Blue Collar Royalty Apr. 2015 | Page 35

  Norman  was  gripping  the  door  handle  as  though  he  were  about  to  jump  for  it.   His  knuckles  were  white  and  the  brown-­‐white  of  his  one  bulging  eye  grew  red.       “Now  wait  a  minute,”  I  said,  “I’m  no  religious  nut”—     The  horn  of  a  candy-­‐apple-­‐red  Dart  interrupted  and  I  almost  swallowed  my   tongue  as  I  saw  the  snarling  face  of  its  driver  heading  right  for  us.  I  swerved  and   missed  the  Dart  in  the  nick  of  time.  I  turned  to  Norman  just  in  time  to  see  him  vomit   a  soupy,  lime-­‐green  stream  across  the  wood-­‐panel  dashboard  of  my  ‘86  Coupe  de   Ville—my  baby.       I  said  nothing.       Norman  looked  at  me  as  if  to  say,  “You  let  me  in  your  car.  That’ll  teach  you.”       “Sorry,”  he  gurgled.  A  cord  of  green  spittle  dangled  from  his  bottom  lip.       “It’s  no  problem.”  I  held  my  breath  and  continued  down  the  road.  I  knew  Sal’s   was  right  up  the  road,  so  I  stepped  on  the  pedal.       I  pulled  the  Caddy  into  Sal’s.  Sal’s  was  a  carwash,  but  Sal  called  it  a   “boutique,”  and  if  you  didn’t  you  would  hear  about  it  from  Sal.  I  parked,  opened  the   door,  and  told  Norman  to  wait  on  the  bench  out  front.       “You  gotta  smoke?”  He  asked.       I  stopped  midstride.  This  motherfucker,  I  thought.  I  pulled  a  pack  of  Lucky’s   from  my  pocket  and  tossed  it  to  him.  He  caught  the  pack,  but  couldn’t  be  bothered  to   thank  me.  I  turned  back  toward  the  large,  glass  double-­‐doors  and  almost  collided   with  Sal.  He  stood  with  his  arms  crossed,  a  suspicious  eye  trained  on  Norman.  Sal   was  the  greasiest  person  I  knew.  If  you  shook  his  hand,  you  immediately  wanted  to   wash  yours  with  a  heavy-­‐duty  dishwashing  soap.  He  had  refused  to  button  the  top     35