Matthew Snyderman
Only in New York
Claire shielded her eyes and scanned the Arizona sky for vultures. It wouldn’t be long before a trio of them - she always pictured them in threes - began to circle. Waiting for her to weaken. Then they would land 20 yards away and begin their slow advance, one grotesque hop at a time.
She hated vultures almost as much as she hated this kind of heat; 93 and climbing, according to her phone. So what if it was dry. And she wondered what the temperature would be in the shade, if there were any. That noon was 90 minutes off did not improve her mood.
-----
Repeated attempts to suppress images of her sun-bleached skull in a series of Georgia O'Keeffe paintings went for naught until a speck emerged from the heat waves where Route 40 met the horizon, set to an audible hiss coming from the 1972 Buick Riviera she'd been driving cross-country since leaving New York five days earlier. Less than 200 miles to the west was Sedona, which she'd called home after her father had pulled the plug on his law practice and a rickety marriage to a devout socialite 17 years ago in favor of a small desert art gallery. But given present circumstances, it might as well have been on Mars.
“Come on, buddy,” she pleaded with a plaintive wave as the speck became a hump and then an 18-wheeler. Wishing she could temporarily morph from a plump 5’2” barista and aspiring artist with a spiky, two-toned hairstyle into a size six blond capable of bringing the most reluctant trucker to a halt, Claire forgot to cover the car's still legible "Hillary in 2016" bumper sticker. This guy was really moving. There was no chance that rig was going to stop safely without ending up at least 1/3 of a mile down the road, and it whooshed past in a cloud of dust and gravel. She imagined the bimbo whose image was sprawled across the truck's side panel smirking at her. “Fucking Republican!”
Trying to decide whether she was actually getting light-headed or simply imagining it, Claire drained what was left of her water and confirmed that neither those orange road triangles nor a reflecting windshield screen had miraculously sprouted in the trunk since she'd last looked. Then she opened the doors, collapsed onto the rear seat with her feet sticking out the door, and closed her eyes. It wasn’t real shade, but it beat crawling under the car. Two thousand miles of hard summer driving had failed to dissipate the old lady smell that seeped from the interior. It wasn’t from just any old lady, though.
-----
Claire remembered receiving that phone call, with her loathsome cousin Moe’s nasal New York accent on the line reporting how her beloved Great-Aunt Mimi (his grandmother) had stroked out during Final Jeopardy, that the funeral had already happened (:Sorry about that”), and how she’d left Claire (and not him) the Riviera. He added that she’d have to fly out posthaste and claim it or start paying the monthly storage fees. Unless, of course, she wanted to sell it, which she didn’t. She loved that car.
Every July prior to going away to college, Claire would accompany her dad on a pilgrimage to visit his side of the family. One on one, the grown ups were pleasant enough, even fun. Together, their relentless efforts to guilt him into returning to the Big Apple were more stifling than the sticky inferno outside and kept her planted near a rattling standard-issue apartment air conditioner, mercifully out of earshot. Coloring books ultimately gave way to pens, pastels, and sketch pads in providing some welcome diversion.
But she counted on Aunt Mimi, with her garish dangly earrings and wristfulls of clinking bracelets, the sole relative who'd supported their move West, to notice her fidgety niece and usher her into the Riviera, driving like a cabbie on his second thermos of coffee for some adventure and a little “:girl talk.” The topics also changed with the years, from her cat to school to boys and, with some hesitation, girls. And, most importantly, her art, several pieces of which had occupied places of honor in Aunt Mimi's apartment.
-----
Knock, knock, knock…”You alright miss?”
Jolted out of her reverie, Claire found herself staring up into a pair of bottomless black eyes framed by unruly eyebrows and a web of crow's feet.
“You had me a worried there,” said the man as he withdrew and she peeled herself off the vinyl upholstery. He had dark skin with creases running along a prominent nose. His jet-black hair was tied in a ponytail and he was wearing oil-smudged mechanics overalls. A yellow wrecker, hazards blinking, sat behind her car. “You don’t see many of these nowadays. A ‘72.” Claire was a bit leery until he handed her a bottle of water. It was warm, but sure enough wet. “Want me to take a peek?”
“Sure…please.” She popped the release and followed him to the front of the car and watched the upper part of his body disappear under the hood. A minute or two passed. Then his disembodied voice floated out; “Could be anything.” Extracting himself from the maw of the Riviera, he wiped his hands on his coveralls. “It’s good you pulled over when you did. Came close to cooking your engine. I'll give you a tow to our garage so I can check her out right. That is if that’s OK.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“Not unless you’d rather wait for the Highway Patrol,” he replied with a shrug and a crooked half smile that Claire hoped was honest.
She waited in the cab and listened to him rattle around. Her rescuer's dash was covered with various knickknacks: his operator’s license, a photo of a somber woman in front of a rural gas station, several tiny Kachinafigurines. A military patch dangled from the rear-view mirror on a cord. No old lady smell in there, just sweat and cigarettes.
“OK,” he said, fastening his seatbelt and waiting for her to do the same. “It’s a 20-minute drive, more or less.”
Miles of sun-blasted landscape sailed by while Claire salved her despair at having possibly trashed the mother of all keepsakes by flipping through a packet of postcards from famous museums - all from Aunt Mimi and all beginning with “To My Favorite Artist” - when a photo she’d palmed from an album on Moe's coffee table surfaced. She was standing in a Sedona coffee house next to her first painting to be displayed publicly, flanked by her father and Aunt Mimi, both looking prouder than she did. And both now gone. A single tear ran down her cheek and she discreetly knuckled it away.
“You from the Big Apple?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“Sort of. I was born there, but we moved to AZ when I was a kid. How’d you know? Can't be my accent.”
“Naw. Your plates.”
“My plates. Nice, Sherlock…Thanks, by the way.”
“You should really thank Red Mike. He has the semi with the white lady in the bikini on the side. He drove by the shop and told me about you. You don’t want to be stuck out in this sun for too long.”
“No kidding.”
-----
The Last Chance Pit Stop stood in the middle of nowhere, a small convenience store fronted by three gas pumps standing in a row. “Edward Hopper, where are you?” muttered Claire to nobody in particular.
The garage occupied a separate building with a short line of pickups and a Subaru parked alongside with “Wash Me” scrawled on one of its dusty windows. The man killed the motor and began uncoupling her Riviera. “Why don’t you go cool off inside? We have a fan going.”
A gravel path bordered by larger rocks led to the store part of the operation. Claire crunched along it to a shaded wooden porch above the roadbed. The oversized thermometer nailed to the wall read 102 while a fistful of flies buzzed listlessly overhead as if trying to conserve energy. An otherwise intimidating mongrel planted between a pair of rusted metal rocking chairs managed to do little more than raise its eyebrows when she passed by and pried open the creaky screen door.
A couple of lanky old timers, one sporting a weather-beaten Stetson and a Z.Z. Top beard and the other in an Arizona Diamondbacks baseball cap, rotated on their stools to give the newcomer a cursory once-over, quickly returning to their conversation and whatever they were drinking, elbows on the counter. Claire walked by wire racks of postcards, an unattended cash register, and shelves stocked with pretzels, Slim Jims, and smokeless tobacco, on a beeline to the refrigerated case where she was enveloped by a rush of frigid air. “Ahhh!”
“Refreshing, ain't it?” said the baseball fan, his back still to her. “That fridge is the only reason anybody comes in here.” He spoke so loudly, Claire figured it was meant more to summon somebody than start a conversation.
“Coming!” A man with dark skin, piercing black eyes framed by unruly eyebrows, and a ponytail strode through the doorless doorway behind the register. He had on a short-sleeve button down and Levi’s that actually looked ironed. Even his fingernails were clean. “Nice car,” he said with a familiar crooked smile.
“That was fast. You didn't need to change on my account.”
The man burst out laughing. “You mean my brother, Al…Everybody and their mother makes that mistake. Our mother did, too. At least until I got this,” he added, pointing to a dime-sized scar next to his nose.
“Ah, double trouble.”
“That’s what she called us…Tell you what,” he said, leaning toward her across the counter and hooking his thumb toward the vintage menu board, “How about some refreshment on the house? Whatever you want.”
“Hmmm…,” she responded with a perfunctory glance at the red plastic letters. There, between Iced Tea and Root Beer, were two words that had her suddenly sitting bolt upright.
“You sell egg creams?" she guffawed to the gurgle of two drinks being drained in tandem. Egg creams, that signature New York delicacy and a treat Claire hadn't tasted for ages. No eggs. And no cream. Just “seltza,” u-bet chocolate syrup, and milk.
“Local specialty,” said the old timer through his beard, drawing a sleeve across where his mouth should be.
“Change your life,” said his companion.
“Oh, really…OK, mister-”
“Call me Russ.”
“OK, Russ. I'll have an egg cream; chocolate,” challenged Claire, hoisting herself onto the remaining stool and kicking her feet in their clunky combat boots.
All the familiar Pavlovian clattering, whooshing, and tink-tinking set her mouth to watering, despite her skepticism. “Your Southwest egg cream,” said Russ. In his hand was an antique-styled Coca Cola glass with a 1-inch crown of white foam which became four fingers of tan liquid above a chocolaty base. He set it solemnly on the Formica and crossed his arms. They eyed each other for a moment to the sound of the overhead fan.
Claire took the straw sticking out of the foam and gave the drink a stir.
“Talk about cultural appropriation.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.” Raising the elixir with a dramatic flourish she took a pull.
That first sip transported Claire back to girlhood, when a procession of aunts, uncles, and the odd cousin would take turns escorting her to some of New York’s storied soda fountains. They all had lunch counters with stools on which she’d spin around and soda jerks in cute paper hats who called her “sweetheart.”
Another taste and the scene shifted to Aunt Mimi’s kitchen table, where her father’s clan gathered, always in the same chairs, over homemade honey cake and tea to witness Claire anoint that year’s champ; Uncle Billy’s Blue Dot vs Uncle Irwin’s Duplex vs Cousin Herman’s Bronx Cheer. Yet it was Louie’s, Aunt Mimi’s favorite, that came out on top each summer, whether it had the best egg cream or not, to the inevitable good-natured protests that “the goils” were fixing the contest. She’d loved every variation, though, including the honorable mentions.
This time, the New York phantoms were joined by four underdressed corporeal interlopers from the Last Chance Pit Stop whom the New Yorkers were trying hard to ignore while awaiting the inevitable verdict.
Claire stared into the glass for a beat or two and polished off the egg cream without taking a breath. That gentle bite of carbonation was there mingled with a divine chocolate semi-sweetness. But there was something else. Something so not Brooklyn. Nor Manhattan. Nor the Bronx. There was heat there and it was perfect. It was the best ever.
Howls of dismay only she could hear erupted from the New York contingent as they rent their clothes and covered their heads in ashes. No such histrionics were forthcoming from Aunt Mimi's doppelgänger, however. She sat there in her beloved cocktail dress, palms upturned, wearing an expression of wounded betrayal that caused the straw to drop from her grandniece’s mouth. Claire, face aflame with guilt, had to shut her eyes to avoid it.
“What’s the matter? Don’t care for it?” asked somebody who didn’t sound at all like Brooklyn.
Looking about, Claire saw only concerned Arizonans with not a New Yorker in sight. “What was THAT?” she gasped, ordering another to savor.
Russ explained that he had stumbled on egg creams during a long ago East Coast road trip and that it had taken weeks of trial and error after returning home to finally conjure a product worthy of the Arizona dessert, let alone the Five Boroughs. No amount of cajoling, however, was able to wrest the identity of that magical ingredient from the twins, other than that they discovered it through a kitchen mishap involving their mischievous cat, Axel, and his insistence on exploring the spice shelf above an egg cream sitting on their kitchen counter. “One of life’s lucky accidents.”
“That and penicillin,” Claire laughed. A final slurp emptied her glass. “So, how's my car?”
“Good news; I only had to replace some hoses and you were low on coolant. I’ve never seen a '72 with so few miles on it. You buy it from some little old lady?”
“She was little, but never old. How much?”
“That'll be $140 plus tax with plastic or $125 if you pay in cash,” Al said conspiratorially.
Claire dug through her leather backpack and produced some sunscreen, a hairbrush, and a paperback before finding her wallet. Its lack of heft produced a wince followed by a dubious squinty-eyed peek inside. “I have exactly $114.”
“$114, then.”
Sliding off the stool with a thump, she thanked them again on her way out the door.
Both brothers and old timers appeared in her rear-view mirror to watch Claire gun the Riviera’s motor and pull onto the interstate. She returned their waves with a farewell salute of her own as they receded from view.
-----
Ten miles down the road, her new used car rumbling contentedly, Claire flipped on the radio and trolled for anything but country. Images of a succession of dearly departed relatives seated beside her at The Last Chance Pit Stop materialized in her head - Cousin Harold…Uncle Irwin…Uncle Billy…and especially Aunt Mimi - all sampling the best egg cream in the world. And all of them, like good New Yorkers, dismissing it. And each one planning to sneak back for seconds when nobody was looking.
Matthew Snyderman lives in Northern California with his wife. When not writing, he enjoys swimming, watching old movies on the big screen, and participating in the occasional Moth StorySLAM. His work has appeared in The Avalon Literary Review, The Berlin Literary Review, Bristol Noir, Bare Back, Fabula Argentea, Killer Nashville, Literally Stories, The Loch Raven Review, The Lowestoft Chronicle, The Opiate, Punk Noir, The Under Review, Twelve Winters, Twin Bill, and The Yard.
