OTHER CHAPTERS | ALL STORY LIST
Andy drove the car every day that week. Monday took him to Columbus, Ohio. Tuesday to Erie, Pennsylvania. Wednesday back home. Thursday to Youngstown. Friday to a customer near the Ohio River.
Each trip felt shorter than the last. Andy left his apartment at seven in the morning. He drove two hundred miles, attended two meetings, ate lunch in the car, drove two hundred miles back. By five o'clock, he stood in his kitchen, unpacking his bag. The miles did not exhaust him the way they used to.
His old car made every journey feel like work. The loud engine, the stiff seats, the constant worry about breakdowns. This new car removed those problems. The seats held his body in a comfortable position. The cabin stayed quiet at highway speed. The fuel gauge moved down slowly.
On Friday evening, Nina called him. "Want to get dinner tomorrow? There's a new Cajun place downtown."
"Sure," Andy said. "Pick you up at seven."
He hung up and looked at the car through the window. The light blue paint seemed to glow under the parking lot lights. He walked outside and ran his hand along the roof. The metal felt cool. He opened the driver's door and sat inside. The interior smelled like nothing. No old coffee, no fast food, no lingering odor of previous owners. Just clean air.
Andy turned on the radio. A pop song played. He listened for a minute, then turned it off. The silence felt good.
Saturday evening came. Andy showered and put on a blue button-down shirt and jeans. He drove to Nina's apartment. She waited by the fountain. She wore a white top and black pants. Her hair had fresh curls.
"Ready?" he asked.
Nina got in. "Nice car. I forgot how clean it looks inside."
They drove downtown. Andy took a different route than usual, a longer way that passed the river. The sunset reflected off the water. Nina watched the view.
"This is pretty," she said. "Why did you go this way?"
"Felt right," Andy said. "No traffic."
The Cajun restaurant had red walls and loud music. They ordered spicy shrimp and rice. The food arrived hot. Nina drank a beer. Andy drank water because he drove.
"You seem calmer lately," Nina said between bites. "More relaxed."
Andy shrugged. "Work has been fine. No major problems."
"Not just work. You seem calmer as a person. Like something changed."
Andy thought about that. He did feel calmer. The constant background anxiety about money, about car repairs, about getting to meetings on time, that anxiety had faded. He did not know if the car caused this change or if his life had simply settled into a rhythm.
"Maybe the car helps," he said. "No breakdowns. No expensive gas stops. One less thing to worry about."
Nina nodded. "Makes sense. A reliable car changes your whole day."
After dinner, they walked to the car. Nina grabbed two sets of Mardi Gras beads from a bowl by the restaurant exit. She held them up. "Can I hang these on your mirror?"
In the past, Andy would have said no. He kept his car plain. No decorations, no air fresheners, nothing hanging from the mirror. But when he looked at the beads, purple and gold and green, they did not bother him.
"Go ahead," he said.
Nina hung them over the rearview mirror. The beads dangled down. They swung gently when Andy turned the car.
"They add something," Andy said.
"Really? You like them?"
"Yeah. They make the car look better."
Nina smiled. Andy drove her home. They sat in the car for five minutes outside her building, talking about nothing important. The beads swayed with the idle engine.
"Good night," Nina said. She kissed his cheek and walked inside.
Andy drove home. The beads caught the streetlight and threw small colored reflections onto the dashboard. He liked that.
The next morning, Andy woke early. Paul stood in the kitchen making toast.
"You hung beads in your car?" Paul asked.
Andy poured cereal into a bowl. "Nina put them there."
"And you left them?"
"Yes."
Paul laughed. "First the chick car, now the chick decorations. What's next? A pink steering wheel cover?"
Andy ate his cereal. He did not answer. The beads stayed in the car.
Monday morning, Andy drove to a customer in West Virginia. The drive took four hours each way. He left at six in the morning. The highway stretched empty through the hills. Andy watched the sunrise through the windshield. The beads swung gently with each curve.
He arrived at the customer's office at ten. He presented his sales figures, answered questions, promised to send a revised quote. By eleven, he drove back north.
The drive home felt even shorter. Andy blinked, and the highway signs changed from mile marker 40 to mile marker 120. He looked at the clock. Two hours had passed. He remembered the meeting, remembered leaving the parking lot, but the actual drive existed in his memory as a blank space.
He pulled into a rest stop. He walked around the car, stretched his legs, bought a bottle of water. Standing by the trunk, he noticed his reflection in the car window. His face looked the same. His clothes looked the same. But something in his expression seemed different. Not softer. Just changed. Like a picture with the contrast adjusted.
He got back in the car and continued driving. The time passed again. Before he knew it, he pulled into his apartment parking lot. The trip home had taken exactly four hours according to the clock, but it felt like forty minutes.
That night, Andy called Nina. "My drive went fast today. Really fast."
"Good traffic?" she asked.
"Traffic was fine. But time moved strange. I left the customer at eleven. I remember leaving. Then I arrived home at three. I cannot remember the drive."
"Maybe you zoned out. People do that on long drives."
"Maybe," Andy said. But he had never zoned out before. Not like that. Not where whole hours disappeared.
He went to bed early. He dreamed about driving. In the dream, the road went on forever, straight and grey. The beads on the mirror turned into flowers. The flowers grew toward him. He woke up with the sheets twisted around his legs.
Tuesday morning, Andy looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. He ran his fingers through his hair. It had grown longer than he usually kept it. He could not remember the last haircut. He pulled his hair back from his face and looked at his ears. The lobes seemed empty.
He went to work. Rich saw him in the hallway. "You need a haircut, buddy. You look like a Beatle."
"I am growing it out," Andy said.
"Why?"
No good reason came to Andy's mind. He just wanted to. The idea had appeared a few days ago, fully formed, like someone had placed it inside his head.
"Because I feel like it," Andy said.
Rich laughed and walked away. Andy went to his cubicle and sat down. He pulled up a website about men with long hair. He looked at pictures for twenty minutes. He closed the browser and called his first customer of the day.
That evening, Andy drove to the grocery store. The beads swung. The radio played a song he did not recognize. He parked and walked inside. He picked up bread, milk, eggs, frozen vegetables. At the checkout, he saw a display of hair bands. Black elastic bands with small fabric covers. He picked up a pack and placed it next to the milk.
The cashier scanned the hair bands. Andy paid and left. In the car, he opened the pack and pulled one band onto his wrist. The elastic pressed against his skin. He drove home with the band around his wrist, the beads swinging above the mirror, and the highway lights reflecting off the blue paint.
Two weeks passed. Andy drove the car every day. He drove to Cleveland on a Wednesday. He drove to Pittsburgh on a Friday. He drove to a small town near the Ohio border the following Tuesday. Each drive felt shorter than the last.
On Thursday morning of the third week, Andy stood in front of his bathroom mirror. His hair touched his collar now. He pulled it back with one of the elastic bands. The ponytail stayed in place. He looked at his reflection and turned his head side to side.
Paul walked past the bathroom door. "You still have that hair band on your wrist?"
"Yes," Andy said.
"Are you going to wear it all day?"
"Yes."
Paul shook his head and walked to the kitchen. Andy followed him. They ate breakfast in silence. Paul left for work. Andy sat at the table, running his thumb over the hair band on his wrist. The elastic felt smooth. He liked the pressure against his skin.
He drove to work that morning. The car started without hesitation. The beads swung as he turned onto the highway. Andy looked at himself in the rearview mirror. The ponytail made his face look different. Not older or younger. Just changed.
At work, Rich saw the ponytail. "What is that?" he asked.
"My hair," Andy said.
"It looks ridiculous. Take it out."
"No."
Rich stared at him. Andy stared back. Rich walked away. Andy went to his cubicle and sat down. His hands shook for a moment. He did not know why. He had never stood up to Rich before. The feeling of saying no stayed with him all morning.
That afternoon, Andy drove to a customer meeting in a town two hours south. He wore his usual blue suit. The tie felt tight around his neck. He loosened it while driving. The beads swung. The radio played a station he had not chosen. He left it on.
The meeting went fine. The customer signed a small order. Andy packed his bag and walked to the car. On the drive back, his chest itched. The fabric of his shirt rubbed against his skin. He scratched through the cotton. The itch did not go away.
He stopped at a drug store. He walked inside and looked at the shelves. Antihistamines, lotions, creams. A small box caught his eye. Hair removal cream. The picture showed a smooth leg. Andy picked up the box. He read the instructions. He bought the cream and a pack of razors.
At home, he went straight to the bathroom. He took off his shirt. The hair on his chest seemed thicker than he remembered. He squeezed cream from the tube and spread it across his chest. The cream smelled like chemicals. He waited ten minutes, then stepped into the shower.
The hair washed away in clumps. Andy ran his hand over his chest. The skin felt smooth. The itch disappeared. He looked in the mirror. The smooth skin looked strange next to the hair under his arms. He picked up the razor and shaved his underarms.
Better, he thought. Much better.
He dried off and put on a t-shirt. The fabric sat flat against his chest. No hair poking through. He liked the feeling.
Nina came over that night. They ordered pizza and watched a movie on the couch. Andy kept his shirt on. He did not mention the chest hair.
During a commercial, Nina touched his arm. "Did you do something different?"
"Like what?"
"Your skin looks smooth. Your arms, I mean."
Andy pulled his sleeve down. "Just shaved a little."
Nina nodded. She did not ask more questions. They finished the movie. Nina fell asleep on the couch. Andy carried her to his bedroom. He lay next to her and stared at the ceiling. His chest felt smooth against the sheets. He fell asleep smiling.
Saturday morning, Andy woke before Nina. He went to the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. His chest remained smooth. His underarms remained smooth. He looked at his legs. The hair on his legs seemed coarse now, ugly compared to the smooth skin above.
He opened the bathroom cabinet. The hair removal cream sat on the second shelf. He picked it up and carried it to the shower.
By the time Nina woke up, Andy had removed all hair from his legs. He stood in the kitchen making coffee, wearing shorts. The morning light came through the window. Nina sat at the table and looked at his legs.
"Your legs are smooth," she said.
"I used the cream."
"Why?"
Andy poured coffee into two mugs. "Because I wanted to. The chest itched, so I removed that hair. Then the legs looked wrong next to the smooth chest. So I removed that too."
Nina took the coffee. "Does it feel good?"
"Yes," Andy said. "It feels right."
Nina said nothing else. They drank coffee and ate toast. Nina changed into clothes for the day. Andy put on jeans. The denim rubbed against his smooth legs. He liked the feeling.
They went to a street fair downtown. Vendors sold crafts and food. Andy held Nina's hand as they walked. His ponytail bounced with each step. A man selling jewelry called out to them.
"Earrings for the lady," the man said.
Andy looked at the display. Small diamond studs caught his eye. They sparkled in the sun.
"Can I see those?" Andy asked.
The man handed him the studs. Andy held them up to his own ears. Nina watched him.
"Those are women's earrings," she said.
"I know," Andy said. "I like them."
"Are you going to buy them for yourself?"
"Yes."
Andy paid the man twenty dollars. He put the studs in his jacket pocket. They walked through the rest of the fair. Andy did not mention the earrings again. Nina did not ask.
That night, Andy sat on his bed with the earrings in his hand. He had never pierced his ears. He did not know how. He searched on his phone for a place that did piercings. A tattoo shop three miles away stayed open until midnight.
Andy drove the car. The beads swung. The radio played. He parked in front of the shop. A woman with purple hair stood behind the counter.
"Can I help you?" she asked.
"I want my ears pierced," Andy said. He placed the diamond studs on the counter. "With these."
The woman looked at the studs. "Those are for women."
"I know."
She shrugged. "Sit down."
Andy sat in the chair. The woman cleaned his earlobes. She marked two small dots with a pen. She picked up a piercing gun.
"Ready?" she asked.
"Yes."
The gun clicked twice. Andy felt a pinch in each ear. The woman inserted the studs and screwed on the backs.
"Done," she said. "Keep them clean. Turn them twice a day. Do not take them out for six weeks."
Andy looked in the mirror above the counter. The studs caught the light. He smiled. He paid the woman and walked to the car. In the rearview mirror, the studs sparkled next to the dangling beads. The ponytail framed his face. The smooth legs pressed against the driver's seat.
He drove home slowly, watching his reflection at every red light.