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SECOND PRIZE WINNER
C(K)arma
Yvonne M. Jones
My Mazda Miata was in hiding, masquerading as a big, tarp-covered lump in my cousin's garage in Trenton, New Jersey. Four months ago, when I'd bought the car, I'd been looking good, with a great bi-level apartment, season tickets to the Knicks, and real furniture that didn't come from my mother's cast-offs or a Woolworth sale. And then boom! My company shut down due to some major embezzlement of funds by a bitter VP. I had no money. No more A-1 credit rating. I was behind in my car payments and I was actually playing hide and seek on the streets of Manhattan with a weasely, sweaty-browed little repo man determined to relieve me of the Miata. A Miata, for God's sake! It had come to this.
Seeing as neither my days nor my bank account was being filled by anything so trivial as a paying job, I decided to take a trip. Sure, I couldn't really spare the money, and sure, I needed to pound the pavement for a job for the hundredth time, but what the hell, I was going. Anywhere no one knew me or would make sympathetic noises about my jobless state.
I called a driveaway agency, something I'd taken advantage of in college when I needed to move my stuff cross-country. Auto driveaway agencies are an only-in-America phenomenon: companies that pair people who want to travel with cars that need shipping. There's no fee to the driver and many driveaway clients are corporate. Meaning you don't get many Mazda Miatas.
I'd told them I was desperate to see my sister "out West" and they immediately offered me a gig driving the company car of some New York City new media muckety-muck to Silicon Valley.
Like I said, you don't see many Miatas. But I was unprepared when they rolled out the Benz. A Mercedes-Benz S600 Coupe Roadster, to be exact. I blinked, stared, blinked some more, swallowed hard, then prayed to the gods that I wouldn't be stopped for Driving While Black. I was, after all, driving to California. I could just see myself explaining to some trooper high on racial profiling that no, actually the Mercedes-Benz wasn't mine, I was just taking it for a cross-country spin. . .and had he heard of driveaway agencies? Repressing the urge to say in my most Masterpiece Theatre-like tone, "There must be some mistake," I grabbed the keys before they could change their minds and bring out a Yugo, and slid into the (real leather!) driver's seat.
Twenty minutes later, I'd used the car's cell phone (hey, it was still local) to call my best friends at work and scream, "I'm riding in a Benz convertible!" The air conditioner was going full blast, I was crooning along with Lenny Kravitz on the Bose sound system, my shoulder length brown hair was whipping around my face, my baby browns were hidden behind my Ray Bans, and my foot was having a love affair with the gas pedal. This car was like butter, baby, and I intended to savor the ride.
I stopped for a light at Third Avenue, checked my rearview mirror, and started swearing when I saw The Weasel two car lengths back in his banana-yellow station wagon. (I guess repo men don't have to bother being subtle anymore.) I thunked my forehead on the steering wheel. Maybe he wasn't working today and this was just a weird coincidence. And hell, this wasn't even my car, so how could he repossess it? He should be so lucky to repossess a Benz.
I rechecked the mirror, set the emergency brake, hauled myself reluctantly out of the Benz's contoured seat, apologized to the woman caught between us, and stomped back to The Weasel.
"Yvonne Jones," The Weasel said in mock surprise. "Finally I catch up with you."
I slapped my hands on the hot roof and looked through the open window at him. "Look, you can stop following me now, seeing as this isn't even my car! What do you do, spy on me during your off hours in the hopes that I'll leave a bread crumb trail to the Mazda?"
"Ms. Jones, you've got me all wrong."
It seemed that I did. The light changed, and then so did he. I rolled my eyes in irritation for one second, and when I glanced back he wasn't The Weasel anymore, but a gorgeous, god-like creature with a sexy three o'clock shadow, even though it was only 9:30 in the morning. In an instant, he became the kind of guy who could make a living modeling for the covers of romance novels. It was as if The Weasel's atoms had dissolved in a blink of my eye and reformed into this smiling god in a tight Gap t-shirt and khakis. Maybe it was that X-Files marathon I'd stayed up all night watching.
"Huh? What just . .huh?" My command of the English language had disappeared along with The Weasel. The driver behind the Toyota leaned on his horn. "Ms. Jones, I've been trying to catch up with you for the last few minutes, but my beater isn't quite up to outrunning a Mercedes. There was some weird mix-up at the office and we just realized that not only are you not behind in your payments, but you're all paid up. We don't know what happened, but we'll do anything we can to make up for this misunderstanding."
I had a vision of myself leaning over to kiss him to see if he was real. It would be more fun than pinching him. . .for both of us. Was this The Weasel? And what was he saying about the Miata? Did I care?
Occasionally, driveaway drivers take advantage of the agencies by not traveling from point A to point B, but rather from A to B via, say, point Q. Which is somewhat illegal and I'm not really that kind of girl. So while I took no detours, I did take on an extra passenger, a gorgeous, suddenly ex-repo man born of a combination of wishful thinking and, I dunno, karma, kismet. Not only was he easy on the eyes, but there was actually a brain behind the movie star looks, and he was funny enough to have his own sitcom. And though he had a tendency to fishtail when he got the least bit tired (so the ESP had to kick in more than once), he did his fair share of driving and handled the Benz like it was his own newborn babe.
Whatever was going on, as long as it was going my way, for once, I wouldn't ask questions.
Except when we crossed the state line in California. The trooper wasn't making any sense.
"I don't understand officer, have I broken some law, is my tail light busted?" The Weasel -- Sam -- and I looked over the Benz with alarm. Was there something wrong with our baby?
"No, ma'am," I just wanted to make sure you get to where you're going without any problems, so. . . ." He trailed off, seemingly distracted by either the knee bolster or my legs.
"So?" I nudged, ducking into his line of vision.
"So, if you don't mind, I'd be happy to be your escort to Silicon Valley." Uh-huh. Okay. I didn't mention that Valley was more than a day's drive away. He lived here, presumably he knew. I didn't say, "Helloooo, what about your job?" A police escort would certainly allay my fears of getting pulled over for DWB. Never mind that it made absolutely no sense. I was going with the flow.
It kept on flowing. Two days later the three of us parked in front of the swanky Omega Hotel, temporary residence of Mr. New Media. Somehow we were right on time, even though I'd made an illegal, Point Q-type detour after all. Sam and Lenny (the trooper) had begged to go to some surf festival in the South Bay and I couldn't resist this chance to be the black Gigdet, surfing USA, while being held aloft by two gorgeous guys in skimpy Speedos. Never mind that I'd never been able to surf or fit into a bikini before, this was living.
I'd called Mr. New Media to tell him we were coming. He came trotting out of the glass doors of the Omega and made a beeline for us. "You're here!" he yelled joyously, leaning over with an outstretched hand as if to caress my cheek, but thankfully he was aiming for the dashboard. He looked curiously at Lenny astride his motorcycle, and nodded at Sam, but asked no questions.
"She looks beautiful," he said.
"She is beautiful," said my repo man, giving my hand a quick squeeze. I smiled, but from the way he was fondling the chassis, I knew New Media was referring to the car.
We stepped out of the car, and exchanged pleasantries about my trip and his move out to California. I wanted to turn over the keys as soon as possible. It would be hard going back to the Mazda with the memory of the Benz, so the sooner I let it go the better. There was no other word for these last few days but dreamy -- and inevitably I would wake up soon. It had started with the Benz. Now it was time to go cold turkey. I handed him the keys, squinting against the blazing sun.
"Ms. Jones?"
"Call me Yvonne, I've been sitting in one of your prized possessions for over a week."
He smiled. "Okay,Yvonne. Did you send me a resume about a month ago?"
I squinted at him some more.
"You were inquiring about the MIS position with the Medical Broadcasting Company?"
Yeah, the Medical Broadcasting Company, Taco Bell, the space program. At this point, where hadn't I applied? But the MBC job was one I actually wanted. Was he reading my mail? How did he know this? "Yes," I said slowly, "But how did you know? Do you work for MBC?"
"I do now. They opened up an office here about two months ago and now that we're sort of settled in, I'm here to get us up to speed. When I got your resume, I was going to throw it on the slush pile to read when I had more time, but I recognized your name from the driveaway agency info, and with a background like yours," he paused to take a breath, "I think we should definitely talk."
He kept on talking. I leaned gently against the Benz, trying for the casual look, as if this sort of luck came my way every day. The upside of it was that in a little over a week, I had traveled America in a car that screamed luxury, met two fabulous guys, had a vacation that couldn't have been better if I'd planned it, and tripped into my dream job somewhere along the way.
Oh, and the Benz? He never took the keys back. He thought I'd need a car befitting my experience, my training, and my new position. . .and a Mazda just wouldn't do.
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