Fucking shit! Lola wouldn’t start, no matter how much he whispered his love and adoration into her ear. He pictured his ex-wife, Kelly, giving him that look only she could give and saying how she hated this car because it was just like him: classic good looks but unreliable and consumed too much gas—in Lola’s case—and Jack Daniel’s in his. Kelly drove a beige hybrid and had remarried an accountant. What did she know?
Right now, he wished he was driving Kelly’s hybrid. Hell, he would ride bitch, naked, on the back of the accountant’s motorcycle. But he was sure Phil would never own a motorcycle. They don’t come in beige, and he might be judged impractical at his next PTA meeting. Fuck Phil.
Thud… There is a distinct sound a can of Gardein Plant-based Chili No Beans makes as it hits the fender of a 1973 Porsche 911 Targa—in this case, the aforementioned Lola. In 1973, she was bright red before the Earth’s closest star, known on the street as the sun, added its artistic touches. Now, it was a Roma tomato with shades of orange.
The smell of freshly cut Roma tomatoes always reminded him of Sophia. He met Sophia, who was from Italy, while he was home on break from college in his early 20s. She was studying to be a winemaker at his dad’s boutique winery. She had taught him how the Italians make pizza, espresso, and love. He, in turn, taught her how to fly fish, take a truck scraping, and the songs of Lynyrd Skynyrd. Man, he loved her, like he loved all the women that had come into his life.
In fact, he loved all women, each with their own signature beauty, like every vineyard has a “terroir.” The most beautiful of them all are the ones you have to discover their terroir. A beautiful woman walking down the street is recognized and shared by all. But the ones that can break your heart hide their beauty in their soul. You must dig your hands in the soil to discover their terroir. That’s why he always preferred dark brown eyes. Blue eyes give up everything at first glance. You have to study dark eyes in candlelight to discover the story they are telling. He could rant for hours about how fucked up society was for tearing down women rather than celebrating the superior gender in all shades and eye colors.
Pop… Jackfruit in a can just bounced off Lola’s windshield and landed on the passenger floorboard. “Look, darlin’, I hate seeing you go through undeserved abuse, but I go where you go, hand in hand.” Lola, in agreement, roared to life, and the tires chirped as he left the Whole Foods parking lot. “I hate this store,” he thought. “I hope you fucking die!” she screamed, followed by, “Call me, I miss you, Keanu!” He waved at Summer as he drove away. “Man, she is beautiful,” he thought.
Summer had been good for him, but she was also a touch insane. “Sexy crazy or crazy in the head?” his friend Nate had asked when he told him he had met a lady last fall. “Definitely A and probably B,” he responded. “That means definitely B,” Nate said.
In the fall, she was great. She got him to eat healthier and cut back on the whiskey and cigarettes. She was wild and free, a Mongolian Przewalski’s horse. Her smile said it without saying anything; that was her terroir, he thought.
Summer in the winter was different, darker. They both started drinking more, and she was always stoned. One night, after heavy drinking, he needed to sober up for a meeting he had forgotten. There was no coffee at Summer’s. She said she didn’t like coffee—definitely crazy in the head, he thought.
In his drunken state, he grabbed a mug of tea from the counter. He knew nothing about tea other than the British drank it and they were pussies. After burning his fingers pulling it out of the microwave and then burning his tongue as he slurped it down, he thought the British must not have taste buds, probably why they talk with that accent.
Summer walked into the kitchen topless with that half-crazy but all-beautiful smile. He had gotten used to and no longer noticed the armpit hair peeking out. He would never be confused for a hippie, but he definitely was a hippie lover—well, a lover of this hippie.
“Have you seen my tea, Keanu?” she asked. Anytime he wore a suit, she said he looked like Keanu Reeves in those senselessly violent hitman movies with the cute dogs, so that’s what she called him. “I did you a favor and drank it. It tasted like brewed dirty diapers,” he replied. “Keey, you just drank my magic shroom tea! You didn’t drink all of it, did you?” “You know I’m an optimist and never leave a glass half empty—err, half full,” he slurred. “Am I going to die? It tasted like death.” “No, of course not, but now I have to run to Flower’s to get some more and join you on this wonderful trip.” Flower was Summer’s best friend, a part-time yoga instructor, part-time medicine woman, and full-time nutter, he thought.
He went to lay down before he would fall down. From Summer’s bed, he watched the kitchen light reflect off the beads hanging on the door frame. “Beads for a door,” he laughed. He had told her he was cool with all the hippie shit, just no musk. He hated that smell as much as he hated Accountant Phil or Whole Foods. Then the beads parted, and a naked Summer walked in, and he knew he must be tripping. She couldn’t be back already, he thought.
She kissed him and reached her hands down to unbuckle his belt. Her lips were warm, and her hands were cold on his abdomen. She climbed on top of him, but all he could think about was wishing “Purple Haze” was playing. He then wondered if he would see Smurfs running around the bed; that seemed like what a good mushroom trip should be like.
“You asshole!” He slowly opened his eyes and moved Summer’s arm off him. Summer was standing next to the beads that were now illuminated by the morning sun. “You asshole!” she screamed again. He must still be tripping because she was by the door, but her arm was just on him and still no Smurfs, he thought.
He coughed, sat up, then asked, “Are we talking in generalities or something specific?” She was furious and pointed as she screamed, “You slept with my sister, Autumn!” “To be fair, Autumn is my favorite season but my second favorite… sister?” he responded. “Shit, that sounds like I slept with my sister,” he thought. “First, I don’t even know if I did, and if I did, I thought it was you. Second, did your parents name you girls after the season you were conceived?” At this point, his stomach began to swirl from the tea, and she recognized it in his face. She gave him an all-crazy, all-beautiful grin, then kicked him in the balls.
Hoooonk. “Hey dumbass, snap out of it, the light’s green,” a red-faced man in a black F350 King Ranch behind him at the Whole Foods intersection was yelling. He politely waved back at the man with his middle finger as Lola purred and sped away. He reached for his balls, expecting them to still hurt thinking back about the last time he had seen Summer before today. He loved her craziness and that smile, but his balls and Lola loved her when she was elsewhere. He wondered what her sister Autumn was up to as he headed to meet Nate for lunch.
“You stupid dog, get out before you scratch the leather,” he heard yelled as he was putting his leftovers from lunch with Nate in Lola. He looked over to see a little man with a red face jerking on a dog’s collar, trying to pull the dog out of a new black F350 King Ranch. Then the man smacked the dog and said, “Get out, you stupid bitch.” As he looked at Lola’s passenger floorboard, he got an idea. He only wished he was wearing a suit. He whistled, and the dog perked up, jumped down, and ran over. He motioned, and she jumped into the passenger seat. The red-faced man came lumbering over, yelling, “Who the fuck do you think you are, asshole?” He hit the man with the jackfruit can square in the nose, and blood sprayed everywhere. “John fuckin’ Wick,” he responded as the man tumbled over.
As Lola took the familiar route home, he lit a cigarette and looked over at the smiling dog enjoying the topless targa wind. He reached for her collar, but there was no name. He noticed the collar was Roma tomato red. “I think we will call you Sophia,” he said with a grin, thinking how much his daughter was going to love her. “How about some Lynyrd Skynyrd?” he asked Sophia.
