Another new story. I was thinking about the old line... 'Fast cars and fast women', and gave it a little twist for the modern world.
Having said that, introducing and developing these characters does take time. I ask for your patience. If you're looking for a quickie, then you'd better look elsewhere. If you are willing to go for a little ride, well, by all means, let's go.
I hope you enjoy it.
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I have an admission to make, and it's a little embarrassing.
I, um... I don't know much about cars. New ones, anyway.
Yes, I know that really goes against the whole male stereotype, and I also know that it's not that unusual, in today's world, where engines are computer controlled, and the average engine compartment looks like a plumber's nightmare of hoses and pipes.
Now, several years ago, I considered myself quite knowledgeable about engines and cars. My father had a race car, and I was an occasional helper in the shop. A lot of information just rubbed off on me, and stuck. To this day, when I hear about the adjustments being made to improve a car's handling during a race, I understand what they're talking about.
Modern cars just baffled me, though, so I just left the maintenance to the pros.
Which is how this whole thing started, about a year ago.
***
Maintenance. I could be wrong, but it seemed to me like most people don't believe in it. They get a new car every three years anyway, so why bother, beyond the stuff the dealership gives you free for the first few years? Expensive attitude, but that's part of our modern, disposable society.
I tend to keep cars for longer, so a fifty-dollar oil change that saves a thousand-dollar repair down the road, is a wise investment. That's how I met Julie, even though I didn't find out her name for months afterward.
My car was out of warranty, and while I wanted to take care of it, I didn't want to pay double to do so. With that in mind, I headed for my neighbourhood SuperLube shop. There, they would give me a newspaper, and a cup of coffee, while I sat in the car and they did their thing.
The first few times I was there, I didn't really see Julie. Well, I suppose that's not really true... I saw her, under the hood of my car, but didn't talk to her at all, and barely realized it was a woman under the coveralls and grease smudges. I paid my bill each time, and left without giving it a second thought. I would be back in 5000 kilometres, give or take a few.
When I did return, it was with a coupon, as a 'valued customer', that saved me 25 percent.
And this time... Julie wasn't under the hood. She was doing the concierge role, still in coveralls, but much cleaner than the previous times, which, as I said were a fuzzy memory.
She was cheerful, and pleasant, but unremarkable. A few strands of blonde hair had strayed from under her backwards facing ball cap. Safety glasses obscured her eyes somewhat, but I did notice they were a nice icy blue colour, and quite large. No makeup, of course, but a happy smile, and attractive lips. Sitting as I was at a different level than her, it was difficult to gauge her height, and the coveralls did nothing to hint at her figure. All in all, she really didn't impress, other than being a woman in what was normally considered... right or wrong... a man's job.
Helping out with the last few tasks under the hood, she came out with a smudge of dirt on the end of her nose. It was cute. I pointed it out, and she just laughed.
"I always do end up with a kitty kat nose," she smiled, and didn't even try to fix it. "Not a glamorous business, this one."
"Probably why the uniform is coveralls, and not bikinis," I laughed, "although I'd like to see that." Yes, I was just that clumsy at flirting. Fortunately, she was better.
"Ooooo, I'm not sure you would. These guys don't have the body for it, and I can't do everything!" she winked. She had a clipboard in her hand, and flipped over the page to make a notation on the back, before handing me my receipt.
"Okay, Mr. Dickinson," she began, and ran down the list of things they had checked. Finished her compulsory dialogue, she had just a few additions. "I guess we'll see you in another 5000 kilometres, unless there's anything else you need?"
"I think that covers it," I smiled, "and please call me Red."
"Red? I'm sure there's a story there," she giggled, "since your hair is brown. I'm Julie," she said softly, offering her hand after wiping it clean, "and please... Call me."
I'm sure the confusion showed on my face, so she clarified.
"My number is on the back of your receipt. If you want, maybe we could meet for a coffee, or..." she let the sentence hang in the air. "Have a good day, Red," she smiled, and hit the switch to open the overhead door.
I was a little stunned, but pulled out, and into traffic. At the first red light, I flipped over the receipt that lay on the passenger seat. There it was: Julie Stroud 538-2436, after 7. She put a little heart in place of the dot on her 'i'.
I said she didn't impress, but that was before I talked to her. She had a sharp wit, and was obviously a confident woman. I could do a whole lot worse.
***
I almost didn't call. Yes, I'm that stupid.
Well, there was a part of me that was picturing her in her coveralls, at dinner. Ridiculous, I know. Fortunately, that part was small, and overcome by common sense; here was a woman, interested in me, while I had no better prospects.
I gave her a few extra minutes after 7 before I called, just so I wouldn't appear too eager.
"Hello?" I heard on the other end of the phone.
"Julie?" I asked. The voice was different somehow. Smokier. Sultrier.
"Yes," she replied. "Is this Red?"
"Yes it is," I answered. "How was the rest of your day?"
"About as good as any day at work can be," she laughed. "I met this man..."
"Really?" I laughed, playing along. "Someone you're interested in?"
"Maybe. It's pretty early to tell, but I'm glad you called," she purred.
"Wow, Julie, you sound different away from work," I noted.
"So I've been told," she replied. "That's my work voice. I'm sure you're different at work than away from it, in some way."
"No doubt," I nodded. "I like it. Your voice, I mean... very sexy."
"Thank you, Red," she breathed. "Why do they call you Red, anyway?"
"Ah, yes, well... my full name is Richard Edward Dickinson. Richard becomes Rick, or Dick, and Dickinson does the same. Growing up I got all manner of Dick jokes. Double Dick. Dick Dick. Dick Squared. When someone came up with Red, for my initials, I jumped on it," I laughed. "It was so much better than the alternatives."
"Yes, kids can be cruel, can't they?" she said. "I had my own similar problems growing up."
"What did they call you?" I asked.
