Her eyes glistened like a couple of greasy fried eggs. Her hair was wispy and magical, like the steam from that first cup of morning coffee. She said she was looking to rent a car, and I was the guy behind the counter at Eddie O's Rent-A-Ride on Jersey Avenue.

She came walking across the parking lot, straight out of the Hoboken haze. It was July, and a salty wave of sweat splashed over me as I choked on my pizza. I was just a punk in college, trying to get drinking money and the cash for a couple of textbooks. I was a shaggy-haired gunslinger with a quick trigger finger and a passion to party till long after dawn. I was a desperado, or maybe just desperate.

I threw down my slice. I grabbed a stainless-steel cup that was used to hold pencils and checked out my reflection. I saw the same old face—except for that slab of oregano sitting between my teeth, the way Spiderman sits on the side of a building.

She walked through the door and I jerked the cup out of sight.

She was about five-foot-six—basically, my height. She wore a cherry red dress made from the luckiest cotton on Earth. Her shoes were black with no heels—but she could have worn five-inch pumps if she'd wanted to. Her head was shaped like an eggplant, the world's most sensuous vegetable, and her face shone like the bulb in the back of my refrigerator.

I smiled from the left corner of my mouth.

She said, "Hi, I need to rent a car."

Right, so that was it—a car.

"Hey," I said through twisted lips, as I brushed a few bits of dandruff from my glasses and swatted the hair out of my eyes. Then I said, "Hi."

She grinned and said, "I guess that's what you do here—rent cars."

"Uh, right," I said, "we have cars—lots of cars. Are you looking for something special?"

 She laughed. "I'm looking for something cheap."

Ha, you want cheap, babe? I'm the cheapest date this side of a video rental.

I clenched my fists.

"We've got a Chevy for thirty-five dollars a day."

"Hm, is that the cheapest thing you have? I'm poor, you know."

"Oh, really? I mean, that's fine. Let me check." I turned to the computer terminal and typed quickly.

She said, "You don't look like you're having a very good day."

"Huh?"

"You're pounding that keyboard. You're not smiling."

Damn—she was checking out my method of data entry. I twitched my lips a bit but didn't show a snowflake's worth of enamel.

She said, "I guess that's sort of a smile. How about a car to go with it?"

Man, this chick was a clever talker.

"The Chevy is our cheapest car."

"Well, I guess I'll have to take it. I'm pretty desperate."

"GREAT," I blurted, then said, "Uh, I mean, I'll need to see your driver's license and a credit card."

"Sure." She fumbled through her purse and pulled out all the garbage our society calls identification.

 I said, "Okay, let me check through some paperwork. It's right down here."

I ducked under the counter and ripped into that specter of seasoning. I rubbed, wiped, and clawed till I was grunting and in a sweat. I reached up for the pencil cup to see how I was doing, and darned if my hand didn't squish into my pizza slice. I jumped up and smashed my head on the bottom of the counter, and then somehow knocked the pencils all over the floor.

"OUCH!" I said.

Writing utensils scattered around me like daggers in a Greek tragedy.

She said, "Are you all right?"

I rubbed my head and wiped an oily hand on my sock. I was fine, of course—a bit battered but still standing. Well, I was kneeling.

"Oh, I'm fine. I just dropped the pencils, that's all. I just got a little pizza on my hand. I just banged my head."

I shot a glance into the cup's metal surface. The oregano was gone and my teeth were free. I poked my head back above the counter and let those babies shine like a set of Olympic medals.

Okay, I didn't look like the Marlboro Man and maybe a few people thought I was scrawny and sure some jerks said I resembled a hairy piece of bacon—but I had attitude. It oozed from my body like toothpaste from a tube.

Right then, she noticed a sketch I'd been doing on a piece of scrap paper.

 She said, "That's a nice dog. He looks like he's been eating his spinach."

 "Yeah, it's a dog."

I'd drawn a canine superhero—my own little version of Underdog.

 "You know," she said, "I love dogs, but my landlord won't let me have one, so I have a cat."

"Cats are nice." I hated cats.

"He's the man of my house," she said with a laugh.

"That's good."

I lived with my mom. I hadn't seen my asshole dad since I was three years old. Honey, you're looking at the man of my house.

I made a copy of her license and ran her card through the machine.

I said, "Are two days enough?"

"Yeah, just till I get my brakes fixed. Personally, I think my ex-boyfriend sabotaged my car, but I can't prove it." She laughed again.

"Wow, maybe you should call the cops."

"Nah, I'm just kidding. That was a couple of months ago, and I'm pretty sure he's forgotten about me by now. They usually forget about me quick. Besides, he didn't know much about cars. He was one of those artsy kind of guys."

"Oh."

She wandered over to the soda machine and put in her coins. She hit the button but no soda came out.

"Aw, the machine took my money."

My eyes turned to slits, and I squinted into the heart of the logo-covered beast.

"Gee, it usually doesn't do that."

"Well, that's okay. I really don't need the calories."

"Yeah," I said, "I mean . . . it's not right that it took your money. It's not fair."

  I stalked toward the machine and gave it a tap with the side of my foot. I shook it a bit and hit the COIN RETURN button, then banged its flashy face with my elbow. Nothing happened. It just sat there—big, strong, and heavy, blinking its cheap, sugar-water smirk.

My heart erupted with twenty years' worth of rage. I took a step back and fired a spinning karate kick. My foot almost caught the side of the machine as I whirled around—but gosh darn if it wasn't a clean miss.

I said, "WHOA—OOOF!"

The girl yelped as my spastic foot almost hit her in the stomach—but she was quick and jumped out of the way while my spidery body spiraled toward the floor.

THUD!

She said, "Are you all right?"

I was flat on my back, staring at the blurry ceiling.

"Yeah," I whispered. I was okay. I struggled to my knees and groped around for my glasses. 

"Here they are," she said. She put them on my face.

"Thanks."

The world was clear again. She picked a piece of tomato out of my hair.

"Thanks," I said once more.

Hey, doesn't every woman love a guy with a few battle scars? Huh?

I staggered back behind the counter and picked up a pen. I was careful about it.

 "I need you to sign these papers."

"Sure."

She made her mark on the pages.

"Now what?"

I stared past her to the world outside. The early-morning sun had been smothered by a faceless blanket of clouds. The highway was a seamless graveyard of honking tombstones.

 "Uh, now I'm going to go and get your car. So don't go away."

She looked at me with her egg-yoke eyes and said, "Where would I go? I have nowhere to go." She laughed. "I've never had anywhere to go in this ugly world."

I froze, and her words touched me like a tidal wave of ether, turning my head into a bubble gum balloon that drifted above the swirling floor. I leaned forward and said, "I'll be back in a second."

I bolted out the back door and got into the little blue Chevy that was parked in the back lot. I shoved the key in the ignition and stomped on the gas. I drove it around to the front parking lot, which was between the office and the highway. My head was foggy as I remembered that cartoon about David riding a tortoise and beating the Roadrunner to Goliath's bachelor party. I parked the car but left the engine running, then opened the door to the office and leaned inside.

I said, "Come check it out."

A breeze  blew her dress up around her pale thighs, and it floated for a special second in the sulfur stench of summer exhaust fumes.

"Oh, it's a cute little thing."

"Yeah, it is. We ask people to bring it back with the same amount of gas, okay?"

"Okay, I'm not going too far. I work a couple of miles away, and I'm taking this painting class tonight and that's about it."

She was half in the car now, standing between the open door and the vehicle. She had to speak loudly to be heard above the traffic out on the highway and the rattling of the Chevy engine.

"By the way, I'm Kim. I didn't get your name?"

 I know your name is Kim. I saw it on your driver's license.

"Jim."

"Well, thanks for your help, Jim. I'll see you in a couple of days."

She smiled and got into the car. I watched her drive out onto the clogged highway just as the sunshine smashed through the clouds.

I knew she'd come back. They always come back.

She was so beautiful. I wished I could be so beautiful.

THE END