I tell the driver to haul it to my buddy’s shop in Pasadena, giving him the address, and I watch as my Porsche disappears into traffic on the back of a bright yellow truck with Tim’s Tow-n-Haul painted across the side.
“You ready?” the waitress asks, nodding toward her car.
Saying nothing, I climb into the passenger side, realizing I have no idea what her name is and fuck if I can remember what she said it was this morning at breakfast.
I had other things on my mind then.
I didn’t have time for niceties, small talk, or worrying about remembering the name of some woman I was never supposed to see again.
She flicks off her hazard lights and I retrieve my phone from my pocket, pulling up the image of her insurance card.
Maritza Claiborne.
“So where are we headed?” she asks, placing her phone in a cup holder. A palm tree air freshener hangs from her rearview and the fading scent of coconuts and pineapples fills the space.
“South-Central LA,” I say, my words dry, unapologetic.
She’s quiet at first, the silence palpable. Everyone around here knows you don’t go to South Central unless you have to. It isn’t the safest of places, but this time of day she should be fine as long as she’s in and out.
“Take a right at the next light,” I tell her.
It’s going to be a long hour, maybe longer depending on traffic, so I close my eyes and rest my head against the cool glass of the passenger window. Fortunately, being in the army my entire adult life has taught me how to sleep anywhere, any time with comfort being the least of my concerns.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice slicing through the quietude I was just beginning to enjoy, “for the tip earlier. It was really generous of you. I don’t always get a chance to thank people when they do that.”
I don’t open my eyes, instead I mumble a quick, “Yep.”
“Can I ask … why?” The car pulls to a sudden LA stop.
I open my eyes to make sure we’re not about to become minced meat. “Why what?”
“Why did you tip me a hundred dollars on a twenty-dollar tab?” she asks.
Shrugging, I sit up straight, accepting the fact that she’s probably one of those types who are going to want to talk the whole ride home. Some people just can’t handle silence. It’s like they don’t know what to do with it.
“Does it matter?” I ask.
Maritza turns to me, her dark eyes fanned with even darker lashes. “It’s just that you were so rude to me at first. I actually expected you to stiff me. So when you went in the complete opposite direction … it just caught me off guard.”
“I don’t know. Token of appreciation for bending the rules.”
“Not like I had a choice.” Her foot presses into the gas pedal and we start moving again. “You all but demanded I give you another pancake.”
“Turn left at the next light,” I tell her, changing the subject.
“For the record, I only caved because you were so damn persistent. And you’re military. I have a soft spot for you guys.”
People always mean well when they glorify you for serving in the military, for when they thank you for your service or offer you free things or discounts, but I’m not some saint and I don’t deserve any kind of special recognition.
I’ve only ever done what I had to do.
No credit is due.
I check the time. Forty more minutes to go.
A long forty more minutes.
“So are you still in the military?” she asks. “Active duty, I mean?”
“Yep. Going back to Afghanistan next week.”
“Do you ever get scared? Going there?” she asks. Her question feels way too personal to ask a complete stranger but I’m sort of stuck here, so …
“This is the wrong line of work if going over there scares you,” I say, releasing a hard breath. I’m not sure how this girl can crash into my Porsche and then act like we’re suddenly best friends having a heart-to-heart.
“How do you do it?” she asks, glancing my way for a second. “How do you not let it get to you?”
I’ll admit the first time was a little unnerving, not knowing what to expect, but a guy gets used to it, especially when he has no other choice.
“You block out the parts that make you feel the shit you don’t want to feel,” I say, shifting in my seat.
“Ah,” she says, hands gripping the steering wheel. “You’re one of those.”
“One of those?”
“Yeah. A macho-macho man,” she says, sinking her perfect teeth into her full lower lip as she fights a teasing smirk. “No emotion. No cares. Personality of steel.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is a bad thing. We owe it to ourselves to feel. To allow ourselves to be angry or sad or scared or whatever,” she says. “There’s beauty in feeling an entire spectrum of emotions in a world where everyone else is trying to numb themselves with drugs or alcohol or sorry excuses for love.”