Be Afraid!
Jerry walked to the corner store, a baseball cap and sunglasses shielding him from the heat beating down from above. He picked up a copy of the
Of course, the first thing he checked out was the bikini-clad Sunshine Girl—what sixteen-year-old boy wouldn’t turn to that first? Today’s girl was old—23, it said—but she certainly was pretty, with lots of long blonde hair.
That ritual completed, Jerry turned to the real reason he’d bought the paper: the classified ads. He found the used-car listings, and started poring over them, hoping, as he always did, for a bargain.
Jerry had worked hard all summer on a loading dock. It had been rough work, but, for the first time in his life, he had real muscles. And, even more important, he had some real money.
His parents had promised to pay the insurance if Jerry kept up straight A’s all through grade ten, and Jerry had. They weren’t going to pay for a car, itself, but Jerry had two grand in his bank account—he liked the sound of that: two grand. Now if he could just find something halfway decent for that price, he’d be driving to school when grade eleven started next week.
Jerry was a realist. He wanted a girlfriend—God, how he wanted one—but he knew his little wispy beard wasn’t what was going to impress … well, he’d been thinking about Ashley Brown all summer. Ashley who, in his eyes at least, put that Sunshine Girl to shame.
But, no, it wasn’t the beard he’d managed to grow since June that would impress her. Nor was it his newfound biceps. It would be having his own set of wheels. How sweet that would be!
Jerry continued scanning the ads, skipping over all the makes he knew he could never afford: the Volvos, the Lexuses, the Mercedes, the BMWs.
He read the lines describing a ’94 Honda Civic, a ’97 Dodge Neon, even a ’91 Pontiac Grand Prix. But the prices were out of his reach.
Jerry really didn’t care
Jerry was going to be royalty.
If, that is, he could find something he could afford. He kept looking, getting more and more depressed. Maybe he’d just—
Jerry felt his eyes go wide. A 1997 Toyota, only twenty thousand miles on it. The asking price: “$3,000, OBO.”
Just three thousand! That was awfully cheap for such a car … And OBO! Or Best Offer. It couldn’t hurt to try two thousand dollars. The worst the seller could do was say no. Jerry felt in his pocket for the change he got from buying the paper. There was a phone booth just up the street. He hurried over to it, and called.
“Hello?” said a sad-sounding man’s voice at the other end.
Jerry tried to make his own voice sound as deep as he could. “Hello,” he said. “I’m calling about the Toyota.” He swallowed. “Has it sold yet?”
“No,” said the man. “Would you like to come see it?”
Jerry got the man’s address—only about two miles away. He glanced up the street, saw the bus coming, and ran back to the stop, grinning to himself. If all went well, this would be the last time he’d have to take the bus anywhere.
Jerry walked up to the house. It looked like the kind of place he lived in himself: basketball hoop above the garage; garage door dented from endless games of ball hockey.
