The radio was tuned to 107.7, KSAN. It was making him insane. Not the music itself, the music was classic rock and well-written. It was an exceptional instrumental piece by Pink Floyd called Great Gig in the Sky. No, it really wasn't the music, he simply wanted to fiddle with the radio until it was on 99.9 or something equally symmetrical, but experience taught him a couple of things; the first being there was nothing broadcast on 99.9, the second that Sharona was in charge in her car while she was driving and today Sharona was driving - as always. Biting her lip in concentration - as always, Adrian thought. He'd have known this without looking. In fact, he wasn't looking, per se. He was staring out the window, looking, to all the world and, he hoped, Sharona, like he didn't have a care or a worry in the world. Looking like he was staring blankly, when in fact he was studying every nuance of Sharona's expression in the reflection of her profile in his passenger side window. While he was counting light posts outside the window. So far the counting was coming along nicely, however, another part of his brain was looking for an opening, looking for a way back into a place he'd never thought he'd care to be again. Inside someone's good graces.
They had been sitting at Benjy's basketball tryouts…in the middle school Benjy went to …on some unhygienic looking bleachers. Frustrated, Adrian had watched the progress of the tryouts, the single-person drills, the one-on-ones and then the two "team" competitions. He'd only just gained an understanding of baseball; he was now completely befuddled by basketball. With an uneasy tilt of his head, Adrian's sponge-like mind wandered back to the setting of their most recent disagreement. He recalled the stale-sweat scent of the gym, the sound of the raucous cheers one overbearing father of one of Benjy's competitors bellowed, the feel of Sharona's arm moving against his as she clapped and cheered for son…it was just a small request. The kind he made on a daily basis. He'd simply asked her to leave Benjy with his sitter when they had to go to his appointment with Kroger.
Sometimes he needed to discuss Kroger with Sharona just as much as he needed to discuss Sharona with Kroger. In any case, he felt awkward…alright…more awkward than usual… discussing his therapy in front of a twelve-year-old child. Even if that child was Sharona's son. He was a great kid, as far as germ-factories less than five feet tall went, and Adrian enjoyed his sharp wit – which was much like his mother's. Occasionally, the child's uncomplicated point of view or an innocent remark helped Adrian resolve a case or see a clue more clearly. It had taken a lot of years for the pain of watching him, dealing with him, learning about him, learning from him, to subside enough to let go of the regret that he and Trudy had not had children. The regret, unlike his quiet survivor guilt, eventually abated. Now, he couldn't imagine a day without Benjy, a story involving Benjy, or an activity centered on Benjy in his life.
The detective turned to look at Benjy's mother then and frowned in an expression that was part discomfort over the argument and ensuing cold shoulder as much as a reflection of his feelings about Sharona's driving ability. The few lyrics that Gig had, had gone something like "and I am not frightened of dying, any time will do, I don't mind. Why should I be frightened of dying? There's no reason for it, you've gotta go sometime. I never said I was frightened of dying." Okay, so he was afraid of dying…maybe the music was enough to make him wonder about his sanity getting into Sharona's car when she was out of sorts. It was certainly bringing on images of his own demise.
They were winding down Lombard Street, the most notorious of all of the hilly, twisty and curvy streets in San Francisco. Guide books to the city said that the steep, hilly street was created with sharp curves to switchback down the one-way hill past beautiful Victorian mansions. The street was paved with bricks that jostled the car and Adrian snarled inwardly as he thought of those guide books claiming it was "an amazing site to see." Sight. Sight. Sight. Lombard Street didn't have a "www" in front of it. The whole techno-world had gone stark raving mad with their spelling disasters. It made him just as queasy to think of the bad grammar and spelling as to imagine the street, no less be subjected to it. At his protest, Sharona claimed it was the shortest route from his apartment to Dr. Kroger's office. He knew she was lying, and she knew he knew. She was trying to torture him, he was certain his death would occur in a car with Sharona driving like a madwoman down the twisty streets and over the hills of San Francisco.
He, with an unusually selfless feeling, wanted to apologize and make amends. It rankled his well-defined sense of order. He didn't like to apologize. He didn't like to be wrong. He didn't like thinking about how other people felt. He didn't like Sharona being angry with him … he could almost smell the anger wafting off of her the way her soft perfume often did. It covered him in waves made of equal parts unhappiness and ire. Words in the form of apology didn't come easily to his lips, as he wasn't often in the position of being wrong. This time he wasn't really wrong either, but he had, perhaps, broached the subject at a bad time or in a way that wasn't as tactful as most humans expected. But he wasn't most humans. The humans he came into contact with either accepted his differences or they shunned him. She should be used to his shortness by now, his sometimes brusque demeanor, his tone, but apparently, he still had the power to hurt her feelings. He didn't mean to hurt her because he knew she was human in a way he was quite certain he was not now and never would be again. He also knew she thought otherwise and kept helping him edge towards regaining his humanity, so he had to make things right before she quit – again. She was, very likely, his last hope at having at least a semi-normal life ever again./p
p style="margin-top: .14in; margin-bottom: .14in; line-height: 150%;"He gathered himself, breathed deeply, and said, "Sharona, I'm…" as the shrill and disturbing tones of her cell phone or was it mine? began to ring from the depths of her purse on the seat between them. They used the same ringer. Who would have expected Sharona Fleming would have a bent for classical music? But then, who would have expected her to like art-house movies, classic seventies rock music, craftsman houses, musical theater, and novels by authors as diverse as Pat Conroy and Dan Brown? Who would have… he looked at the ceiling of the car and sighed inwardly. When he looked back down, it was into Sharona's brilliant blue-green eyes, only to find aqua daggers there. The phone continued to warble.
She shot a quick look over in his direction that was along the lines of "I dare ya to answer that" and then her eyes skittered away to her purse and then back to the curves of Lombard Street. He looked at her purse with dread. Thinking about reaching in … and touching god-knew-what… Benjy's half-eaten candy bars, used wipes… made him break into a light sweat. However, he didn't want Sharona driving and talking on the cell, that would bring on a waterfall of perspiration which would lead to stains on his pristine shirt which would lead to the dry cleaner…which would lead to three rounds with Mrs. Ling…he mentally shook himself as Sharona said, "Well?" in a tone that was as much a challenge as a question. He rubbed his forehead absently with his left hand to shield the bleak terror in his eyes from her view. This was something he was unaccustomed to doing, he never hid things from Sharona… well, there were a couple of things, but he didn't want to scrutinize them at the moment. Lord, he hated to leave a ringing phone unanswered… it upset the balance…but he didn't like talking on phones…he didn't like answering phones… he didn't want to answer this phone. Deep breaths, deep breaths.
"Good god," Sharona exclaimed with exasperation and reached for the phone.
No!" Adrian cried and said, "Pull over. Pull over."
"On Lombard Street?" she asked acerbically - exasperated by just the 15 minutes they'd been together. It was a one way, one lane street – there was no "pulling over."
"Alright," Adrian said hesitantly and reached even more hesitantly towards the purse with the unknown interior. Women's purses were as much a mystery to him as was why more people didn't boil their toothbrushes before and after each use.
"That's it!" Sharona said and grabbed Adrian's left hand. Then she plunged his hand into the bag and together, their fingers fumbled around in the confined leather space for a few awkward seconds as the phone went into another chorus of Pachabel's Canon in D. Finally, the vibrating concerto emerged in Sharona's hand and she gave him another of her triumphant "There!" looks. He was getting all too familiar with those today. She flipped it open and held it out to him. He could hear someone saying hello from the shiny silver earpiece. Silver, not black. It was his phone, not Sharona's that had rung, she usually answered both, but today…driving…down Lombard Street…he squared his shoulders, reached for his handkerchief, and gingerly took the phone from Sharona while giving her a grimace in return.
Her purse interior hadn't been all that bad – a few oddly shaped items that he felt were probably personal things that he didn't need to know about…but he was still sort of curious. Females mystified him in more ways than the normal ways that women mystified men… and Sharona, with her impatient, terse, armored exterior and caring, supportive, marshmallow interior intrigued him most of all.