Life is a Burning Wheel
By Ellen Adams
I just wanted to get away. I didn't realize that I had the brake on until
this wizened little old woman tried to wave me down. "Oh, oh," she was
saying, hopping like a geriatric aerobics instructor doing jumping jacks,
and shaking a menacing-looking wooden broom that looked large enough to
serve the telephone company as a utility pole.
I didn't know what was wrong with her. I saw her sweeping some grass
clippings into a storm drain one minute and then she picked up the broom
and shook it at me as I drove by the next. By the time I stopped the car, I
could smell the burning tire and see the wisps of smoke coming from the
rear of the car.
I remember thinking, "It must be that cheap gas I bought. It burns
different. God, it stinks. I'm sticking with premium."
But my back wheel was on fire. The little gray-haired woman in the flowered
pink apron had run up the street to show me.
"It's your vheel," she said. "It's your vheel. It's on FIRE. Fire! Fire!"
I stopped and ran around to the trunk, and sure enough, it did look like my
back left wheel was on fire. Thick smoke was pouring out of the wheel well.
I opened the trunk, and pulled out a tiny fire extinguisher that probably
wouldn't have put out a lit cigarette in an ashtray. I crouched in the
gravel and sprayed some white foam up into the source of smoke.
I had no talent whatsoever with cars, and I suppose that was obvious from
the way I wielded the extinguisher. I couldn't imagine how my back wheel
could be burning, except that I did know that driving at high speeds with
the parking brake on is rarely recommended. This probably had something to
do with the burning tire, I reasoned to myself.
The little woman watched me for a moment without saying anything. Then, as
I stood up and battened the extinguisher down next to the tiny spare tire
in the trunk, she offered, "Good ting I saw you and schtopped you when I
did. You could have been exchploded to pieces."
"Exploded?" I asked, trying hard not to inadvertently mimic the woman's
accent.
"Why sure. If the fire had gotten to da gas tank...ka boom!" she said
dramatically, dropping her broom and waving her arms for effect.
I offered her my hand to shake. "Well," I said, "Thank you. I suppose I owe
you my life."
She smiled, but did not shake my hand.
"I had the hand-brake on," I said. "Stupid, I know..."
But the woman was no longer listening. She had turned, picked up her broom
and was already walking back to her tidy little white brick house. She
didn't want to hear about my ordeal at the restaurant. And I stopped myself
just before I began to explain.
I was still thinking about the morning, and the restaurant, when I slammed
the trunk lid down hard on my thumb.
"Crimemenitly!" I screamed. I would have yelled something saltier, but I
thought the kindly old lady was still in hearing range, so I chose the most
ridiculous and innocuous curse I could think of: something I had heard my
Grandma say in her extremely rare vexed moments. The woman did not turn
around. She had returned to her task of clogging the storm drain with her
lawn leavings.
This was not turning out to be a good day. As I got back behind the wheel,
my thumb still throbbing but not yet bruised, I had forgotten about the
coffee. I had stowed a Styrofoam cup of coffee on the hand-rest. I jostled
it just enough to upend it. Tepid coffee splashed out on the seat, soaking
the brand new Southwest pattern floor-mats I had purchased at Wal-Mart, and
my Spring Creme colored pantyhose. I also now noticed had a run down the
right knee, from when I crouched down to inspect the wheel. I didn't have
anything to sop up the mess with, except some extra copies of my resume.
I glanced at my watch. I was now 17 minutes late for my job interview.
I put the car back into gear, and nearly drove off again with the
hand-brake on. To break myself of the temptation, I yanked the wooden knob
off the top of the brake and threw it to the floor. I pulled up at the KGOF
office 23 minutes late. I allotted myself just enough time to go into the
restroom and try to hike up my stockings so that the run and the coffee
stains didn't show.
I was successful only in raking the run further along my leg, and
stretching my pantyhose so that the coffee stains looked like unusual,
oblong freckles. The hose also bagged unattractively at the ankles.
KGOF is housed in a hung glass office building, in a typical FM radio
station office: verdant, luxurious real plants in thoughtful, decorator
foliage clusters. Tastefully upholstered chairs with the
please-don't-loiter-here comfort level. Current issues of People and Radio
Today in the lobby and the simulcast on the lobby speaker. Ken Spiracy was
on, with his morning crew they called the Goof Troop, rudely rousing some
poor woman out of bed: his specialty.
"And today we'll be waking up Miss Ida Townsend of Catherine Springs," he
was saying. In the background, you could hear a phone ringing, and muffled
laughter.
Someone picked up the line. "Ms. Ida Townsend?" Ken asked.
"Yes?" came the sleepy response.
"Miss Ida Townsend of Catherine Springs?" Ken pressed.
"Yes?" came the response, a little more alert now, and on the edge of
angry. "Who is this?" I could picture this poor woman, turning her clock to
face her as she lay in bed.
"This is your KGOF Wake Up call. Rise n' shine, Ms. Townsend."
"But I work the night shift..."
"You do?" came the mock-surprised reply.
"Yeah, I just went to bed two hours ago."
"Ooooooooooops! That's why they call us the Goof Troop!" Ken said, his
words accompanied by gales of laughter, horn honks and other "funny" sound
effects. I would have bet money that Ken Spiracy was some tall blond with
surfer-dude good looks and a God's-gift-to-women attitude. Thankfully, I
wasn't scheduled to see him. I was just supposed to meet the station
manager, and a jock named Vern Loudermilk.
The receptionist was on the phone, as well.
"But he said if I really and truly wanted to, I could come over," she said,
noticing me, and turning in her chair to avoid facing me. "So what should I
have said to that? No?"
The receptionist was waiting for an answer, so I decided to have a seat
until she finished her call. I motioned to her that I was going to have a
seat, and pointed to my briefcase, hoping this was the international sign
for, "I have a job interview and I'm terribly late," but she responded by
swiveling in her chair to face the wall, and lowering her voice so I could
not hear the remainder of her conversation.
I sat my case down and closed my eyes for a moment. The morning's events
replayed in my head like a bad movie. Last night everything had been
perfect. I had loaded my new leather briefcase with three dupes of my demo
tape, crisp copies of my resume and salary history. I had time to lay out
my clothes: a new silk blouse, a flowered skirt, a knit vest, and my
spectator pumps. I rarely plan things so that I have this luxury. That
should have been my clue that things would go horribly wrong.
About 2 a.m., I heard knocking at the front door. Softly at first, but then
louder and more insistently. I decided to ignore it; I knew who it was.
"Come on, Melly," he said, "let me in."
It was Javier, my ex-husband, and he was mad: "My key don't fit the lock."
He was drunk. He only made grammatical errors when he spoke when he was
drunk.
"Of course your key doesn't fit the lock," I screamed from the bed. "This
is my apartment."
I got up, pulled my shortie cowboy denim robe on, and went to the door.
"Javier," I said to the door. "Go away. I'll see you...tomorrow. It's too
late now. I have an early appointment tomorrow."
"Melly," he said. "Let me in. I have something for you. I have a present
for you."
"No," I said, and backed away from the door like it was radioactive.
"I just want to give you this damn present," he said. "Do I have to break
your door down?"
I thought about calling the police for about half a second. No one would
come rescue me from Javier. Javier was a cop.
I had a set of metal folding chairs in the hall closet, and I dragged one
of them out and set it under the door knob, just as Javier began throwing
his body against the door.
Smash.
"Chuey, honey," I said, using his childhood nickname, trying to sound
sweet. "Stop it. "
Smash. The folding chair began to bow and fold on itself; paint was
chipping off the metal door. I began to wonder how this would affect my
security deposit.
"You'll hurt yourself."
Smash. He was like a bull. Big and stupid and determined.
"I just need to get some sleep," I said, trying to think of something that
would shoo him away. "I'll see you tomorrow. And we'll talk. I promise."
The folding chair fell away from the door. And Javier finally managed to
bust the lock. The metal door opened with an explosion, and hit the wall
with such force that it popped back into the frame before Javier had a
chance to come in.
I didn't know what to do, so I backed into the big Papa-San chair by my
telephone, and pulled a pillow up to shield me against the Javier
onslaught. Javier opened the door again, and stumbled in. He was dressed
for a date. Gold chains at the throat and wrist. He was wearing starched
jeans, and a yellow button-down. Cowboy boots. He would have looked
handsome, except his red eyes made him look ill. His tongue lolled out of
his mouth. He was squinting: Trying to narrow down which image, of the 16
or so he was undoubtedly seeing, was the real me, I supposed. In his hand
he had a small, wrapped package.
"Here, Melly," he said. "I just wanted to give you this. Open it. It's a
goddamned diamond bracelet."
"Javier, " I said, "You are not supposed to give your ex-wives presents."
"I have only one ex-wife," he said, falling to the floor on his knees, and
tossing the gift to me.
I began to open the box, which was tightly wrapped in slick, red paper.
Javier looked pathetic, and began tracing invisible figure eights on the
carpet with his finger.
"And she's going to be mine again," he said.
The velvet box inside popped open easily. Inside was a three-carat tennis
bracelet. It was beautiful.
"Javier," I said, trying to give him the box back. "You know I can't accept
this. You should save your money for new girlfriends," I said.
"That's what my mother said," Javier said, suddenly grabbing me be the belt
loops and pulling me forward.
"Oh Melly," he said. "You smell like sex. Were you excited earlier?"
Javier began to evaporate from my mind as I realized someone was speaking
to me.
"How did you do that to your finger?" the receptionist asked, bursting my
recollection bubble with her inquiry. She was standing over me, looking
concerned. I supposed I had been too lost in thought to realize she had
even ended her phone conversation.
Finger? I thought a moment, then the faint throbbing in my thumb reminded
me. "Oh, I slammed the trunk lid on it."
"Too bad," she said blithely, returning to her desk. "Would you care for a
coffee?"
"Coffee?" I said. "No. I would like a water, though."
The receptionist sighed, as if I had asked for the moon on a plate. "Water?
We don't have mineral water or anything. I could give you a regular water.
Like from out of the tap. With a lemon."
"How long will it be?" I called after the woman, who had disappeared down
the hall.
"Will what be?" the receptionist asked, returning with a plain Styrofoam
cup with cool tap water and no ice and no lemon.
"Till the interview. I know I was late, but I'd like to wrap this up before
lunch, if that's possible."
"Oh. You're here to interview? What's your name?" she asked.
"Melanie Rodriguez," I said.
She consulted a list on her desk. "Rod, R-o-d-r-i-g... Oh, here you are.
You were supposed to have been here at 9:30."
I glanced at the clock. It was 10:15.
She held up a finger. "I'll buzz Mr. Murchison." Just as she was buzzing, a
jovial man with sleeked blond hair, a shark skin suit and a pinkie ring on
each hand emerged from one of the interior offices. He was accompanied by
two shorter, big haired, heavily made-up women dressed in Chanel suits, one
pink, one green. They were laughing and showing lots of perfect dental
work. They started heading out the lobby doors.
"Oh Mr. Murchison," the receptionist called after him. "Your 9:30 is here."
He stopped, and the jovial little group fell silent. "My 9:30?" He asked.
The receptionist pointed at me. I stood up, knocking over the cup of water
at my feet as I did so.
"Hello," I said, trying to ignore my gaffe and reaching to shake his hand.
"Melanie Rodriguez."
Mr. Murchison furrowed his brow, and tapped his skull before taking my hand
and giving it a cursory pump. "Rodriguez, right, right, right."
One of the ladies beside him looked down at my feet. "You knocked your
drink over," she said, pointing helpfully. I hoped she hadn't also noticed
my baggy, freckled pantyhose.
The receptionist sighed loudly again, left the room and returned with a
paper towel. From the harumphing and sighing, you would think she was
mopping up heavy water at Chernobyl.
"I'm so sorry," I said, bending down in a vain attempt to help.
"Look," Mr. Murchison said, "You two cherubs run along to The Grotto, while
I interview Ms. Hernandez; won't take me 10 minutes. Order me a Bloody
Mary."
They disappeared dutifully. Then, to me, he said," You, come here," and he
motioned me down the hallway to his office, which was dominated by a large
window overlooking the city, and a large, framed photo of James Dean,
smoking, but the smoke in the photograph was replaced by a squiggle of blue
neon.
He did not indicate a chair for me to sit in, so I took the one closest to
his large, mahogany desk. The desk was devoid of paper. It held only a
telephone and a clump of magnets on a black platter--one of those executive
games you see choking the store shelves on Bosses' Day.
I unzipped my leather case, and produced the salary history, resume and
demo tape. "This tape has some of my drive-time sets from KGST," I said.
Murchison picked up some pince-nez glasses and looked over my resume. "But
you're not Hispanic," he said.
My blonde hair and green eyes usually gives me away, I thought.
This had nothing to do with my work for a competing station. It had nothing
to do with anything.
"No. I'm not. Does that make a difference?" I asked.
"Of course not," Murchison said. "But with a name like Rod-reeg-ez," his
voice trailed off. He pulled a manila folder out of a drawer and marked my
name on the label tab, then placed my tape and papers inside and filed it
away.
"Thanks so much for coming," he said. "Have a seat out in the lobby again,
and we'll call you."
I did as I was told, and Mr. Murchison whispered something to the
receptionist, smiled at me, then left without a word.
My mind drifted back to the preceding evening, when Javier had passed out
on my floor, and I fell into an uneasy sleep in my bedroom, half-listening
for my ex-husband. At 6, I rose and showered, quickly before I had rinsed
all the soap out of my hair. I kept hearing noises and thinking I'd come
face to face with Javier. But when I emerged dripping from the shower,
Javier was still asleep in a heap on the floor. He didn't even budge when I
turned on the blow-drier.
I closed the bedroom door, and furtively called my boyfriend Chet, whom I
knew would be sleeping at 6 a.m., but I trusted that he loved me enough to
ignore the early hour.
"Hello," Chet said, sleepily.
"Chet. Could you meet me at Bagel World for breakfast?" I asked. This was
asking a lot of Chet. He was a nurse, and he worked the night shift at the
nursing home, and he was not a morning person.
"What's up?" he asked.
"Well, Javier broke into my apartment last night, and I'm still a little
freaked. I'm going to have to move," I said. "He's still here."
"Are you okay? Melly? Did he hurt you?" Chet asked. I could hear him
pulling his clothes on. His change jingled in his pockets.
"I'm fine," I said. "But I have that interview today at the radio station.
I thought I'd go grab a bite a Bagel World. Let's meet there at 7, okay?"
"Sure," Chet said, sounding a bit puzzled. "Are you sure you don't want me
to come pick you up?"
"No. No," I assured Chet. I knew I didn't want to risk a confrontation
between Chet and Javier.
I didn't know what to do with my drunken, unconscious ex, so I just left
him on the floor.
I left home with curlers still in my hair, and tugged them out as I drove,
even though I had always sworn I'd never do something as silly and
dangerous as that.
At the restaurant, Chet was waiting for me at a table. I was so relieved to
see his familiar spiky blond hair and sleepy green eyes. "Hello, baby," he
said, leaning over to give me a kiss. He smelled like Paco Rabane cologne.
He had toothpaste-crust in the corner of his mouth.
I went up to the counter. A very pale young woman with fright-white hair,
black lipstick and multiple facial piercings said, "Yeah?"
"I'd like an onion bagel, with cream cheese and gravlox," I said.
The young woman looked even more frightening in the bold, fluorescent
lighting of Bagel World. She smeared a bagel half with a slab of cream
cheese. "And what else did you say?" she asked. As she spoke, I noticed her
tongue was pierced. I tried not to look shocked or repulsed.
"Uh, Gravlox?" I asked.
"No lox," she said.
"Well, how about a slice of tomato and Canadian bacon, then," I said.
"We don't have any Canadian bacon," she said.
"Ham?" I asked.
"Okay," she said, plopping a slice of ham on the bagel. "Do you want it
hot?"
"Yeah, sure," I said.
As she put my order, minus the tomato slice, in the microwave, the bell on
the front door chimed. In walked Javier.
"Melly," he said, not noticing Chet, or indeed any of the other patrons.
"You forgot your bracelet."
The restaurant was filled with doctors, nurses, technicians and janitors
from the nearby hospital, anxiously awaiting a bagel or coffee to take to
work; a couple of families with babies seated at the booths along the far
wall; a clutch of regulars sipping coffee around the bar at the rear of the
restaurant; and two or three couples like Chet and me who had decided just
to meet for breakfast, seated near the front window. Everyone turned to
look at Javier, who was lurching forward, his button-down all wrinkled and
his jet hair still askew from sleep, proffering the diamond bracelet.
I glanced at Chet, who seemed frozen in his seat.
Pushing past Javier, I headed out the door.
I got in my car and locked the door. Javier emerged from the restaurant,
banging the door open, so that the glass flexed dangerously and the little
bell chimed itself silly. Soon he was knocking on my car window, and a
small crowd had gathered at the entrance to the restaurant, to see what was
going on.
"Melanie," he said. "Don't you want your bracelet on? Let me put it on
you!"
My heart sank as I realized a quick getaway was impossible; my keys were
inside, at Chet's table. I could see them beside his coffee cup.
Chet noticed, and scooped them up. He paused at the door before emerging
outside. I knew he was afraid of Javier. Javier is six-three, and he works
out regularly at Gold's Gym, because, he says, he has to keep himself in
shape for his beat. But nothing ever happened in our town. Nothing, until
now.
Chet emerged with my keys and a Styrofoam cup of coffee.
"Uh, hi, Rodriguez," he said.
Javier paid no attention to him.
I tried to motion to Chet to come around to the passenger side.
"What?" he mouthed from behind Javier's back. He didn't understand.
"Melly, please talk to me," Javier said.
For the first time, I turned to face him. He was crying.
This was ridiculous, I thought. Here was a man so wrapped up in his police
work that he paid absolutely no attention to me until I divorced him, and
now he's trying to buy back my affection with a diamond bracelet in a strip
center bagel restaurant.
I rolled down the window. "Javi," I said. "It's okay." I motioned to Chet
to come around to the other door.
Javier crouched down beside the car, put his head down on the door, and
began to sob.
Chet was about to get in with me, and I waved him out.
"The keys, the keys," I said.
Chet suddenly threw me the keys and set the coffee down in the holder in
the armrest, then slammed the door, stepped back and crossed his arms like
a genie. He looked as if he expected me to turn into a rabbit and hop away.
Javier lifted his head to see what was going on. I hastily tried to roll up
the window with my left hand, while jamming the key in the ignition with
the right hand.
"No, Melly," he said.
Javier tried valiantly to cling to my window as I drove off.
The image of the desperate Javier was gradually replaced in my mind with
the clearer likeness of a short little man with wiry red hair and thick,
horn-rimmed glasses.
"Ms. Rodriguez?" a short little man with wiry red hair and thick,
horn-rimmed glasses was standing beside me. "Could you come with me?"
I followed him dutifully down the hallway, to another office. This one was
littered with promotional T-shirts, cassette tapes, gimmee caps and movie
posters of _Attack of the Killer Tomatoes and _I Married A Monster From
Outer Space_. The desk was a mess of Big Gulp cups, papers, computer disks
and carts.
"They're letting me pick my own replacement," he said.
"Oh?" I said, my expression betraying my confusion.
"I'm Ken Spiracy," he said. "You'd be replacing me. Loudermilk is my real
name."
I unzipped my bag again, and pulled out another cassette and resume.
"We're really surprised you weren't Spanish, though," Ken said, his off-air
voice seemed much higher than the one he used as a member of The Goof
Troop.
"Spanish?" I asked.
"Well, Mexican-American. Hispanic," he said. "We got a letter from
Affirmative Action. We need to hire more minorities or something."
"Sorry to disappoint," I said, rising to go. I didn't want to belabor this
any longer than I had to. I didn't think I could pull off a morning show.
Especially not something along the lines of The Goof Troop.
"That's life," said Ken, smiling, and offering to walk me out.
As we passed the receptionist, I noticed she was on the phone again.
"No kidding? At Bagel World? Well, how big of a fight? A policeman? Was
anybody killed? No?" she said, sounding a little disappointed. "Well, the
hospital is right there."
I decided I didn't want to hear more. Ken Spiracy took my briefcase and
walked me to my car. He even opened the car door for me.
He noticed the charbroiled rear tire, and the side of the car which had a
fine film of smoke coating it.
"What happened here?" Ken asked.
"Oh, that," I said, trying to sound nonchalant, and taking my briefcase and
tossing it blithely into the back seat. "Well, I almost spontaneously
combusted this morning on my way to the interview. I left the parking brake
on and didn't realize it until the wheel caught on fire. I was just so
anxious to get here..."
Ken nodded, but didn't seem to understand.
I scooted in behind the steering wheel, and slammed my skirt in the door. I
rolled down the window. "My burning wheel: It reminds me of that old song."
Ken raised an eyebrow behind his thick glasses.
I began to sing the words from an old Spirtual: "Ezekiel saw the wheel, way
up in the middle of the air..."
Now Ken was really puzzled.
"Ezekiel was a sixth-century Hebrew prophet who saw a vision: a wheel,
burning in the sky," I explained. "Some scholars think he was probably one
of the first people to report seeing a UFO." My brain is a useless
repository of trivia, I thought. Why was it that I could remember details
like this, but I couldn't remember to take my parking brake off? I asked
myself.
Ken nodded, smiled wanly and bid me a hasty good-bye.
I revved the engine and was still humming "Ezekiel saw the Wheel" when I
drove over a nail in the parking lot, and punctured my tire.
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