lucky. I don’t expect I’ll ever have to move.”

“Well, it’s not just that. I want to make a new start. I’m not sure that Boston is a good place for me.”

Madoka paused for a moment.

“I also want to get away from Him. I don’t think he’ll follow me to California.”

Danny said nothing. There was nothing left to say about Him.

“When would you move?”

“I don’t know. The funding for the new project probably won’t be in place for a few months. And there’s some work I’m doing that I need to finish. Some time over the summer, or maybe early in the Fall.”

Madoka went into the house, filled a milk jug with water, and returned to the porch. Danny sat on the steps and listened to the wind softly rustle the last few dead leaves remaining from the previous autumn.  Madoka slowly watered the pots until small rivulets of water began to emerge from the bottom of each pot and disappeared through the cracks in floorboards of the porch.

“I’m not looking forward to moving. I’ve never done a move like this. I have so much more stuff than last time I moved and this is so much farther. I guess I’ll sell the stuff I don’t like and just take the things I want to keep.”

“Things do accumulate, don’t they. When my wife and I moved into our first apartment, we moved all our stuff in the back of our car. By the time we moved out, we needed a professional mover and a big truck. And it just keeps getting worse. We never throw out anything big. We just get rid of the small stuff.”

“I guess I’ll need to hire movers.”

“It’s much easier. They pack so much more quickly than you can.”

“Why are they so fast?”

“Well, when I pack, I have a bad habit of looking at the things I’m packing and trying to decide if I want to keep each thing, or just letting my mind wander, reminiscing about how long I’ve had it, and the last time I looked at it, and things like that. It can take me an hour to pack a box of books, or all afternoon to pack the knick-knacks on my desk. The movers get it done in an instant. This stuff doesn’t mean anything to them. It’s not their stuff. They’re only thinking about how to get things into boxes. When we moved into our new house, they packed up the old apartment in a few hours. Everything.”

“Are they expensive?”

“It’s not cheap, but it’s worth it. Especially if you have other demands on your time. But you have to be careful, because they’re so mechanical about it that you need to watch over them sometimes.”

“What do you mean?”

“For example, if you don’t empty the garbage before they come, they’ll pack the garbage in a box. It won’t be fun opening that box a week later in California! And they’ll pack anything else that isn’t nailed down. We had to take the fireplace grate back to our old apartment–they’d packed it.

“Oh, I see. But I think moving is going to be expensive for a lot of other reasons. For example, what about my car? It isn’t worth much, so I can’t sell it for much, but when I get to California I’m going to need a car, so I’ll have to buy one.”

“Why don’t you just take it with you?”

“I don’t want to drive it the whole way.”

“You don’t need to. The movers can take it. They can put it right on the truck.”

“Really?” Madoka looked incredulous.

“Yes. When my parents moved to California, they put three cars on the truck. It was a big truck. It made things very easy for them. The movers packed up their house, and started on their way, while my parents hung out for a few days at friends houses, and then they flew out to California and got there about the same time as all their stuff.”

Madoka moved the pots slightly, to align them with the sun.

“I wonder how much it costs.”

“I don’t know. I’ve never moved a car. I’m sure you could just call a moving company and they’d give you an estimate.”

Madoka started to gather her hair into a ponytail, but then remembered that her new haircut made this impossible. Danny still found the new hair style unfamiliar.  He didn’t know how long she’d had it.  It was new to him.

“How long do you think it would take to drive?”

“Well, it’s about three thousand miles, and I don’t think most people can endure sitting in a car for more than about three hundred miles per day. So maybe ten days. Maybe more if you do some sight-seeing along the way. It would be a shame to just drive past everything without taking a look.”

“Yes, I’d want to stop. But then it would take forever.”

“I’ve heard it works much better if you have company. Then you can split the driving. One person can sleep while the other drives. You can cover a lot of ground that way. That’s how the movers do it. Truckers can cross the country in three days or less.”

“But I wouldn’t want to do that either. It would be fun to see America.”

Danny thought of Kerouac, Steinbeck, Clemens, Trollope, Kesey. Danny remembered how he had planned road trips in the past, but the plans had never worked out. Something had always come up.

“I’ve always wanted to drive across the country. I’ve even got a route figured out.  I’ve planned it.”

Madoka smiled. “I think it would be a lot of fun. I’ve always wanted to do it too.  I think a lot of people have.  But I’ve never had the time.”

Danny looked at his watch. It was getting late. He had promised to be home in time for dinner.

“I’ve got to get going.”

“Thanks again for helping with the plants.”

“No problem. Oh, and if you’re really thinking about driving across the country, we should talk more.”

“Would you really want to do it?”

“I’ve always wanted to do it. But I’ll need to check with my wife.”

Madoka watched Danny climb into his car and drive away. The wheels in Danny’s head were already turning, and his mind was somewhere west of Omaha.

Powered by WordPress