Dead On Arrival

NONFICTION

by Sarah Curry

It was one of the first days of winter where the temperature fell like a lead balloon and frost spidered on the hood of my car. I started her up. She took her time catching her breath and only scared me for half a second. Then off I went to the same dead-end pizza delivery job I’d had for three years.  

As the night wore on, the temperature trickled down slowly. The restaurant was so busy that I kept my car running in between deliveries; I knew the next delivery would only take a moment to wait for. I had wished that the time in between orders would grow so I could sit with a certain fellow delivery driver, with whom I was quite infatuated with.  

I packed two pizzas in a red vinyl delivery bag and headed out to my car, but was stopped by a familiar sputter from across the parking lot. I put the bag on my front seat, and called out to Nick from behind my car, “is your car good?” I jogged over to his car with my hands in my jacket pockets, the wind grinding down my cheeks like sandpaper.  

“I don’t know why it won’t start, it was just running fine.” His window tilted half open and I leaned in the car with my forearms on the edge of the window. His dash displayed some lights, one of which being the neon red battery symbol. He looked up at me in disbelief, a shell of a man hoping for a quick-fix answer. “It could be the alternator,” I said, “it could be the starter, but let’s just hope it's the battery. Try shifting while turning the key.” 

Nick knew my favorite downtime activity was scrolling on Facebook Marketplace for a good deal on a beat-up Camry to flip, or for a Honda S2000, my next potential love. I’d shown him so many cars during all the shifts we’d had together while we waited for deliveries to come out. I’m sure he was hoping I could diagnose his car, but there were so many preliminary tests that had to be done; with the restaurant steadily getting busier, I couldn’t do much with the feeble minutes. I had to take my delivery.  

Shifting out of gear didn’t jostle any life into the car. The car did choke: ru-tuh-tuh-tuh-tuh, ru-tuh-tuh-tuh. Definitely not the starter.  

I noticed the red bag on his front seat. “Do you want me to take your delivery?” He hung his head in shame and passed the bag to me, along with the address and price. He murmured a thank you and I replied, “I’m sure you’ll still be here when I get back, but I hope you’re not.” 

I rushed back after my deliveries, hoping to God it was slow at the restaurant so I could help him. I come back to find our weird coworker Mike trying to jump Nick’s car. The man eats garlic cloves as a snack and leaves his phone ringer on 24/7, so naturally I wouldn’t trust him with my car. But I watched Nick’s headlights turn on, so at least Mike did something right.  

Nick and Mike came back inside the restaurant and Mike announced that he jumped the car. “His oil was practically empty, he doesn’t even take care of the thing! The kid is 28, you’d think he knew how to check his oil. Yanno, if it were my kids, I’d…” I just drowned out Mike’s rambling and approached Nick. “So you need a new battery, and apparently some oil. Do you need me to drive you to Autozone? The one over here closes in twenty minutes. I just need to find out what kind of oil you need and what kind of battery is in your car now, and we can get everything and change the battery tonight so you can get home safe.” 

He looked away, turned his body uncomfortably and twisted his hand around the back of his neck. “I don’t really have the money for it right now…”  

“Nick, you need to get home somehow with the car. What if it doesn’t make it? You can put it on my credit card. It’s not a big deal.”  

He shook his head. “I don’t want to take your money. I’ll make it home and get cash from my dad.”  

I told him to text me when he got home, and he did. The abused Civic made it without an incident. I had asked him if he wanted me to come over and change the battery for him that night, questioning if he had a toolbox and a funnel. He declined, but still seemed interested in the offer. He wanted to go to the Autozone closer to his house in the morning. I offered to meet him there, claiming I could change the battery for him if the workers can’t. I wouldn’t trust the Autozone workers with my car, and I’ll be damned if he’s going to trust them with his car, even if he doesn’t take proper care of it. So he took me up on the offer and I told him I would meet him there at 9 AM.  

The first thing I did when I got home was call my best friend Katie and ask her to come over. I told her about the boy, about my incessant desire to be the one to change his battery, and she just laughs. I asked her if she had any tools in her car. “Not really. I’ll be over in 15.” 

She arrived and I met her outside. “Are you crazy? Have you ever changed your own battery before?” I wrung my hands in my pockets while the wind whistled strongly by.  

“No. So what do you have in terms of tools?”  

“So you’ve never changed a battery before?” 

“No, but I’ve watched Jordan change his before. He was done in 15 minutes. I just need one of those socket wrench things with the different gauges. Do you have anything like that?”  

She just laughed and shook her head, an indication of her lack of faith in my abilities. All she offers me is a tire iron and a simple socket wrench. I knew they wouldn’t help, but if I ended up needing either, I would be mad at myself for not taking them. So I took them, she bid me good luck, and called me crazy for using this opportunity to see Nick.  

That night I watched the same Youtube video over and over and over, of a guy changing a battery in a Toyota Sienna and giving fatherly advice. I retained as much of it as I could. I secretly prayed that the Autozone workers would actually be available to change the battery so I wouldn’t have to. Regardless, it would be a learning experience. Even if I make an idiot out of myself in front of Nick, I can at least know that I’m smart enough to check my oil once in a while.   

The next morning I woke up on time but was still a bit late to Autozone. I wanted to take the time to straighten my hair and make my coffee, both of which I did with shaking hands. I showed up at 9:15. He was already inside, and I watched his eyes aimlessly scan the wall of batteries. I suggested that we first ask a worker to test the battery. I didn’t want to completely trust my diagnosis on the off chance that I was wrong. It seemed like there was only one worker, and my stomach knotted at the sight. But then in walks a terribly short worker with long black hair and even longer Christmas-themed nails. Her head probably only reached my waist. She waddled in with authority and dropped something on the way inside. It skidded across the floor: a strawnana elf bar, a popular vape. She cursed under her breath and kicked it a little before picking it up. She called out to the other coworker about something she had to take care of before coming to work. Nick caught my eyes for a moment, as if to share a gesturing smile and quiet laugh, and I had to hold my breath to keep myself together. I made Nick talk. 

“Hey, we need a battery for my car.” 

She hopped up on a stool behind the register. “Do you have an account with us?” 

Nick gave her his phone number to look up. Nothing came up. 

“You want to try another phone number?” 

Nick gave his dad’s phone number and the worker typed with her impossibly long nails. Skitskitclackclackclackclackskit-SKIT. Heavy emphasis on the enter key this time.  

“You own a 2004 Honda Civic EX?”  

Nick replied happily, yes yes. 

“So you can trade in the old battery and the new battery will be free.” 

His face melted with relief and my wallet cried with joy.  

We headed back to his car outside while the little worker slowly trotted along behind us. Thank God there was a dip in the curb where he parked, so that the car was a few inches lower than the actual line-up of the curb, otherwise I don’t think the worker would be able to reach the battery with ease. Nick popped the hood of the car and she leaned her elbows on the car while getting a good look at the battery. She haphazardly wiped the battery while her long hair dangled in her face. “Hold on toots, lemme go get the battery and some tools.”  

After we saw the door shut behind her, Nick and I exchanged one glance and it was all over. I couldn’t stop laughing. I shook his arm, “you’re gonna learn how to change a battery from a short person, and it actually isn’t me. What are the odds?” 

“Yeah I didn’t think they got much shorter than you.” 

I slapped his arm and out comes the worker with a rolling cart holding the battery and some wrenches with different gauges.  

I went to my car and retrieved my lukewarm coffee. Nick wanted to know what I was drinking, even though I knew he was a tea person. 

“It’s probably too sweet for you.” 

“Hm, I could say the same about you.” 

I watched the little person inspect the battery and begin the process. She hit her vape multiple times, even held it in her mouth at some points while manhandling the battery. She struggled to get the nuts off the terminals, but it was just because of a little corrosion, and they really seemed to be on tight. Eventually she got them off without stripping the nuts. Her nails were much longer than mine, and she had to grab the nuts with her thumb and pointer finger knuckle, in between vape rips. She removed the dead battery, and Nick offered to help several times. “Don’t worry, I got it,” she said every time. She did struggle with the heaviness of the lifeless brick, but she just used momentum to swing it onto the cart. 

She installed the new battery with relative ease. We didn’t experience any problems with putting the nuts on and tightening them in place. When all was done, she instructed Nick to start the car. It sputtered, she caught her breath, and started right up. The worker slapped her hands together, “my work here is done, you’re all set.” She waddled over to another woman outside her car who was asking for help with her battery, and we were free to go.  

Nick and I sat in his car for the hour I had left before I needed to leave for work. I took note of his clean but beat-up interior: a stack of cigarette cartons in his center console (only half were empty), a few soda bottles on the floor with a sip left in each, and some random receipts sticking out of the door pockets. We laughed about the luckless series of events and wondered together if the little person did a better job at changing his battery than I would have. I scolded him for not taking better care of his car, and told him that she will probably live forever if he just checked her oil and listened to her when she didn’t sound alright. He looked at me while squeezing my hand, his soft hairless knuckles on top of mine, and ensured that he was thankful for my company and my help. I told him he wouldn’t need my help if he’d just listened to his damn car. The hour I had left with Nick wore down to minutes, and I told him I would see him next Friday. He kissed me softly. Then I got out and walked down the pavement to my car, watching him drive past the McDonalds and parallel parking. 

I unlocked my car with the key fob and I caught the attention of a dark-skinned scruffy man who teetered on the sidewalk towards the Autozone entrance. He stops in front of my car, murmuring “nice car.” He met my eyes and I half smiled. “Nice girl…”  

I avoided further eye contact and jumped in my seat, swiftly started her up and locked the doors. Not today, sketchy sidewalk dude. Not today.