Page 35 of Tattooed Sweetness
“Doyou actually know that youare sofunny? And then alsoso…” She slaps her hand over her mouth, snorts. “Nooo. Nooo. Don’tlooklikethat.” After some coordination difficulties, her outstretched index finger lands on her lips. “I ain’tgonna tellyou. It’ssuch a biiig little-girl secret. That noteven Pauline knowsabout.”
Who the fuck is Pauline? Her aunt?I grab Celine’s purse and documents. Then I steer her out the back door and over to my Dodge.
She remains rooted to the spot as I open the passenger door for her. “This is not my car,” she states with a surprisingly clean articulation, extending her hand to me. “Where are the keys to mycarnoodle?”
Carnoodle?Only a woman could come up with a nickname like that for a car. I suppress a smirk and with my fingertips, I risk a dive into the immeasurable depths of her purse. Passing a wallet, several Tic-Tac dispensers, Kleenex cases, and the contents of a ruptured tampon box, I dig down. Fortunately, the sanitary products are individually shrink-wrapped. And finally, I unearth a bunch of keys.
“There itis!” Her hand jerks up at almost supersonic speed.
I allow the object of her desire to dangle above her head into her hand, but only just.
“Hey, what are you doing?” she says indignantly, jumping up in the air to reach my hand. “That’s stealing!”
“Celine…” Her first name, spoken with quiet rebuke, works miraculously on her as effectively asBig Hammerhandled my pubescent impulses.
She sighs but gives up hopping. “And how am I supposed to drive home without a key?”
“Blow on your cupped hand,” I instruct her. Because even if she makes a surprisingly clear impression now, in the fresh air, a deciliter of 50% alcohol has a guaranteed incapacitating effect on an estimated 120-pound female body.
Surprisingly obedient, she complies with my order, and stares at me with widened eyes. “I… smell of booze! Totally!”
Since she blows her breath right in my face at her emphatic statement, I can disagree with a clear conscience. “No, it’s not quite that bad. But you definitely shouldn’t be driving.” Again, I open the passenger door of my RAM.
She turns on her heel and points to the fire-engine red Fiat behind her. “And how will my car get home?”
Then again, she’s right.I shut the truck door and examine the Fiat key, trying to figure out how to open the central locking. But no matter which button I press, nothing happens. “What the heck?”
“The battery…” Celine, who has already dutifully walked to the other side of the compact car, calls attention to herself. “I should have had it replaced a long time ago. You have to flip the key out and put it in the lock.”
Typical woman. The only question is, why does an amused smirk creep onto the corners of my mouth in light of this statement? Whatever.After unlocking the car, I first have to bend down to push the driver’s seat all the way back and down.Of course, it can only be adjusted manually!Nevertheless, I’m stuck behind the steering wheel with barely an inch of space between my knees and the dashboard.
No need to mention that this motorized imposition of course has no automatic transmission. To hit the closely spaced pedals, I have to do a real toe dance in the footwell with my size 14 ½ shoes…
Resigned, I turn the ignition key. The next moment, I almost pop the clutch in the face of a tinny, squeaky female voice blaring over loud from the speaker next to my calf. “Holy—!”What is that?
“Sorry…” Celine fumbles around with the knobs on the center console. The screeching squeal dies away, and we take a breath in two voices. “The radio has a stupid loose connection. It always starts its quirks at the worst possible moment. I really need to get that fixed…”
Despite the unfamiliar gear shift, I steer the Fiat surprisingly smoothly out of the parking lot. “Preferably along with changing the battery in the car key.” I can’t help making the potshot as the little car rolls down the slight incline to the former ferry dock.
“Touché.” Celine laughs and lowers the side windows with the push of a button.
At least the heap of metal bolted together in Poland has this one equipment detail. The breeze blows a few strands of her shoulder-length hair into her face. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch as she lifts her hand to tuck it behind her ear.
Then she suddenly pauses. “So… how are you going to get home after you drive me home?”
Good question…Luckily, orange-and-yellow painted train cars are whirring by on the slope on the other side of the Neckar River. “I’ve been wanting to try the streetcar for ages,” I claim, torturing thecarnoodleup the hill next to the lock. “But one question: when I take you home, is there anyone there who can look after you?”
“No, why do you ask?” She gasps, I can literally feel the synapses in her brain linking. “Are you suggesting I’m too drunk to be left alone? That… is outrageous! I’m perfectly lucid in the head! As if I’ve never been tipsy before…”
“Celine…” In a deliberate voice, I call her to order. “Have you forgotten that you passed out earlier? How many times has that happened?”
“Never…” she admits sheepishly, looking out the side window at the Neckar River as the small car climbs the ramp to the federal highway N292.
“Where do you want me to take you, then?” I ask, taking advantage of a generous gap in the traffic with the underpowered Fiat, which can’t even pull a slice of sausage off the bread.
She purses her lips. “I’d like to say to Pauline,” she notes. “But at her store, people step on each other’s toes after they get the new fashions in.”
“AtChic & Grace?” I combine, and she nods.