inside Arlo's vitals, hauling out hanks of viscera and flinging them, underhand, like a dog scratching dirt, through a painful hole bored in the small of Arlo's back.
He followed her, hurriedly, aplomb blown. "Wait a second!" Baked bean pyramids and he collided, cans went clattering, he surged on heedless. "I want to take advantage of you. I mean, I was trying to uh, er, um, decide whether to ask your advice about something, except I'm a little shy about speaking to strangers. But now that you've broken the ice, I wonder if I could ask you how to tell a fresh cantaloupe …"
She stopped dead, whirled, hands flat in readiness for a kung fu chop. "You're about as shy as a mako shark, and you don't want my advice. Of all the things you might possibly want, my advice is not among them." She performed a stately verónica and tooled the cart away from him.
"You're evil!" he called after her. "You torment men for kicks!"
In the parking lot, his brains having turned to cottage cheese, Arlo screamed senselessly at the cosmos. And the gas gauge he had neglected getting repaired. The Healey refused to start. It hacked a tubercular gasp and the electric fuel pump chittered like ground squirrels. Gasless. Arlo was pounding his head against the Derrington steering wheel when she came out of the supermarket with her groceries.
The nearest open gas station was two miles away, the corner of Franklin and Vine. And the only other car on the lot was hers. Arlo lurched out of the Healey and pursued her. His head ached terribly.
"Hey!"
"One step closer, Sunny Jim, and I give you an ipponseoinage over my right hip you'll never forget." She dumped the bag of groceries into the rear seat of the Dart and turned back quickly as if Arlo were a Vietcong cutthroat. He put his hands atop his head.
"I do not prowoke!"
"Vanish, masher."
"I'm outta gas. Honest."
"Now you are plumbing depths of ludicrousness unknown to Western Man."
"All I want is you should drive me down to the gas station corner of Franklin and Vine. I'll sit in the back seat. I'll sit on my hands. You can tie me up. I'm outta gas, it's late, I gotta headache."
"I don't believe you. You stink."
"Look. You don't trust me all that distance, two miles in the car alone with you, I'll go inside, buy a $2.98 garden hose, and cut off a piece I can use to siphon off a coupla liters of gas. With your permission."
"I'm convinced, get in."
He didn't move. "It's a trick. You'll hit me."
"I believe you, I believe you. Anybody who would volunteer to take a mouthful of gas without being at gunpoint must be telling the truth. Get in."
He sat on his hands all the way there, and back.
Though he was deathly afraid of her, Arlo pressed his meager advantage. With the fumey can of gas burbling into his tank, he stopped her before she could drive away.
"Maybe, uh, you should follow me back to the gas station to fill it up. I might have damaged the manifold housing coupler or something, trying to start it. It might conk out."
"There is no such thing in that beast as a manifold housing coupler."
"See, I'm driving a lemon. I need you to follow me."
"How the hell did I inherit you?"
"In Korea, if you save someone's life, you become responsible for them forever. Nice custom, don't you think?"
She grimaced. "Franz Kafka is up there, writing my life."
Arlo looked out from under thick eyelashes. It was his Jackie-Cooper-As-The-Kid look. "I've come to depend on you. You're so self-possessed."
Half an hour later they were on common civility terms, sharing the best chili dogs in Los Angeles, at Boris's Stand, corner of La Brea and Melrose, all beef, plenty hot, lotsa onions, two bits, you couldn't do better.
And half an hour later—inexplicably—they were on the verge of what Arlo called "a warm, humid experience," having driven out to Los Angeles International Airport, to a road bisecting a landing approach, where the jets landed directly over their heads.
"Can you tell me what we are doing
He followed her, hurriedly, aplomb blown. "Wait a second!" Baked bean pyramids and he collided, cans went clattering, he surged on heedless. "I want to take advantage of you. I mean, I was trying to uh, er, um, decide whether to ask your advice about something, except I'm a little shy about speaking to strangers. But now that you've broken the ice, I wonder if I could ask you how to tell a fresh cantaloupe …"
She stopped dead, whirled, hands flat in readiness for a kung fu chop. "You're about as shy as a mako shark, and you don't want my advice. Of all the things you might possibly want, my advice is not among them." She performed a stately verónica and tooled the cart away from him.
"You're evil!" he called after her. "You torment men for kicks!"
In the parking lot, his brains having turned to cottage cheese, Arlo screamed senselessly at the cosmos. And the gas gauge he had neglected getting repaired. The Healey refused to start. It hacked a tubercular gasp and the electric fuel pump chittered like ground squirrels. Gasless. Arlo was pounding his head against the Derrington steering wheel when she came out of the supermarket with her groceries.
The nearest open gas station was two miles away, the corner of Franklin and Vine. And the only other car on the lot was hers. Arlo lurched out of the Healey and pursued her. His head ached terribly.
"Hey!"
"One step closer, Sunny Jim, and I give you an ipponseoinage over my right hip you'll never forget." She dumped the bag of groceries into the rear seat of the Dart and turned back quickly as if Arlo were a Vietcong cutthroat. He put his hands atop his head.
"I do not prowoke!"
"Vanish, masher."
"I'm outta gas. Honest."
"Now you are plumbing depths of ludicrousness unknown to Western Man."
"All I want is you should drive me down to the gas station corner of Franklin and Vine. I'll sit in the back seat. I'll sit on my hands. You can tie me up. I'm outta gas, it's late, I gotta headache."
"I don't believe you. You stink."
"Look. You don't trust me all that distance, two miles in the car alone with you, I'll go inside, buy a $2.98 garden hose, and cut off a piece I can use to siphon off a coupla liters of gas. With your permission."
"I'm convinced, get in."
He didn't move. "It's a trick. You'll hit me."
"I believe you, I believe you. Anybody who would volunteer to take a mouthful of gas without being at gunpoint must be telling the truth. Get in."
He sat on his hands all the way there, and back.
Though he was deathly afraid of her, Arlo pressed his meager advantage. With the fumey can of gas burbling into his tank, he stopped her before she could drive away.
"Maybe, uh, you should follow me back to the gas station to fill it up. I might have damaged the manifold housing coupler or something, trying to start it. It might conk out."
"There is no such thing in that beast as a manifold housing coupler."
"See, I'm driving a lemon. I need you to follow me."
"How the hell did I inherit you?"
"In Korea, if you save someone's life, you become responsible for them forever. Nice custom, don't you think?"
She grimaced. "Franz Kafka is up there, writing my life."
Arlo looked out from under thick eyelashes. It was his Jackie-Cooper-As-The-Kid look. "I've come to depend on you. You're so self-possessed."
Half an hour later they were on common civility terms, sharing the best chili dogs in Los Angeles, at Boris's Stand, corner of La Brea and Melrose, all beef, plenty hot, lotsa onions, two bits, you couldn't do better.
And half an hour later—inexplicably—they were on the verge of what Arlo called "a warm, humid experience," having driven out to Los Angeles International Airport, to a road bisecting a landing approach, where the jets landed directly over their heads.
"Can you tell me what we are doing
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