"Purple Foam" by Jesse Binger

I hit the undercarriage with that purple foam and let it all soak in. Customer already outside leaning against a tree, watching his Audi like a hawk. Like I’m gonna heist it or something. 

Shit, rich people problems.

I raise my hand high, wave it around a bit. Ready.

The signal. We all have our own. Some do a loud whistle (but I could never whistle too good). Others pump their fist in the air like they were bouncing at the club. I like to keep it simple.

Customer moves in. Does that strut around the car, leaning in to check out every nook and cranny. Tries to wipe away a paint stain next to the gas cap. Then finally, the slow nod. They all do that stupid slow nod. Like they’re sizing up one of them hookers down on Post.

“Looks good,” he says, slapping my hand like we’re buds. Which we’re not. Nowhere close. Slips a single bill into it, then hops into the driver side.

I’ve gotten good at guessing the tip. One bill. The way it feels in my hand. Asshole’s demeanor. Fiver. Right on.

You can put me on one of them game shows. Call it Count the Money. Or Guess the Bill. Game show network, some shit. Those old ladies would eat it up. 

See, ideas like that. Might wanna be an entrepreneur. I tell Briana that all the time and she giggles like I got food dripping down my chin. Creamed corn or something. It’s the funniest thing in the world. 

Reggaeton cuts out, I hear the sound of snarling guitars, big heavy drums. White people music. Shout at the Devil. Hot for Teacher. It’s all the same to me.

Three p.m. now and the parade through the conveyor has slowed down. Alejandro and that new dude sit on the curb, drinking their Poland Springs and smacking each other on the arm. New dude with the teardrop tat under his eye, always a snarl on his face, muttering some shit under his breath.

Same dude who pulls me aside the other day after the milf in the short brown skirt hops into her Lexus. Whispers something under his breath. His voice so low I can’t make it out but don’t need to. That cock of his eyebrow. Half-smirk. The way he smacks his fist into the palm of his hand. 

Alejandro’s hooting me over, but fuck that. Got business to attend to. Move out toward the road. Where the office can’t see me. Pull out my cell (big no-no while on duty). But I’m en descanso. 

Fan Duel. $82 balance but no worries. Six games going off tonight. NBA. Don’t know a shit about it other than Lebron kicks ass. Bronny, no bueno. But this app is easy. Been clicking around for two weeks and that ten dollar deposit’s been growing since.

Entrepreneurial spirit. 

Briana, baby, just watch.

Your king has arrived.

Then I ring her.

My usual call.

Nothing.

Voicemail.

Hey hey, tell me a secret, she giggles, and maybe I even call ya ass back.

Click.

Briana. Mi amor, I think. Twenty-one. Year older than me. Big hips. Tiny waist. Just like I like ‘em. That stupid pierced eyebrow. Betty Page tat on her toned arm that she loves to hang out the window of my Cavalier while I drive fast and we pretend to have no problems.

Plenty of ‘em now.

But I don’t want to think of that.

Just think of her locrio (Bri’s abuela’s recipe) served piping hot onto my plate. Two heaping bowls, bottle of Corona, and I’m done for the night. Or the way she calls me Papi when I give it to her hard, bouncing that fat ass on top of me like she’s one of them pogo sticks.

But lately it’s that other thing. 

Bump’s growing bigger every day. She won’t even wear her crop tops anymore. Oversized sweaters and baggy jeans. 

Bump’s almost as big as our debt. See I’m a cash-only, spend-it-when-you-have-it kinda guy but Bri…shit. Can’t even answer her cell anymore, otherwise them debt collectors be on her like flies on shit.

But she always answers my calls. Where she at—them intrusive thoughts coming at me again. Damn, kid, you shoulda seen ya girl before you met her. She was for them streets. Alejandro would chide. And I’d smack him on his arm so hard he’d come in the next day with a welt the size of Texas.

Fuck him. Fuck ‘em all.

“So check it, I’m paying you to wash cars not jack off in the road,” Danny’s gravelly voice sweeps in like a hard breeze. “Mi amigo.”

Always says the words wrong. Like who says Amigo. What’s this 8^th grade Spanish class? Call me carnal. Compadre. Vato. Sucio. Act like you mean it, dude.

Danny Brett. Forty-seven year old ex-cop that owns the place. Keeps his hombres in line. Us boys call him sarge. Because he was a cop and he runs this place like a drill sergeant.

He’s not a bad dude. But just another man that has everything I don’t. While I’m the one who gets my hands dirty. Come home callused and shivering. Can’t even soak in a hot bath because the gas is off.

So I just nod, say nothing, what does it matter and walk back.

Danny usually in the back room with those other paisans. The three of them playing cards. Hearts, some shit. Danny yelping about shooting the moon.

Alejandro sticking his ass against the door last time we hear them. I’ll show him the moon he says and we crack up. Close to quitting time that night and that’s when we get the idea.

Teardrop the first one to think of it. No surprise. But it sounds good to the rest of us.

A new car flows through. Acura. Old school. Integra or something, I’m next in line. Black dude with a backwards Yankee cap daps me as he steps out and I start scrubbing.

Purple foam, what else.

“Tonight,” Alejandro whispers as he waxes up some shitty Toyota. “In or out?”

See there’s always choices. Mama used to tell me that. Back in Todos Santos. When I was just one of those little boys with little boy problems. Not worrying about Bri’s debt, my shitty job that barely covers rent. Rent for our little basement apartment going up again next month. And now another mouth. When I can barely feed myself and Bri.

Three, forget about it. Even thinking about it makes my heart sputter. I’m flashing that app. Same balance, dummy. Games are later. Tonight we break $150 then I show Bri. Then she believes in me. All so simple, right fuckface.

So I just nod as I wipe down wet patches. Homeboy’s Drake mix blasting out of Bose speakers. Chrome rims glistening. 

***

So now, it’s the three of us with those stupid ski masks over our faces. Teardrop in black. Me gray. Alejandro can’t find a ski mask so he’s got one of those wrestler masks on. Super Destroyer II or some shit. Looks like a kid playing dress-up but it’ll do. 

Can’t take chances. Danny’s got cameras in every corner of the shop. Alarm’s disengaged. I’m smart. Took every opportunity to ask Danny questions when he was closing up. Caught the routine, also caught them alarm digits.

Alejandro’s standing by the door. Lookout or something. Kid’s still afraid of his shadow. Hands in his pocket like he’s Enzo the Baker, while Teardrop does the heavy lifting. Cash register’s wiped in seconds.  Couple hundred bucks.

Kid’s money.

Teardrop’s grinning like his Sing Sing dreams are finally coming to life.

In the back. Behind the locked door, to which I have a key, the safe stands like a sentry.

Teardrop does his thing. 

It’s all moving fast but easier than even that gambling app. 

Like when I took the money from those kids playing dominos. Felt bad for a moment but didn’t bat an eye.

Anyway, I can’t help it. 

Maybe I want her to share in my excitement. Feel part of it. Or just believe in me.

El mero mero.

So I click the button. Try her again. But nothing….tell me a secret.  Yeah, I got one for you, Bri. Just pick up the damn phone.

Fifteen minutes, lock’s picked. Guys like Teardrop must learn that in Safecracking 101. Prison tricks paying off left and right.

Teardrop stuffs bundles of bills into a duffel bag. “Ven, Ven!” he yells to me.

The two of us working faster. Way faster than we ever cleaned cars, until Alejandro appears in the little room too. His hands shaking. Piss stain on his pants.

“Guys,” he points to the front door.

Danny’s standing there. The look on his face? Anger? Surprise? No, that’s not right. It’s disgust. One of the big paisans right next to him.

I know that look too well. Same look Mama gave me when I told her I was dropping out. Sixteen and spent most of my days glued to my PS4. Fortnite, smoking blunts, drinking forties, chasing dimes.

Look where it got me.

Danny makes a run for us. Pulls something out of his pocket. Metallic glint. Sharp edge. Ex-cop. Not many good choices. Big Paisan’s got his fists out. Ready to explode. Go all Boom Boom Mancini on his buddy’s punk employees.

Throw up our hands or bum rush them? I glance over to Alejandro who’s shaking his head, then to Teardrop….

The bullet’s loud and pierces my ears. Danny drops to the ground like a bag of bricks.  Another shot explodes the window, shards of glass flying out. 

Then two more. And the big Paisan falls right next to him. Right on his big gut. I look over and can’t help thinking of one of those cartoons. The way the dead guy lands and the hero runs off. Then the credits roll.

Teardrop drops the gun. And he’s off.

Fuck. I run too. Run as fast as I could as long as I could until finally stopping somewhere off in the distance. Empty street. A few parked cars. Dark houses. I look around. Nothing. No one.

My phone’s vibrating in my pocket. Pull it out. Bri.

“Baby,” I huff, out-of-breath, “Where are you?”

“I’m out, Juan. And I ain’t coming back.”

“Whatcha mean?”

She don’t say nothing for a bit. Like she clicked off.

“What?”

“It ain’t yours either.”

“Fuck,” I say but I’m talking to no one.

She’s gone.

Then heavy footsteps. 

“Fuck man, what just happened?” Alejandro says, wheezing like he’d just run a marathon.

I drop to my knees. Head falls back.

“Where’s the money, man?”

Don’t even need to ask. Teardrop. The duffel. Chance in hell, we’ll ever see him again.

“We’re so fucked,” Alejandro’s saying. Over and over again. After a while it just blends in with it all. The wind. The crickets. Screeching tires in the distance. Alejandro’s small words. Then sirens.

I’m frozen. Want to run but where. Want to slap Alejandro. Fucked going over and over like a stuck record.

I click on my phone. That app. Balance $145.

Well.

Could be worse.

“Fuck we gonna do, man?” Alejandro’s voice soft like silk.

But I don’t answer. Just walk off. And keep clicking. Warriors by eleven in the late game.

Sounds like a winner.

Jesse Binger is a fiction writer from New Jersey. His debut novel The Penitent Hours is currently on submission. His work appears in or is forthcoming at Rock and a Hard Place, Cowboy Jamboree, Bending Genres, Punk Noir, Stanchion and elsewhere.