“Huh?” I look over my shoulder at him while I’m riffling through the empty candy wrappers littering the glove compartment, obscuring my documents. I see he’s backing away from my car with his hands up,his pink palms as sweaty as his dark arms. I also see that he’s okay. That his glistening, muscular body is way more than okay. He’s also about the same age as John, and I feel sick to my stomach that I almost ran this young man over in the prime of his life.
“No need to go for your gun. Please. I was only telling you that you almost hit me. That’s all. You gotta be on the lookout for runners and bikers along this route.” Under his calm, polite tone, I detect his voice quavering a bit as he continues to take slow, intentional steps away from my car. A gun? What’s he talking about, a gun? And then I realize what riffling through my glove compartment must look like to him, so I sit up ramrod straight, and I, too, shoot both hands in the air.
“No, no. No gun here. I was looking for proof of insurance and my registration. Automatic response to almost hitting you. I’ve had a few too many traffic tickets and fender benders. It’s a by-product of not learning to drive until I was almost thirty. I guess I assumed a cop would show up any second to cite me for reckless driving or something.”
“Cop probablywouldpull up in this neighborhood,” he responds wryly.
I have to nod in agreement with that call. The Fab Forties in Sacramento is a famously well-patrolled neighborhood, given the high-ranking state officials and the attorneys who profit off their indiscretions living on these streets.
“I didn’t do any damage to your car if that’s what you’re worried about, promise. You can park and take a look.”
“No, I believe you, and I’d actually be fine if you did. I hate this car,” I say, not making any moves to get out and check. Now that neither the car nor the driver are threatening to kill him, the young man’s eyes grow wide and express disbelief of my dismissal of the pristine Range Rover. I swell with embarrassment, realizing how indifferent I sound, sitting in the air-conditioning of my apartment on wheels. I know what he sees is a distracted, unappreciative woman in a sweet ride with all the top-end bells and whistles, but what I feel driving around in this tank is a pervasive sense of “who even cares.”
We both go quiet, not sure what to say next, having established personal injury and car damage are nonexistent. The young man’s eyes move slowly from my car, and I follow his gaze straight ahead to the shrapnel of a destroyed phone littering the intersection.
“Good thing I have all my photos and vids backed up on my uncle’s laptop, but he’s gonna kill me over my iPhone.”
“It’s just a phone; shit happens.” I cringe again at my financial ambivalence. I’m a walking sociological stereotype today, but after your own life gets run over, a flattened iPhone doesn’t register as flinch-worthy.
“Yeah, well, shit happens a little too much to me,” he claims. This could be a bonding moment between the two of us, but I keep my mouth shut. “Plus, my uncle thinks running and making videos is the equivalent of driving and texting.”
“You might try listening to a book. It’s easier to keep your eyes on the road,” I parent this kid who is not my own to do as I say, not as I do.
“Oh, yeah? You must know my uncle. He tells me the same thing.”
“Smart man.”
“He thinks so.”
“Well, count yourself lucky that I have a connection at the Apple store. We can get this taken care of, and your uncle doesn’t need to know a thing,” I say, and chuff under my breath, thinking of Darren ducking behind the counter to hide when he sees me walking up to the Genius Bar again. “Can you meet me outside the store tomorrow at five, and I’ll get you a new one?” The young man’s eyes narrow, like he doesn’t believe I’ll show up.
“Let me write down my phone number; that way, you can hunt me down if I don’t show,” I say with a forced laugh so he knows I know that’s what he may be thinking and I don’t want him to question if I’ll do the right thing.
“How am I going to call you? I don’t have a phone.”
Right.
“Plus, my uncle doesn’t let me skip summer track training, like, ever.” Looking at him, I know he’s too old for high school, but maybe I overshot, thinking he’s out of college.
“Could you maybe order me one right now on your phone?” His suggestion is punctuated by a finger pointing to my own phone sitting safely in the cup holder.
“Do you run for Sacramento State?” I ask, trying to make small talk to fill in the time while I pull up the Apple website.
“Nah, I’m one of the assistant track coaches over at Regis, and then maybe cross-country in the fall if the boys like me. My uncle helped get me the job, so I can’t get away with nothin’, especially not showing up for practice.”
“Regis, huh?” I squint my eyes to help my brain think. “The school, it’s over by, um ...”
“By the Safeway in South Sacramento. It’s all boys. Doubt you’ve driven by it.”
“I actually have. I have two boys, and I’ve been there for a couple of Saturday soccer and lacrosse games.”
“Yeah? How old are your sons? Maybe I’ve seen them around.”
There is no way I’m revealing my age by sharing how old my sons are.
“You ran all the way over here from there?” I ask, genuinely impressed, but also to shift the subject off clues to my years on earth.
“Nah, I have a route over here I like to do before I meet up with my running club in McKinley Park.” He raises his eyebrows at me, a sign to get typing. He’s not here for the get-to-know-you chitchat.
