After being early for so long, Billy is now typically late. He runs across Forty-second Street, running with his suitcase awkward on his leg—Shit!—running running—Oh Jesus!—the crosstown block endless, running running, winded, walking now, okay, walking, but walking quickly through Times Square, bumping into the heavy afternoon crowd—Sorry, sorry—crossing Seventh Avenue, below that jumbotron, the envy of home media centers everywhere, the network anchor straddling the intersection like a modern colossus of Rhodes, Helios extinguished by the twenty-four-hour news cycle, waiting for the light on Broadway, on the heel print of Times Square, where his mother and father first met—at the Winter Garden theater—where his father once worked—Forty-seventh Street, the diamond district—where nearly thirty-eight years to the day they themselves sprinted west for the Port Authority and their lovers' escape from New York, Billy running again on the green, running as though he's being chased by a villain more frightening than Ragnar & Sons, passing the electronic tickers for various stock exchanges, running, uh-oh cramping—Shit!—cramping cramping, slowing down, thinking he really should exercise more, walking and still cramping, a stitch in his kidneys, a stitch and a cramp and now throbbing in his head, behind the left eye, surely a bad sign, an embolism, an aneurysm, shifting the suitcase to the other hand, should run, just run through the pain, but still walking, in five steps pledging speed, in fivesteps promising a hard kick for the finish, first step, second step, third step, fourth step, and noticing the traffic light on Eighth blinking Don't Walk, no point in running for the red, fifth step becoming a resignation toward the curb, swearing he's a fat man trapped in a thin man's body, his metabolism falsely advertised as athleticism.
As promised, the HAM van is parked in front of the Port Authority. It's as glorious a sight as any multiple-occupancy vehicle can possibly be. Relief washes over Billy as well as sweat, uncontrollable sweat, delayed, like his glands have finally caught up from behind. The New York Post wilts under his arm. His sunglasses steam. His Cats T-shirt is alive with angrily sardonic claws. But no worry. There's the bright blue HAM van with a logo of a sun either setting or rising over the plains. But relief quickly turns to Fuck!—the hood is up—Fuck!—a person is slumped over the engine—Fuck! —a group of people, perhaps his fellow normals, are scattered around the van as if they're playing a childhood game and this is jail and they're waiting for their last remaining teammate who might set them free. All this planning, all this serpentine, and his getaway is fucked. Billy, deflated, crosses the street.
As usual, a taxi bullies the crosswalk, nudging its fender with impunity and passing a few inches from his toes. Of course an immigrant is behind the wheel seeking the brutal dream one fare at a time, thirty-five cents a quarter mile, whatever tyranny they've escaped manifested on the road.
Billy cuts toward the front of the van.
"You William Schine?" asks the person tinkering with the engine.
"Sorry I'm late, but I guess we're going nowhere soon."
"No, you're late, my man, you're just lucky I'm patient."
"Well, thanks."
"Damn right thanks," says the head under the hood. "Now you can do me a favor and take a look here."
"I'm sorry," Billy confesses. "But I know nothing about cars." Not that he doesn't wish he knew something about cars, cars and the piano and the French language and tap dancing and painting in watercolor.
"Just take a look."
"But I'm worthless."
"All I need is an extra hand."
Billy approaches the man. Upon closer inspection, he's lounging more than repairing. A magazine is open across the radiator, a can of soda balanced nearby. "I'm Corker," he says.
"I'm Billy."
"Well, Billy, what do you see?"
"Like I said, I'm not mechanically inclined."
Corker points towards the filter. "What you see is a traffic cop on your—don't look—right. He's over there and he's under the impression we're stalled because there's no standing around here, just pickups and drop-offs, so we're having engine trouble. He even tried to give me a jump but I disconnected the starter."
"Clever," Billy tells him.
"Nah, he's a dumbshit," Corker scoffs. "Right in front of his face, this loose line, and he goes for his cables like he knows what he's doing. Must be the battery, he says. Idiot."
That would've been Billy's only guess.
"So I told him I'd call a mechanic friend of mine. And here you are." Corker eyeballs Billy's outfit.
"I'm the mechanic friend?"
"No, you're the idiot who's ten minutes late." Corker either smiles or yawns or depressurizes his ears. He has a large muscular neck. Billy imagines his chin bench-pressing a couple hundred pounds. He looks the type who can shoot, clean, dress wild animals; build a shelter; fashion sticks into spears; survive in the wilderness for months; consequently, he also looks the type who is itching for the end of the civilized world. You might want his company on a deserted island, but he'd butcher you if things ever went bad.
"So I should what?" Billy asks.
"Just fiddle around, put on a show and tell me to give her a start."Corker grabs his soda and magazine (People of all things) and heads for the driver's seat.
Okay. So what would a mechanic do? Billy taps the battery and checks its terminals. Uh-huh. He measures the oil with dipstick expertise. No problems there. He unscrews the radiator cap, peers inside. A-OK. He plucks the fan belt. Nice and tight. He rubs the distributor or carburetor or alternator, whatever that thing is, and finds nothing wrong. He inspects hoses and pipes. Hmm, baffling. Then he notices the washer fluid container—Aha!—and peels off the lid. "Here's your trouble," he says, showing Corker the lid. "The manifold was, um, elastically deformed.''
Corker, his eyes rolling, smiles and nods from behind the wheel.
"Now give her a try," Billy shouts.
The van, of course, starts.
An absurd sense of resourcefulness comes over Billy, the same sense he has when he changes a light bulb or plunges a toilet or hammers a nail, as if he briefly understands wiring and plumbing and carpentry. Before dropping the hood, he stares into the mystery of internal combustion. Though he's done nothing useful, his fingers are smudged with the evidence of hard honest labor, oil like dirt or paint or blood. The engine idles. It seems unnaturally exposed, a cracked sternum. Temptation floats a dare: reach deep inside one of those dark-churning cavities.
Billy closes the hood. He wipes the grime on his pants, marking them a job well done. Per instruction, he tosses his suitcase in the back and goes around to the sliding door.
Not including Corker, there are seven people inside, six men and one woman. They sit two by two in three rows, the lucky remainder in the front passenger seat. Only middle seats are free and they're discouraged by a tangle of elbows and ankles and carry-on bags. Nothing personal, but no one wants his company. Billy shuts the door and says, "Hello," with apology. Everybody avoids eye contact with him like he's the teacher asking a difficult question and they might be called upon for the answer. Please not here, please not here, please not here is the communal vibe. Billy stays crouched near the doorwell until he realizes he's simply heightening the tension.
He goes toward the way back,
There's a domino effect of relief ending in two defeated sags.
"Sorry," he says as space is made.