[Editor's Note: Jack Grisham is an author, hypnotherapist, T.S.O.L. front man and all-around troublemaker. His weekly column,True Story, may or may not be factual, with characters who may or may not be real.]
By: Jack Grisham
She was slumped over the steering wheel, the car idling, pop tunes playing on the radio. I stood outside, wondering if she was breathing. I couldn't sleep, so I'd come out of my house to have a smoke when I'd noticed the car. It was your standard chick mobile: new Volkswagen convertible, light-blue with a soft gray top–the kind of car Mommy and Daddy thought she'd look cute in. I rapped on the glass. No answer. I knocked again–this time a bit harder, not desperate or worried in any way, just harder. She slightly moved her head. She was blonde–at least her hair was. Through the window, the tangled mass looked as if it had seen a bottle or two of Speedlite, but who was I to judge? I knocked again. This time, she turned toward the glass, spit out a mouthful of curls and looked up at me with Alice Cooper eyes. Waterproof mascara might not wash off with soap and a hard scrub, but tears have a way of breaking down even the strongest paint, and she'd been crying.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She sat up–sheepishly smiled at the wolf outside her door, and then she quick-fluffed her way into what she thought was presentable. She turned off the radio and rolled down the window. “Hey,” she said–not a care in the world. “What's up?”
“What's up?” I laughed. “Are you fucking kidding me? You're sitting out here, looking half-dead, and you 'what up' me? Are you okay?”
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“Yeah,” she said–slowly coming together. “I was just resting–waiting, I guess.”
“Do you want me to call someone?”
“No, I already did. He's right here.”
It was then that I heard it, a tight transistor voice coming from the cell phone sitting on the passenger seat. “Tracy,” the voice called, “who the fuck is that? What are you doing? Tracy!”
She looked over at the phone. “He's a cheating prick, and it's payback.”
She opened the car door, swung around and seductively spread her legs. “Kat told me where you live,” she purred. “Do you want me?”
I took a hit off my smoke and hunched down before her. She wasn't exactly pretty, but she smelled good, and it was late. I reached out and slid my hand between her hair and neck, then gently squeezed and pulled her toward me.
A young woman carelessly scorned.
“Tracy!” He was screaming now, frantic– thoroughly digesting what he'd done.
I leaned in and kissed her–swallowed a mouthful of ex-girlfriend pain, and then I proceeded to render my assistance.
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