Driving Mercedes (Excerpt)
© 2005 Melissa McKenzie Francis

Prologue

     In 1971, I was born in the backseat of a beat up piece of shit Dodge Dart Wagon. This is not information that I like to share with everyone, but since it comes up quite frequently, my new approach is to just come right out with it. Why would it come up, you might ask? Well, because my mother, God rest her undead soul, has a very odd sense of humor.

     There she was, full on in labor squeezing her legs together--determined to make it to the hospital. And she almost did. I was born in Little Rock, Arkansas, at the corner of Perkins and Cross, with the hospital sitting less than a block away.

     In order to commemorate the fantastic event of my birthing, she named me after a car. Thank the baby naming gods she chose the car I was conceived in and not the car I was born in. I’ve often wondered if this meant I’m supposed to die in a car, too. With the whole full circle thing, I wouldn't be surprised.

     So, there it is and here I am. Hi, my name is Mercedes Perkins Cross McIntyre. My friends call me Mac. My Mom calls Mercedes, and it makes me shudder.

     “Life hands you lemons,” Mom likes to say, with a charming but misleading smile. “You squeeze the shit out of ’em, add sugar, and hope you get a cupful of lemonade that you can actually drink.”

     I guess in Mom’s warped mind, I’m the lemonade. Or am I the lemons?

     I suppose I should be grateful she didn’t name me Sunkist.



Chapter One

     As the airbag punched my face, exploding in a cloud of dust, all I could think was, I should’ve answered the damn phone.

     But I hadn’t.

     If I had answered the phone, instead of ignoring it and walking out the door, I wouldn’t be swimming in a fog of airbag powder, craning my neck out the window to see whose car I’d just rammed into. And as soon as I saw the crumpled up Toyota, I knew. And I really wasn’t very surprised.

     One of the great things about Little Rock is that the city is big enough to always have something entertaining to do, but small enough that you don't feel overwhelmed living here. Unfortunately, the bad thing about Little Rock is it’s also small enough that no matter where you go, you will run into someone you know.

     And today, I ran into Terry Beckham.

     Literally.

     “Goddamn it, Terry!” I screamed at the mass of metal wadded up on the street in front of me. “Did you hallucinate a stoplight? We’re on the acceleration ramp, turd-brain. Why on earth did you stop?"

     Now, let me take a moment to say that I am almost 100% sure that Terry stopped without reason. I say almost, because for a brief moment, I had glanced into the rearview mirror (with one eye still on the road, of course) and realized that the highlights I had paid ninety-bucks for, six weeks ago, were gone.

     And during that ever so brief moment while I was looking in the mirror with one eye still on the road, I also made a mental note to call the Elvis of Hair later today and beg for an appointment.

     I did not ever take both eyes off the road. I think.

     Therefore, I’m almost 100% certain that Terry Beckham stopped in the middle of the ramp, for no reason.

     Forcing the airbag away, I undid my seatbelt, opened the door with a groan and stormed around the front to gape at my crunched fender. My poor Greta. Yes, I named her Greta. I’ve named all my cars, it does seem only appropriate. Greta the Jetta. A beautiful car, taken from this world before her time was truly up. A tragic ending of life that could have been prevented, if someone would have had the foresight to get Terry Frickin’ Beckham off the road!

     Terry unfolded himself out of the truck and stood gawking at the mess, scratching his head. “This sucks,” he said. “Seriously.”

     Another car door slammed, drawing my attention to my crunched back end and the very tall, unpleased man in a suit staring at his former sports car. Great.

     If you looked up “idiot” in the thesaurus, you’d see the name Terry Beckham. He was probably smoking some primo stuff when he slammed on his brakes causing this horrific three car pile-up. Not only did I have to deal with him, I also had a pissed off suit involved in the chaos. And let’s not forget the rubber-neckers that were hooting and honking as they drove around us.

     “Well, this is a fine mess,” The Suit said as he approached Terry and I, brushing his hands off. My belly did a little flip when he spoke. The husky tone in his voice washed through me, like aged whisky.

     A fine mess indeed.

     “Uh, well, the car in front of me slammed on his brakes,” Terry said, scratching his face under the patchy brown beard that he'd probably been working on since elementary school. The only thing missing from his statement was, “Duuuuuuude.”

     Six police cars pulled up with sirens ringing and lights blazing and two more were probably on their way. Little Rock cops did things in pairs. Two cars per wrecked vehicle at each accident scene, with two additional cars to direct traffic. Far be it from me to point out that six to eight extra cars might actually contribute to the traffic problem.

     The Suit pulled out his business cards, handing one to me and Terry. “Cambridge Brown, Attorney at Law.” Great. A fuckin' lawyer. This could have all been avoided if I’d have just answered Mom’s call this morning. God knows I’d still be on the phone with her now, which meant I wouldn’t have been here, participating in the threesome from hell.

     “I'm Mac McIntyre,” I said. “Hang on; I have a card in my equipment bag--somewhere.” I leaned in through my window and plowed around in my bag until I found a crumpled, coffee-stained business card. “Mac McIntyre, Photographer.” And though it didn’t say “barely insured and broke”, that’s what it implied. First impressions suck.

     I handed The Suit my sad little card and looked over at Terry. “You know who I am, if you can remember as far back as yesterday.” And everyday prior for three years. Terry was more than an idiot, he was also my neighbor.

     Something similar to Goofy’s laugh, only deeper and slower, erupted from Terry’s mouth. The Suit just shook his head. His sandy colored hair was beginning to wave in the Arkansas humidity. Boy, I love curly hair on men. It’s always so unexpected, especially when the man wearing the hair looks so polished and put together, like Attorney Cambridge Brown. Curls just call to me, to my hands, begging them to…

     The sound of smacking gum approached and jolted me from my fantasy, and sure enough, the cop creating the obnoxious noise was another old pal.

     “So, McIntyre, whatcha gone and done now?” Smack. Smack. Bubble. POP! Smack.

     Could my day get any worse?

“Hey, Frank. Tweedle Dee here,” I pointed at Terry, “went from fifty to zero in three point five seconds. I hit him. The Suit here,” I pointed to Cambridge, “hit me. That about sum it up, fellas?”

     Goofy laughed. “Yup. Perty much.”

     The Suit remained silent. I turned to see his mirrored sunglasses staring down at me, a smirk dimpling his face.

     Smack. Pop. “Hmmm. Hey, Todd,” Frank called to his partner, “C’mover here and check out McIntyre’s Jetta. It’s fucked!”

     Everyone around me was brilliant. I’m amazed they’ve allowed me to breathe the same air. Seriously.

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