Chapter 1: Saturday

      Roy the half-gorilla, half tow truck driver, pealed out of the parking lot. As a parting gift, he spat a wad of chew my direction, landing inches from my foot. Jerk. No, that was too nice. Asshole.

My name is Christina Cavanaugh, Tina to everyone but Mother and Daddy. I grew up in Shades Crest, California, a small bedroom community in the East Bay area of Northern California. Nobody but those from the East Bay has heard of it. Shades Crest was once a farming town, turned into blue-blood suburbia. Old money settled in this part of the East Bay, with a smattering of the Silicone Valley elites moving in because they are the only ones who can afford the real estate prices and property taxes.

Nothing terribly exciting happens in Shades Crest. There is the occasional scandal of some trophy wife running off with the country club’s tennis pro. This kind of outrage would keep Mother and her friends in a tizzy for weeks, wondering where in the world they will get someone qualified to help them with their backhand.

Five weeks ago I broke off my engagement to Preston Wallace. It happened because I caught my nail tech, Tiffy Monroe, naked and sweaty on Preston’s 500 thread count sheets. Leave it to Preston to react to my horror by propping his head up on his elbow and patronizingly tell me I would accept his one last hurrah or it was over. All the while Tiffy cowered under the covers, waiting for me to claw her eyes out. She needn’t worry. There was no way I’d waste my new acrylics on her.

Instead I walked, relieved my bruised dignity was the only real casualty. I heard from the Shades Crest gossip squad Preston was astonished (and Tiffy delighted) I wasn’t willing to look back. My mother, who had been looking forward to the social event of the year, reacted with a resigned disappointment because her one and only daughter would not be co-hosting Midge Wallace’s next New Year’s Eve party.

I managed to get through the five stages of grief in about two weeks, spending most of my spare energy on anger and glossing over bargaining. I knew in my heart he had done me the greatest favor. Though, it didn’t take away the sting of the humiliation. Not only was I not going to be Preston Wallace’s wife, I blew out a sigh of relief, knowing I wouldn’t need to spend the rest of my life pretending to live up to his dolphin-faced mother’s expectations.

The worst part of being dumped was running into Mother’s garden club friends. They would lovingly grab my hand in both of theirs and mutter something inane like, “Oh Tina, I am SO sorry—and just a week before your wedding too. You poor dear.”

They would shake their heads in a mocked sorrow, simultaneously giving my hand a squeeze, while telling me when I was ready to meet someone new to let them know. Of course, everyone one of them has a fabulous son/nephew/grandson/neighbor who would be just perfect for me. I would then be graced with a bone crushing hug and the most pitiful smile they could muster. As to not embarrass Mother, I would be obligated to smile politely, mutter something about how it was for the best, return their embrace and promise to call just as soon as I was on the market again.

Finally, after eating my way through Safeway’s stash of coffee chip ice cream, I decided enough was enough. It was time for a change. I was sick of the well-meaning sidelong glances from Daddy.

Secretly, I knew Daddy was relieved. I saved him a bundle by calling off the marriage before he wrote the final check. If that wasn’t enough of a reason, I knew he and Franklin Wallace were long-time acquaintances. I suspect Daddy heard of Preston’s reputation from Franklin’s bragging in the Castlemoor Country Club’s locker room. If not there, he certainly would know about Preston from anyone at Daddy’s law firm. Heaven knows Franklin had pulled enough strings in the past several years to fix Preston’s sordid reputation.

In her efforts to get my mind off of my lack of future, Mother vacillated between her maternal desire to cheer me up and her delight in my newly found spare time. My wedding planning no longer a going concern, Mother had ample time to devote to more well-meaning non-profit events. As far as she was concerned, I was an extra set of hands to help her pull off the next social event on her calendar. As an added bonus, she felt this would help me get my mind off of Preston. Of course, Preston and I ran around in the same circles. I saw him or a member of his family every day. And now Tiffy was running around in that same circle too.

Between Daddy’s side-long glances, my ice-cream pity fest and hiding from Mother, I took assessment of my life. Dead-end part-time job. Bad-ass debt. Battle scars from playing too hard in my college days. Everyone in town knew most of the details about my personal life. And, the Safeway manager, no matter how many times I begged him to put in a rush, told me they would be out of coffee chip for at least two more weeks.

It was through my coffee chip soul searching where I came face to face with my glaring lack of independence. It wasn’t that I wanted to be taken care of by family and friends. Thank goodness I had them to be with me through this time. But, the realization I was going from my parent’s home to Preston’s home nagged at me.

I needed a change. This wasn’t a new shoes and trip to party in San Diego for the weekend kind of moment. This was the kind of change Mother could proudly write about in this year’s Christmas letter.

It seemed obvious once I made the decision to head out on my own. But, I really had no idea where to go. Dusting off the atlas, I closed my eyes and pointed. Before I opened, I said a quick prayer my finger had landed somewhere with a beach or at least Disney World.

As I opened my eyes, I resigned myself to fate and opted to follow my finger. Two weeks later I had sold most of my worldly possessions, packed my car and headed off to El Paso.

My plan was simply to start over, get a reasonable job, pay off my mountain of bills and live like a normal person. I made the decision as I passed the Palm Springs exit on the interstate. Simply, I wanted to be a grown woman. I didn’t want to be Daddy and Mother’s little girl. I didn’t want to be known at the country club for being jilted by Preston and I certainly didn’t want to be known as Patrick and Camilla Cavanaugh’s daughter. It was time for independence. It was time for me to prove I was ready for whatever life handed me. Even in El Paso.

Although my Palm Springs revelation was only hours earlier, it seemed like a lifetime ago. Somewhere, there was a cheerful insurance company hotline attendant who would rot in hell. When I called in distress, she told me not to worry. I would be towed to the first place able to fix my car. What she failed to mention was the “first place” wasn’t open.

Now, I was stuck in Phoenix, in the tiny parking lot of Crazy Ed’s Auto Garage and Emporium. The exhaust from Roy’s tow truck still fresh in my nostrils. The summer heat of the pavement crept up my legs.

Earlier, when Roy pulled his tow truck on to the shoulder, in front of my car on Interstate 10, I was sitting on the side of the road, surrounded by desert. In front of me was a cheerful mileage sign proudly announcing, “Phoenix 30 miles.”

 “I’m here to rescue you m’lady,” he said

Roy’s overtures, coupled with spitting out bites of chew through the gap in his teeth, made me seriously consider taking my chances walking into town.

He looked me over, “What can I do for you?”

Roy was decked out in a medium-sized torn Iron Maiden shirt, exposing his extra-large hairy belly. He wore dirty denim shorts and steel toed boots, and on his hip, a hunting knife. His hair was some shade of brown. I was fairly certain he didn’t own a comb. His five o’clock shadow was three days overdue.

When I climbed into the 200-year old tow truck, the stench of stale cigarettes and indistinguishable dead animals nearly gagged me. During our drive into Phoenix, Roy’s hand kept creeping from the seat between us closer to my leg. After a strategically timed pothole, Roy’s grubby fingers landed on my knee.

He smiled at me, not moving his hand. “We will be there in just a spell.” I didn’t know exactly where we were heading, but I was sure he had driven down the same street at least twice.

At the red light, he glanced over and stroked my cheek. Running his fingers across my shoulder he licked his lips and said, “Perhaps we could get a drink after we drop off your car? And, who knows where it could lead.”

I stifled the urge to vomit in his cab. Why ruin the décor?

“I can’t.” I said in my most apologetic voice. “I am supposed to meet a friend. She is expecting me.” I was instantly sorry I hadn’t said “he” instead of “she.” But, I was tired and too polite to say, buzz off—even with his dirty fingernails now skimming my thigh.

Rummaging through my purse, I found my stun gun. “Isn’t this a beaut?” I beamed, placing it on my lap.

Roy jerked his hand back. The truth was, I wasn’t going to stun him while he was driving. Though I did enjoy the thought of Roy careening off the side of the road as a zillion volts lit him up. However, Roy was too stupid to figure out he was safe as long as he drove.

“Looks like you can take care of yourself, Princess.” He muttered, slowing the truck as he turned into Crazy Ed’s. “Your loss.”

I jumped out of his tow truck as he unloaded my car. The shabby sign stating Ed’s hours peeked out behind the security bars on the garage window. Monday through Saturday, 7 to 6. It was 32 hours until a live body would be at Ed’s. Realization dawned.

I was damn near hysterical. “You can’t leave the car here. You can’t leave me here! What am I supposed to do?” Even at 11 p.m., my flip flops had fused into Ed’s tar parking lot. The back of my pony tail was sticking to my neck, sweat dripping off my forehead and stinging my eyes. It was at least 90 degrees.

He shrugged, “I just deliver the car where the insurance tells me to. You are on your own.” He gave me an oily smile. “You shoulda gone for that drink with me and I coulda made sure you would get your car fixed. By the way, you don’t want to go walking around here. You never know who might be out.” Roy smirked as he swung his hairy body into the cab of his tow truck. “Nighty night Princess.”

I stared indignantly as he headed out of the parking lot. Catching my breath, giving myself a futile pep talk. Wasn’t this the independence I craved weeks earlier? Fishing my phone out of my purse, my heart sank. The battery was dead. So much for the quick taxi alternative.

I moved a bit closer to my car for protection, taking in my surroundings. The area was light industrial mixed with a combination of undeveloped desert and seedy hospitality. Ed’s shop squatted on one corner of the four-way stop.

Crazy Ed’s looked more like a small jail. The clapboard building was squalid. Security bars guarded the dingy windows. The metal roll-away doors, padlocked, sealed the two garage bays. The perimeter fence, topped with razor wire, went farther back than I could see. Behind the mesh fence sat several cars and another building. A variety of litter, strew along the bottom of the fence decorated the joint.

An old maroon sedan pulled into the vacant lot directly to the North of Ed’s. Under the streetlight, a busty woman wearing a dark tube top and a white short skirt jumped out and started across the street. “See ya next time baby,” she yelled, giving a finger wave to the driver.

The woman cut a diagonal across the intersection, directly to the east of Ed’s, to where most of the night’s activity was taking place. The Sweet Shop, a bar with a neon “Girls XXX” sign gave off enough wattage to assist a 747 on a foggy night. The building itself looked like it had been transformed from a farmhouse some time in its past. The parking lot was crowded. To my apprehension, it appeared it was one of the few signs of civilization.

The woman in the tube top sauntered to the small crowd standing in the parking lot. A guy in a white tank top put his hand on her back. He talked to her for a beat and then the two of them jumped in his Camero and drove directly across the street back to the vacant lot. The woman’s business was booming.

The corner directly across the street to the North of the Sweet Shop and across the street to the East of the vacant lot was, I presumed, a motel. The neon sign said, “Clean Rooms” and proudly advertised their rates and color TV. I debated the prudence of leaving my car. The decision was made for me, when in the distance I heard what I hoped was a car backfire. The Sweet Shop or Clean Rooms?

Clean Rooms won out. At least I could watch TV if nothing else. Given the number of cars at the Sweet Shop, there was very little traffic on the road. I followed the tube top’s example by cutting straight across, bypassing the vacant lot and the Sweet Shop corners. I trotted as casually as possible, not wanting to draw attention. The Sweet Shop crowd noticed anyway. I heard some indistinguishable Spanish and a wolf whistle. Once in the parking lot, I ducked behind a white Chevy pick up and they lost interest.

The outside of Clean Rooms lacked any type of appeal. However, it exuded the right kind of ambience for the neighborhood. No frills. No valet. No concierge. It was stuccoed and painted an obscene shade of brown. The neon vacancy sign, hanging above the door lit up the parking lot. I high-tailed it to the front door, awaiting my destiny and hopefully cable TV.

Inside was a simple room, housing a sofa, club chair and table covered in a tan tablecloth. There was an empty coffee maker, paper cups and one stirrer on top. The aroma was industrial antiseptic—like Mr. Clean got a little over zealous when someone wasn’t looking. In the corner, behind what I guessed to be bullet proof glass, was a desk and filing cabinet. At the desk was the night clerk, talking on the phone, seemingly oblivious to my distress.

The woman was somewhere between 30 and 40, about five inches taller than me, she had one of those athletic builds that could challenge your average roller derby queen. Her strawberry blond hair was pulled into two braids, reminiscent of a Heidi movie. Her skin was pale. It was obvious she hadn’t seen a tanning bed—ever. Her features, were small and angular, a pointed nose, pointed chin and high cheekbones I would kill to have. She had the look of someone who would be attractive is she wanted to be, but currently she was void of make-up and jewelry. She wore a black t-shirt and a no-nonsense expression as her uniform.

“May I help you?” the clerk asked after cradling the receiver.

I glanced out the window across the street at my lonely car sitting in Ed’s parking lot. The Sweet Shop’s blaring neon sign reflected off my windshield. I waited a beat, struggling between my overall lodging standards and my sense of survival. I sucked in some air. Inside I was melting. This was not how my brighter future was supposed to start out.

“I need a room.” She waited patiently. With as much of a cheerful smile as I could muster, “Please?”

I swallowed a few times, praying I didn’t loose it completely. “My car...” I started. “It broke down…” I swallowed again. “The garage is closed until Monday.” I had barely been able to whisper “Monday.” Wiping a tear, I said, “I need a room for a couple of nights. Please.”

She just eyed me, considering for a moment. I stared back, willing myself not to cry, hoping my plastered smile would last just a few more minutes.

She shrugged. “What? You didn’t want to hook up with Roy?”

My mouth involuntarily opened. I found myself nodding like an idiot.

A shy smile crept over her face. “Roy is a prick. One of these days he is going to get shot in the crotch for the shit he pulls.” Then, as if to explain she wasn’t physic, she volunteered, “I saw him drop you off across the street.” She whipped out a slip of paper and a room key. “Here, fill this out. If you want, I get out of here at midnight, I will drive you over to get the stuff out of your car. You don’t want to head back over there. The crowd at the Sweet Shop starts getting rowdy around this time of night.”

I started to protest and she waved a hand, “Either we will take the stuff out of your car or someone else will.”

An hour later, Laura, the hotel clerk, helped me clean out my car, did a pass at Taco Loco Express’ 24 hour drive-thru window and left me safe and snug in one of the finest rooms of the Hacienda Motor Lodge.

It wasn’t the Four Seasons, but the bed was soft, the towels were fluffy, the furnishings decent. I chose to think of the room as having character. The Hacienda even supplied soap and shampoo with their name silk-screened in gold lettering. I could honestly give credit to truth in advertising, the room was clean and there was a color TV. Laura handed me the television remote right before she showed me to my room.

“Remotes go missing if I don’t account for them,” she said by way of an apology.

Mother would have sooner died than set foot in this joint. Mother’s standards were slightly above Queen Elizabeth’s when it came to courtier. Mother wouldn’t be caught dead in a Denny’s either. Which is too bad, because there is nothing better than a Grand Slam breakfast at 3 a.m.