“Oh my god.” I look between Salinger and my father in horror. “Salinger, you’re a grass nerd.”
“Mandy, it’s a lawn. This is serious business,” Salinger lectures. “It’s American culture and, sadly, a dying art form.”
“Dad.” I raise my voice over the two of them gushing about lawn care. “The Uber driver has to keep working.”
“An Uber driver? What happened to your car?”
Ugh, it’s probably still sitting on the street. I bet I have a ticket.
“Just needs some oil and fluids.” I grasp for a reasonable explanation.
“You could have called me. I would have given you a ride. Those rideshare apps are so expensive.”
“It’s fine, Dad. I have a coupon.”
“Mandy, your car is broken?” Mom asks.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Ma, something’s wrong with Mandy’s car,” she hollers back through the open door. Inside, my sisters are screechingat each other. “You need a better car, Mandy. Haven’t I been telling you, you need a better car?”
“My car is fine.”
My mom fusses with the collar of my dress. “I told you, Mandy—you need to find a husband, one with a good job, one like your father. Your father has a pension, you know.”
“I don’t think anyone gives pensions anymore.”
“My company does,” Salinger says.
“Uber gives pensions?” My dad frowns.
“Even if they don’t, Patrick, Mandy’s found a man who has a job. It’s a step in the right direction. Come inside, mister…”
“You can just call me, Salinger, ma’am.”
“Ooh, Salinger! What a lovely name.” She links her arm with his. “Did you know that J.D. Salinger turned into a hermit and lived in a shack in New England for decades? He even had women parading to his house to be his mistresses. Some of them, their mothers would drive them there so they could have sex with a famous author—can you believe it? I was reading an article by one of them in my women’s magazine. I was shocked. It’s shocking! Although now that my daughter has never brought home a boyfriend and will never get married or have children, I’m beginning to see the appeal in pimping out your own child.”
What the fuck,Salinger mouths at me.
“Sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands,” my mom chatters on. “Lauren, where are you?”
Lauren, hair askew, saunters in from the kitchen.
“Lauren, this is an Uber driver.” My mom pats Salinger’s muscular arm. “They have a retirement program. You could drive for Uber when Mandy gets her car fixed. You can use her car.”
“No, she can’t, Mom. Lauren, go get a real job.”
“No shame in it. A job is a job,” my dad says, moseying over to select a piece of cheese and a cracker from the charcuterie board.
“And a man is a man. Working-class men have the biggest cocks, Mandy,” Gran tells me sagely, shoving a water glass full of cheap wine into my hand. “You shouldn’t pass that up. I should have gotten me a working-class sidepiece after I married your grandfather. Do you have any brothers, hot stuff?”
Salinger seems mildly alarmed.
Lauren scoffs. “That’s not her Uber driver. That’s Mandy’s rich boss. She thinks he’s hot.”
“He is hot,” Gran pipes up from the couch.
“You think I’m hot?” Salinger purrs in my ear.
