“It’s only fair, I guess.” I produce the romance book out from under the crook of my arm, and he takes it gingerly like it might send him to hell for even thinking about extramarital sex. “It’s not going to hurt you,” I laugh.
“I know that. But you might.”
“I won’t.”
Dean blinks slowly, as if to signal a peaceful truce. “If you say so.”
I nod. “Let’s go.”
Dean handles the transaction, so I don’t have to sanitize my hands again just before going into the cold. We walk towards the car, and I accidentally brush against the door, so I pull out my sanitizer to clean my hands anyway.
“You know, you can touch the door and other surfaces without having to sanitize every time,” Dean says, his breath producing a cloud of smoke in the cold air. “Your skin is there to protect you from germs, and so is your immune system.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “But it makes me feel better. So I do it. It’s harmless in the long run. The worst thing anybody got from too much hand sanitizer was just dry, cracked skin.”
“Dry, cracked skin makes it easier for germs to enter.” Dean remarks.
“Good thing I don’t use too much then, huh?” I put my sanitizer back in my bag. “The brand I use has vitamin E and aloe in it. Some studies say that nurses who cleaned their hands by using an alcohol-based hand rub had less skin irritation and dryness than people who washed their hands with soap and water.” I recite from my memory.
Dean laughs. “I was just trying to say, you’ll survive if you touch things.”
“I know. And I do touch things.” I force him to recall. “I’m just careful about it and always wash or sanitize my hands afterwards. Hence the medical supply tote bag.” I shake my bag, now very full between my items, Dean’s record and our books.
“I don’t understand you,” Dean remarks.
“I never claimed to be logical,” I laugh.
We walk hurriedly back to the minivan, with a minute left to spare on the meter. I climb
into the front seat, shivering, clutching my bag in my lap. Dean turns the van on, and it sputters but doesn’t start.
He tries again. “Ah, come on,” He whispers, his breath fogging in the cold air.
“Let me try,” I say after the third failure to start.
“What are you going to do that I’m not?” Dean says.
“I don’t know, but it can’t hurt, right?” I say.
“Give it your best shot,” He says, and I reach over and turn the key as quickly as I can. It does not start.
“Well, shit,” I whisper. “What are we going to do?”
“Well, for starters, you’re gonna put more time on the meter.” Dean picks out quarters from the ashtray.
“Then what? Are we just stuck here?”
“And then, I’m going to call the car rental place. We’re not stuck here.” Dean puts his phone up to his ear while I stepback outside. I walk over to the meter in my big coat and put the quarters in one by one. I settle on approximately an hour, hoping it doesn’t take that long to get the car up and running again.
When I get back in the car, Dean is still on the phone.
“I’m on hold,” He tells me, and puts the phone on speaker for me to hear the jazz muzak, signaling that he is in fact, on hold. “Be quiet in case they can hear us.”
“That’s not a thing,” I say, settling back into my seat, bundling my scarf back around my face to try to keep the warmth in. I rub my hands on my jeans, warming up my thighs, and then I suck my arms back up into my coat, not to expose my fingers.
The speaker on Dean’s phone muffles with a “Hello?” and Dean turns the speaker off and puts the phone back up to his ear.
“Yeah…we’re here in Camden, and the van isn’t starting…” Dean explains to the other end of the line.
