Two Out Of Three

I look proudly and contentedly at my nails. I feel like I raised them. It took me four months of grooming and a pile of dirty dishes that I dared not wash for fear my nails would break. I trim, file, buff, and paint them red to be noticed. Satisfied, I wait for them to dry. Bored, I dismiss my nails altogether. I turn my attention this time to my hairdo. It is long and sits like a lump of dirty cloth on my back. I look at myself in the mirror; a zit welcomes my face with open arms. In dismay, I check my face from a distance, the nose, always the nose. Oh, if I could just cut it off. The zit is no longer important; let it keep company with the nose. I search for a kind reflection, and my eyes are the answer. I wink, pout my full lips, make a pose dimming my eyes like those in magazines.

It doesn’t work.

I go back to my original self with a shrug. My jeans and Betty Boop sweatshirt are in check. I dress and walk out to my car, hands first, if that is possible. Happy with Betty Boop, my favorite cartoon character, I push my chest out. She is sexy, flamboyant, and cute, but with a larger head than her Jane Russell body and a chest the size of Texas.

I notice a man standing next to my blue Honda Civic. My first impulse is to run back into the house. I look at him again, but this time with the experienced eye of a once mugged victim, and decide he is not a threat. Nevertheless, I walk towards him cautiously.

“Is this your car, ma’am?”

‘He must be foreign,’ I think to myself. Nobody is polite anymore. It takes me a minute to remember that my car has a ‘For Sale’ sign on it.

“Yes,” I say, noticing for the first time his rampant dark hair. His eyes are… I don’t look; out of fear he might notice.

“How much?”

They are green, or maybe dark blue.

“Twelve hundred.” I try to make it out with my hands, emphasizing the two, and letting my nails stay up in the air for a second. He doesn’t notice. So much for my red nail polish.

He shifts his weight from one leg to another. He circles his chin with his hand. I take advantage of his calculations and look him over. He is well built, tall, dressed in blue slacks with a sweatshirt that looks right out of Spiegel. He wears nice shoes. What more do I want?

“What year?” he asks, breaking off my thoughts. I look at his eyes; green, my favorite color.

“1985,” I reply. His eyes roam over the car with lust. Oh, how I wish I were a Honda.

“I’ll get back to you,” he says, not taking his eyes off the car. He is struggling with the amount, I conclude.

“No problem.” I shrug and give him my number in my most perfect handwriting. I watch him as he walks away, taking in his every move, the swing of his arm, the bounce of his walk, and I thank God, I put that sign on my Honda.

I get in my car, heading for my daily destination, Lotto time. I arrive at the gas station, two blocks away from my house, feeling lucky. Orso gives me a lotto ticket so I can tick off my numbers. I stare at the ticket, waiting for an omen to move my hand to the right numbers. None come to mind. I jot down 20-27-40-59-6… praying to God this will be the one. I say bye to Orso, thinking the Bangladeshi surely believes I am a Lotto addict. Not caring, I drive off.

I drive around in circles, destination unknown. It is at these moments that my mother’s words ring loudest in my ears.

“If only you would settle down with a young man.” She says it like I’m the one driving them away. Ever since we moved to this town a year ago, I have been a hermit. Not one man has asked me out yet. I grab a tape from the dashboard and put it in the tape deck. Celine Dion. The words and her voice pull me even further into my wallowing. I decide I hate my mother. If only she wouldn’t make settling down the be-all and end-all of my life, maybe then I’d have a chance. Well, I took my revenge when I pretended I had a steady boyfriend. I even named him Antonio, just to piss her off. I know she doesn’t like me to go out with someone of a different race. Not that I’ve ever done it, but she never made a secret of her feelings on these issues, especially when Ricki Lake is on TV.

“See, that’s what comes out of interracial dating,” she would comment, and from that Antonio was born.

I decide to go to the movies. That is what Saturday is all about in this town. It is better than going around in circles and burning up gas. God knows I need money, especially if I am ever going to move out of my parents’ house. Once I sell my car, once I sell it. Wow. I’ll have money to keep me for a while, or when I win the lottery, whichever comes first.

I buy a movie ticket for ‘Only You,’ calculating that it will finish before 11:00 p.m., so that at 11:30 I’ll be home packing for my Hawaii trip once my numbers are announced.

I hate the movie. All about love and syrupy stuff that I can’t stand. I knew it was going to be like that; I just don’t know why I put myself through this torture. I wish that guy would buy the car and take me out. I drive home miserable and lonely.

“You got yourself a guy?” I hear my mom clearly say from the living room.

“I’ll be out of your hair soon, Mom. Just let me sell my car,” I answer, hoping desperately my Lotto ticket will win tonight.

“I don’t want you out of my hair, I just want you…” To settle down, I say with her in one breath.

“By the way, there’s this guy who called about your car. He said to call him anytime you got back.”

I stop in my tracks. I get his number from her and run up the stairs and into my room to dial.

“Hello?” I say softly, knowing it is late.

“Yes?” He is asleep.

“Are you sleeping?” I ask as if talking to an old friend.

“Who is this?”

“Umm… you came for the car,” I say, trying to revive his memory and trying hard to erase mine. His eyes are stamped in my mind.

“Oh, yes, I wanted to ask if I could test-drive it. I think I may buy it, that is, if it runs well.” Bingo! I’ll be moving tomorrow.

“Sure, anytime.” The sooner the better.

“How about tomorrow?”

I love this guy.

“Absolutely!”

“Then I’ll come the same time as today. Is that O.K. with you?”

“Absolutely.” I am repeating myself, but that is better than jumping up and down. I wait.

“Umm… Would you like to go out with me later, for dinner or something?” I am beside myself.

“Is this to get a discount?” I ask suspiciously. Two dreams in one night are just too good to be true.

“No, honestly, it is just that I am new in town and I just wondered…”

“So am I,” I blurt. It does not matter that I have lived in town a year longer than him. I have a date for the first time in a year, so I am entitled.

“What is your name?” I ask.

“Antonio.”

I stay on the phone numb.

“Hello? Are you there?”

“Yes, I’ll see you tomorrow.” I hang up.

“Antonio? ANTONIO?”

I say it out loud. My mind races with the thought of how my mother is going to take it. Maybe I should tell the guy to keep mum about buying the car. Maybe I could pull it off. Maybe we’ll move in together. If he knew what was going on in my mind, he would surely not come tomorrow. Thank God for small favors. I sit on my bed with the pillow in my lap, eyes still in disbelief, sweet revenge just around the corner.

“Hey, up there, your lotto is on,” my mom screams.

I fetch the ticket from my purse, high as a balloon full of helium, and race downstairs. Sitting in front of the TV, I wait, eyes awake, ears alert. The lotto lady comes on: the first of our winning numbers tonight is 20-27-40…

June 1994

Abeer Kashmeeri