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“Naked lobes? You’re not pulling up to the dealership with naked lobes, you gotta dress the part,” Helen says into the mirror as she adjusts the lapels of her blouse, fingers running along each of the silk creases until they lay flat against her freckled chest.
“Which one of these fucking boxes has our jewelry?” Carol asks, ripping the packing tape off a Uhaul box and rummaging wildly.
“Well, not the one labeled ‘Tupperware,’ … try that one,” she points toward the small box near the closet of their guest room.
They had been proud residents of Cielo Rosado Court for six weeks. Helen insisted that they not rush into unpacking, she wanted to let the house tell her where exactly everything should live. The optimal placement of items unfolding in due time. If Carol had her way, the wine glasses would be next to the blender, and the front closet would store their golf clubs.
“The anniversary diamonds or the small gold hoops?” Carol holds out the options to Helen, raising and lowering each pair in both hands like a scale trying to find its balance.
“Gold. The diamonds would be shouting ‘New Money,’ and we’re not about to strut around the dealership like the Unsinkable Molly Brown.”
“Helen, are you sure we–”
“You’re getting it,” Helen interrupts, “You’ve wanted this since you were a little girl, and now you can have it. I want you to have it, you should have it. You earned it.”
The Mercedes G-Wagon? Too pretentious.
A Jeep Wrangler? Too utilitarian.
It had always been Land Rovers for Carol, a Range Rover model, specifically. Upscale and sleek, crisp lines, formidable. Four wheel drive to get you through a blizzard, or just to hop a curb if need be. Classy enough to fit in at the country club, but capable enough to wind through any terrain. A vehicle that can get shit done behind the scenes and won’t draw the unwanted sapphic allegations like a Subaru. Carol was always careful to find the right balance of masculine and feminine in her wardrobe, her mannerisms, speech patterns, and the same went for her vehicle choice. Calculated, deliberate. Posh, but unassuming.
With the height of 1980s consumerism in full swing Carol would watch the rich stay-at-home moms drop their daughters off at the mall to shop ‘til they dropped. Various Jennifers and Michelles hopping out from the back seat, their carefully styled bangs completely resistant to wind. A pound of hairspray shellacking each hair into place as they bounced out in their finest ESPRIT sweatshirts. Perfect, prissy little clones with plenty of spending money and nothing to hide.
In her adolescence she longed for the self-rightious attitude and confidence that came with their money. Girls like Jennifer didn’t make their mom drop them off near the back entrance of JC Penny so that people didn’t see them crawling out from the back of their mom’s shit-brown Buick LeSabre. Girls like Jennifer didn’t open their birthday card to find an ‘IOU’ written on a post-it.
Helen reaches to Carol’s ear, turning the gold metal between her fingers so that the seam of the clasp is in the back.
Carol’s hand meets Helen’s arm as she makes the final adjustment to her earrings, a slow thumb moving lazily over her forearm as she works the jewelry into place.
“I’m gonna miss the Grand Cherokee,” Carol sighs, “Is a trade-in really necessary? We just have so many memories in that thing, I’d hate for some 16-year-old to ruin it with McDonald’s wrappers and vape smoke.”
“The dealership and I will make sure it goes to live on a nice farm, plenty of space to roam free, chase chickens,” Helen reassures.
“I’m serious, can another car live up to the fun we’ve had in that thing? Remember the Grand Tetons?” Carol’s eyes flash devilishly and she catches Helen blushing at the memory.
She still has the Polaroid somewhere in one of the many boxes neatly stacked in the guest room. A faded photo of Helen, hanging out the passenger window of the ‘99 Jeep Grand Cherokee, shirt lifted to cover her face, both breasts exposed. Behind them sat the Grand Teton mountain rage. “Tit for tit” scribbled in Sharpie at the bottom of the photo. Carol makes a mental note to find that picture, maybe sneak it in the glove box of her new whip for good luck.
“Or the slurpee spider incident.”
Carol isn’t as nostalgic about this one. The faint red stain on the driver’s seat, a constant reminder of what happens when a spider crawls across the dash while you’re suckin’ down a slurpee going 85 down I-40.
Helen keeps the less idyllic memories of that car to herself. Memories framed in the red and blue of flashing lights reflected off the rear view mirror into Carol’s bloodshot eyes. Memories of picking up that Grand Cherokee from the impound lot. Using it to drop Carol off at her court-ordered drug and alcohol class, and pick her up after.
Helen swallows down the memory. Better times ahead, she hopes.
“Alright, enough down memory lane. Time to meet Mr. Duncan Meriwether about your new ride.” Helen makes her way toward the door, eyeing her wristwatch.
“Duncan? …Meriwether?” Carol trails behind, tromping down the stairs after Helen. “What does he know about Range Rovers, he sounds like he just got off the fucking Mayflower.”
“Helen, are we doing the test drive before or after tea and crumpets?”
“Does Mr. Meriwether have a silver spoon I could borrow, perchance?”
“Do we just need a cashier’s check or does Duncan Meriwether take shillings? Pound Sterling? Tuppence?”
Helen throws the Jeep keys over to Carol without a word. The jingle and heft of the metal settle in her hands. Soon to be replaced by a sleek plastic fob.
“One last ride in the old girl.”
Carol stares reverently at the well-worn keys. She tosses them up into the air playfully, catching them again just to hear the ring of the metal echo in their entryway before they head out the door.
-
The entrance to the Land Rover dealership is opulent. Bright white stucco arches, offset by the giant green oval logo, looming in all its glory. A set of automatic doors open on command as the two women approach. Carol half expects a bellboy to greet them. The luxury vehicles dot the interior. A regimental fleet all lined up, polished wax exteriors reflecting the fluorescents, scattering light like a well cut diamond.
Helen approaches the front desk ahead of Carol, her pearl teardrop earrings swinging gradually to a stop, hanging perfectly plumb as they await acknowledgement. She gives a curt, “Hi,” to the receptionist, her eyebrows raised at the general lack of awareness of their presence.
“We have a 2:30 with Duncan,” Helen grabs one of the free dealership logo’d pens and starts clicking it methodically until the spray-tan blonde behind the desk phones Duncan.
Helen could speak fluent cunt when called upon. She could read it, write it, and walk it. A tool to pull out from her belt on special occasions, and the Bratz doll in front of her wearing a Land Rover branded headset just might necessitate the emergence of cuntHelen.
“Duncan, your 2:30 is here, a Miss…,” the receptionist scrolls her online schedule in search of a name.
“Sturka,” Helen says, her pen clicking continues until she hears the young woman repeat Carol’s last name over the phone.
cuntHelen is placed back into the toolbelt as she hears the telltale soft clack-clack of Italian leather on marble flooring approaching them.
Size 10 mens’ loafers greet her from behind.
“You must be Carol,” Duncan shoots out his hand to Helen, firm and manicured. Man-icured?
“Helen, actually. Pleasure to meet you, this is Carol,” she gestures to the tight-lipped blonde at her side.
Carol feels a hand on her lower back, gently ushering her forward to meet the man’s acquaintance, always grateful for Helen to break the surface tension of the water before having to cannonball into a social situation.
The three settle in at Duncan’s desk while he pulls up the current inventory in his system.
“Okay, so I see you’ve requested a test drive for VIN# SALGS2FK2HA327057 current MSRP for that trim with options comes to around $108,000 - Are you planning to lease or finance?” He eyes Helen first, then Carol.
“Cash,” Carol blurts, failing to hide her annoyance at his seeming lack of faith in the size of their joint pocketbook.
“Oh! Great, we’ll just need a quick photocopy of your ID before we depart.”
He waits while Carol wrestles the plastic from her wallet and jogs away toward the copier.
“A-hundred-and-eight-grand, my ass,” Helen whispers from the side of her mouth. “We’ll see about that.”
“You don’t haggle for a luxury vehicle, Helen. They’ll see right through us,” Carol shoots back in a whisper.
“O ye of little faith.” She tsk-tsks, “Ten bucks says they throw in a free coffee mug and complimentary tire rotations for life when I’m through with ‘em.”
-
“So this is the all new 2017, seen here in the exquisite Santorini Black Metallic paint scheme. Fully automatic rear hatch, LED headlights, heated and cooled seats. Anything you need this car has you covered. It has rain-sensing–--”
“Will it spread caviar on my crostini?” Carol interrupts, earning a swat from Helen.
“Mm, I hear that feature is in development for the 2018 model,” Duncan responds, unshaken.
“Make yourself at home,” he opens the driver’s side door for Carol while Helen takes shotgun.
They weave their way out of the dealership parking lot onto the main highway. Carol feels the Range Rover rev to life as she steadily increases the throttle. A perfectly tuned engine responding to every faint modulation of her foot on the gas pedal.
“It’s so quiet in here, I can almost hear my own heartbeat.”
Carol stretches her shoulders back, feeling the lumbar support hug her every curve as they continue down the long stretch of road.
“The front windshield and side windows have acoustically laminated glass for better protection against road noise,” Duncan proudly rattles off the specs, grateful for the opportunity to use any side commentary to dovetail into every unnecessary feature that this Titanic of a vehicle contains.
“We’ve established it’s quiet, but can it get loud?” Helen smiles at Carol and raises her eyebrows inquisitively at Duncan.
On queue, he describes the Meridian Sound System and subwoofer while Helen navigates the satellite radio. She cranks up the volume to the first station they land on.
‘Pony’ by Ginuwine booms through the cabin, each bass drop vibrating them down to their collective bone marrow.
Two middle-aged white ladies and one pint-sized trust fund baby car salesman bumping and rattling down the highway to ‘90s R&B in a hundred thousand dollar behemoth.
-
“What a colorful test drive that was, we hope you found the vehicle acceptable,” Duncan exclaims as he settles back into his desk.
“Before I send you off to our Finance team for the final paperwork, will you be using this vehicle for personal use or business use?” He eyes them both, trying to suss out the dynamic he just witnessed first hand, like a waiter asking if their meal would be on one check, or two.
“Business”
“Personal”
The two women answer unharmoniously.
“Mixed use,” Helen settles the debate with a smile, knowing she’d be the one to track mileage and expenses for their tax return anyway.
Duncan enters that detail in his spreadsheet, still unclear as to where the two women stood. Were they business partners, or partner partners? Regardless, a commission is a commission.
He shuffles them off to the finance office with a parting handshake, and a shiny new Land Rover coffee thermos, equipped with a leak-proof lid for all the adventures that await.
-
In typical finance-guy fashion, the balding divorcee sits across from Helen and Carol running through taxes, title, and registration at the speed of an auctioneer. His big lips, tongue, and jowl moving onto the next word before the previous one even reaches their ears.
Standard plates. Tire and rim protection - declined. On-star subscription complimentary for 6 months, Sirius XM complimentary for 6 months. Underbody rust protection - declined. Add-on 3M clear vinyl rock chip protection - declined.
His technical and financial jargon floats in one of Carol’s ears and straight out the other. Helen’s eagle-eye zeros in on the Sandhill Country Club founding member plaque hanging proudly next to a photo of his son and daughter.
They must’ve gotten their mother’s looks.
“Do you know Marybeth Peters?” Helen asks as the man slides a pen toward Carol, along with the fat stack of paperwork.
His neck cranes toward the plaque, piecing together her train of thought.
“She’s my cousin’s wife. You,... you two get to Sandhill often?”
A deeply satisfied grin spreads over Helen’s face. Ka-ching!
35 minutes pass and Helen has fully dissected his family tree and they’ve debriefed on the construction of the east wing of the 19th hole.
Carol is presented with a freshly printed stack of paperwork, she spots the final cost having dropped by $5000.
“Call it a friends and family discount,” he says, handing the two black key fobs to Carol, proud owner of a brand new Range Rover - fully paid off.
Helen didn’t even have to play the Cunt card, no petty haggling. She managed to get her discount the old fashioned way, by indulging in some man’s golf-adjacent, ego-driven special interest.
They exit the dealership with their free thermos and folder of paperwork, Carol tosses one of the fobs to Helen.
“Take ‘er for a spin, she’s half yours.”
-
Helen inhales deeply, massaging the 10 and 2 and working the leather steering wheel between her hands, then exhaling, mouth open, before taking a good proper sniff of the brand new interior.
Carol raises her arm, giving her armpit a comically loud sniff and a shrug, breaking Helen’s olfactory euphoria. She leans over to smack Carol on the arm.
“It’s the new car smell, I can’t get enough.” She fixes her eyes back to the road, breathing in and out heavily.
“Better than old wife smell?” Carol pouts.
“Hmm, the two scents compliment each other quite well,” She leans over the expanse of the luxurious cabin, sneaking a quick kiss from Carol, eyes still safely on the road.
“Plus, you’re not that old. 45 is still considered ‘Classic’ for old cars, not yet Vintage.”
Helen smiles to herself as she drives her princess around in their new chariot.
Carol fiddles with the thin protective plastic material covering the chrome of the glove box handle, peeling it away fully to expose the mirror-like shine of the small square latch. Her own face, tiny and distorted in the pristine metal.
“Not yet Vintage,” Carol mutters to herself, splaying her veiny hands across her knees, the wrinkles of each knuckle staring back at her and suggesting otherwise.
“Classic,” Helen repeats. “An American muscle car with a nice solid chassis,” she looks toward Carol, making sure to lay on the elevator eyes nice and thick, driving her point home.
Carol squares her shoulders, “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” Helen echoes. “Reliable, too. One swift turn of my key and your engine is already cranking over.”
Carol lets out an exasperated laugh, partly at the horrible car pun flirting, and partly because Helen was right. She could be covered under a dusty tarp, sitting motionless in a garage for months, but as soon as Helen got her engine to turn over she’d be running on all cylinders.
Helen hums behind the wheel, pleased at the reaction she has gotten out of her passenger.
“So, what kind of car would I be?” She bats her lashes, doing her best impersonation of something sporty, regal, and Italian.
Carol rests her fist under her chin, as to think.
“A Model T”
“A fucking Model T ?!” Helen leans over the steering wheel in disbelief.
Carol can sense the impending rant coming and she smiles, satisfied with having annoyed Helen to her hyperbolic breaking point.
“Carol, a Model T? That’s basically the first fucking automobile ever. Built by an antisemite no less.”
“Fine, fine, hold on,” Carol brings her thinking fist back up to her chin.
“How ‘bout a Duesenberg, then,” she offers.
“Wha– are you just going through Jay Leno’s garage now and picking out obscure old ass cars? What even is a Duesenberg? Should I get my moustache ready for twirling? Do we need to perfect our bathtub gin recipe?”
Carol closes her eyes and smiles, motioning bring it on with her hand and encouraging Helen to keep the one-liners coming.
“Duesenberg, Carol?” Really? I compare you to a fastback Mustang and you compare me to something that predates the Polio vaccine?”
“Was the first generation Deusenberg horse-drawn? Do you need flint and steel just to start the engine?”
“What is it about a Cruella DeVille car that screams, ‘Yep, that’s Helen’ ?”
“Well, for one thing…” Carol reaches across the center console, her open palm lands unceremoniously against the soft, silk-covered flesh of Helen’s right boob. She honks on it.
“AWOOGA,” she wails out cartoonishly, impersonating an old-timey car horn and quickly recoiling back into her seat, awaiting her punishment.
“You did not just honk my tit like a car horn,” Helen tries to subdue her smile into a forced scowl, in mock-disdain of her gropey passenger.
Before Carol has a chance to answer or spew any more car puns Helen flicks on the blinker and slows the vehicle down abruptly. Carol’s chest lurches forward against the seatbelt as the Black SUV takes a sharp right turn down a dusty service road toward the mountains. Tiny rocks and brush scrape and clatter against the car’s undercarriage as they wind further away from pavement and civilization.
“Helen, are you driving me out into the desert to murder me and steal my new car, or are you driving me out into the desert to murder me because I honked on your tit while you were driving?”
“Yes,” Helen responds, increasing her speed as the cloud of dust and sand obscures their rear view. Nothing visible from within their ironclad bubble but the barren mountains ahead.
-
They find a clearing just off the road, a wide area free of shrub brush, facing west. Helen opens the automatic back hatch and they both hop up, sitting in the silence of the desert while the sky changes slowly from blue to pink, then to a deep orange.
“It’s a nice ride,” Helen says softly, her blue eyes squinting in the direction of the distant sunset.
“And it was 5 grand cheaper thanks to Umstead the Unwieldy, slashing prices with a vengeance,” Carol offers her thanks in the only way she knows how. Sandwiched between an insult.
“There wasn’t even a hint of vengeance! He didn’t need to know that the girls and I mock Marybeth’s backswing any chance we get, not to mention her signature OJ-less mimosas”
“Speaking of, should we christen this puppy like a ship? Break a bottle of Champagne over the bow?” Carol asks, dangling her feet off the tailgate.
“I can think of a better way to christen it,” Helen counters, her finger finding the button that electrically folds down the rear seats to a perfectly flat cargo area. The unmistakable squeak of leather-on-leather creaks into the mountain valley as the plush seats nestle down to form a uniform bed, lined with short black automotive carpet. More enticing to them both at this moment than a California King.
“You just wanna fuck me for my sweet new wheels,” Carol leans back on one elbow, “Maybe I should look into vanity plates, something like PSSYWGN.”
Helen’s finger finds the button for the seats again, pressing it until they slowly creak to life, rising and returning back into place.
“NOO!” Carol lunges for the button, capturing Helen’s lips in hers as she forces her finger down on the button, the seats lowering once more.