Time to saddle up and hit the trails on this gleaming borrowed steed. For the journey, I’ll be needing:
• My cool cardigan (it has foxes and mushrooms)
• A freshly retightened bun with no escaping wisps of hair
• Brushed teeth and some pink lip gloss
• Some courage, which I know is weird
Hold on to your hat, partner, we’re about to ride out into the valley and … who am I kidding? I’ll sit here and simmer in my own nerves. I once googled how much the Parlonis’ car cost, and my brain instantly forgot the amount like I’d experienced a trauma. I hate leaving here. What if something happens? Someone falls, a hydrant explodes? A tortoise sprains its ankle? I make myself start the (very valuable) engine, because the sooner I leave, the quicker I can get back for tonight’s episode of my favorite show.
I haven’t told a real-life soul this, but I’m one of the founding creators of the longest-running Heaven Sent online forum, Heaven Sent You Here. Heaven Sent is about Pastor Pierce Percival; his wife, Taffy; their studious teen daughter, Francine; plus twin eight-year-old girls (Jacinta and Bethany), who are always up to mischief.
The forum hosts an annual global rewatch of the entire show. Tonight we’re up to Season Two, episode eight. That’s the one where the homesick twins think they’ve seen the face of Jesus singed onto a marshmallow at Bible camp. When I get back from my errands for the Parlonis, I need to rewatch this episode to refresh myself on it and start a discussion thread.
With this goal in mind, I begin the trip. Holy moly. I’m in the outside world. I’m filling the car with liquid gold at the less-busy gas station when I realize I am staring at the back of a young man. He has very long black hair that puts Melanie’s hair extensions to shame. Resplendent, gleaming hair is wasted on men. I bet he doesn’t even condition or get the ends trimmed. He sits there sideways on his motorbike, ankles crossed, that unearned glory lifting on a breeze in an inky swirl.
He’s oblivious to my presence. Fine by me.
This particular specimen is in his twenties. His skin sits tight on his body, inked all over with tattoos. I see a scorpion, a knife and fork, a diamond ring. It’s like his body is the page he’s been doodling on while on hold to the electricity company. An upward trail of butterflies, a switchblade, a donut. The artistry is lovely. This is a guy who took a lot of care getting trivial, unrelated things printed all over himself.
Nothing’s been colored in, and I want to unzip my pencil case and get to work. I’d start on that big unfurled rose on the back of his arm. Actually, I think I’d use a pink lipstick. The slanted tip would be just the right size for the petals, each the size of a woman’s kiss.
He turns his head, feeling my eyes like an animal would, but he doesn’t look back at me. I stare at the concrete until he resettles. I put my hand on my neck; I can feel my heartbeat. This is an interesting development: My body knows it’s twenty-five.
Melanie told me to take a chance and smile at a guy. I look down at myself. Mom told me once that I have nice calves and my reflection in the car’s window is perfectly fine, maybe even pretty when I soften my face.
Imagine being a guy. How would it feel to sit on a neat butt that doesn’t spread out like a hen when you sit? If I was turned into a man for a day, I’d spend the first hour carrying around hay bales, making myself sweat. Then I’d muster the courage to unzip my pants to make a decision on whether seeing a penis is a worthwhile priority moving forward. As the minutes tick on, the Rolls-Royce guzzles and he continues to sit motionless. I can’t see a second helmet. He does have a very full backpack. I worry for that zipper.
I lock the car. Then I check each individual door. I say under my breath: “I locked the car doors.” I mostly believe myself as I walk inside to pay.
As I’m deliberating over what soft-looking chocolate bars I’ll get for Renata, my ears tune in to the gas station clerk’s hushed telephone conversation. “He’s going to steal it.”
I rush to the window to check the car, but Tattoo Guy’s sitting where I left him. I lay my purchases on the counter.
The clerk says into the phone, “It’s been more than ten minutes. He’s filled his bike, can’t pay for it, and he’s deciding what to do.” He begins scanning my items and mouths my total at me. “Yeah. As soon as he touches the ignition, I’m calling the cops.”
I look through the dusty windows. It’s evident from the set of this guy’s shoulders and the stark deliberation on his face that he is sitting inside a terrible moment. I was oblivious as I admired his butt. Then I suspected him of theft. Is it true that he has no money? I was in a similar situation once. I was only a few weeks out of home and my card kept getting declined. My neck was hot from bottling up the tears. A motherly type paid for me and disappeared into the night. All she’d said was, Pay it forward.
Time to settle my karmic debt. “I’ll pay for him. How much?” I dig out my special hundred-dollar bill.
The clerk hangs up the phone. “Twenty dollars. Aren’t you nice?” The way he says it doesn’t make me feel that nice.
I’m almost back to the car door when the clerk says over the loudspeaker: “Pump number two, please thank your Good Samaritan. Your gas has been paid for and you can leave.”
We are the only customers. So much for me just melting away into the night. I give it a try anyway. Tattoo Guy says behind me, “Ma’am, thank you so much.”
“No problem.” I fumble with the car keys and drop things. “Don’t mention it.”
“You’ve just saved my ass— I mean, my butt. I’m having the worst day ever.” He’s closer behind me when he adds, “I left my wallet somewhere, but I always find it. The world’s full of Good Samaritans, just like you. If you give me your details, I’ll pay you back as soon as I can.”
“Not necessary,” I say, but now he’s right behind me. I smell the cotton on his body when a breeze blows through it. When I look down at my loafers, there’s big inked hands picking up my dropped groceries.
No way am I going to say Pay it forward. Men probably think that’s girlie nonsense. But I’ll try to have an exciting story to tell Melanie. I turn on the balls of my feet.
“Here you go,” he says when all the chocolate is gathered up. When he straightens to full height, he’s obviously surprised. After a beat, he lets out a big joyful howl. Up at the sky, he yells at full volume, “Oh my God, you look absolutely amazing!”
Did Melanie pay a gorgeous local actor to perk me up?
“Oh shit, too good. You got me.” When I don’t reply, he continues, “I can tell you, from the back, you’ve absolutely nailed it.” His smile is white and lovely as he drags his hair back. “I love costume parties. Can I come?” His slender-muscly body shakes from laughing. It’s a full-body workout. He’s standing so close, for a moment I don’t process the words. Then I feel the slice.
“Excuse me?”
He is staring at my chest with open appreciation. The glasses that I wear for computer work are still hanging from a chain around my neck. “Perfect,” he says reverently before dissolving into laughter again. “Are you going as one of the Golden Girls?”
“No—”
“You just need a string of pearls and a walking stick. Look at those granny shoes.” He says it like a fond scold and taps my toe with his. “You’ve even got the old-person car to match. You’ve thought of everything.” He wipes a tear from his eye. “You look like Tweety Bird’s granny.”
“You don’t need to be rude.” The prim words are out of my mouth before it occurs to me that I should just say, Sure, I’m headed to a big party, I hope my costume wins.
I don’t think I’ve helped someone who really needs it. Tattoos are expensive and he’s covered himself in a fortune. His unusual biker-guy jeans have a lot of seams and diagonal lines, the result of skilled craftsmanship. My thrift-store eyes spot a tiny logo on his pocket: BALMAIN. Very, very pricey.
He’s noticed my attention and the corner of his mouth lifts in a mischievous way. “So how old are you? Are you an eighty-year-old with a facelift?”
“How old I am is none of your business.” The words I’ve ached to say to all the residents at Providence, and I blurt them in the face of a tattooed guy with a motorbike? “I paid for your gas because I thought you were in trouble. But I can see you don’t really need it.”
“I was just psyching myself up to call my dad.” This guy scratches his jaw and I can’t read the word printed across the knuckles. “I try to fuck up during business hours, so I can speak to his assistant instead. Less of a lecture that way.”
“I’ll give you my PayPal address. You can pay me back and I’ll find someone who actually needs the money.” I can’t write on the Parlonis’ receipt. I have one of Sylvia’s business cards in my pocket. I cross out her email and write mine. The gas station attendant gives me a grinning thumbs-up and I burn red with humiliation.
He studies the business card I put into his palm. “A retirement villa?” His eyes spark. The irises are mixed colors— familiar, but I don’t know what they remind me of. He is holding a new laugh in. “What’s going on with you, anyway?” I cram myself into the car and lock it. “Wait, wait,” the guy shouts. Now his I’m sorry is muted and far away. I’m sorry too. Funny how fast a good deed can turn bad in the outside world, like time-lapse footage of rotting fruit.
While I wait for a gap in the traffic, I look in my rearview mirror, praying he doesn’t try to follow. The heel of his palm pressed to his temple is universal language for, I fucked that up. At least he realizes it. Most people who hurt my feelings never have a clue they did. I just invested twenty dollars for a reminder of why I stay at Providence and tucked in my safe little forum in the far corner of the internet.
Outside World Shields Up.
“YOU’VE BEEN SO quiet today,” Melanie says behind me. “Did I say something, or … ?”
“I got my feelings hurt a bit last night. Not by you.” I keep staring at the parking lot, watching for a car.
After I sorted out the Parlonis and left them asleep on the couch, holding hands, I stood in front of the mirror in my bedroom. Then I used a second makeup mirror to look at myself from behind. That guy was right: From most angles, I am an old lady. I messaged my forum admin friends Austin, JJ, and Kaitlynn. The group chat was a big chorus of outrage— what a dick, that’s so RUDE, of course you’re not old— but the reassurance didn’t feel authentic because none of us have ever actually met in person.
“Here’s what I know. You’re a good person, Ruthie,” Melanie says so kindly. “And you don’t deserve hurt feelings. Tell me who did it and I will kill them.”
“A complete stranger. Someone I’ll never see again.” I recheck the time and sidestep the tight squeeze of emotion in my throat. “I need to focus on the meeting. I wish I knew what it was about.”
“I’m sorry,” Melanie says. “I know I screwed up big-time.”
When I was up a ladder replacing a blown bulb outside the recreation center this morning, Melanie took a message for me. All she wrote down was:
• Jerry Prescott
• Today @ 3 P.M.
• Maintenance something?
“Jerry Prescott owns Providence,” I told her, with sheer terror coursing through my veins. “You spoke to his assistant?” She shook her head no. “You spoke to the owner of Prescott Development Corporation? PDC? PDC?”
“He sounded nice, I think,” she replied.
I have tried everything— even an improvised hypnotism session in the darkened office— but Mel swears she can’t recall any more details than that. Jerry’s assistant never called me back.
A motorbike turns into the parking lot.
“Nope.” I’m looking for a rental car. The rider takes off his helmet, shakes his head back, and looks up at the office. I’d know that phenomenal head of hair anywhere.
