Postcards from a Dead Girl Read Online Free PDF

won’t be any miraculous sunscapes manifesting anywhere nearby. Which also makes me think that there will be no Zoe nearby. I have driven nine hundred miles to get an oil change.
    I park, get out of my car, and walk over to the Laundromat. I insert a ten spot in the change machine, fill my pockets with quarters, and get a Cherry Coke from the vending machine. A miniature dolphin ride waits empty only a few feet away, and I figure why not, there’s no harm in riding a little dolphin every once in a while. As I rock back and forth, I study the car wash adjacent to the garage. It’s a stop-and-spray manual deal, just not the same as the old touchless, so no laps today.
    A voice from above tells me I’m a clown. I look up. “Excuse me?”
    â€œWhat are you, a clown? That ride’s for kids. You’re going to wreck it.”
    An irate mother has descended from the land of the laundry. She isn’t amused by my occupation of her son’s coveted dolphin. I stand up and offer the ride to the boy. They both study me cautiously, like I might be setting a trap.
    The loud woman holds her arm in front of her son. I step back, armed with my diabolical Cherry Coke. I decide it’s time to go talk to the mechanic.
    Corey is the garage clerk, a small man with close-set eyes and messy black hair, and he offers to extend the expiration date on my oil-change coupon after I tell him my story and how far I’ve driven. He seems to feel genuinely bad that the coupon is a year overdue. That, and he’s very concerned about being honest with me.
    â€œTo be honest with you,” he keeps saying.
    â€œSo you don’t remember ever seeing me here with a girl?” I ask.
    â€œTo be honest with you, I haven’t been here that long. I wouldn’t remember you or your girlfriend.”
    I wonder what he’s being when he doesn’t preface his sentences with this. I think about pulling out the photo of Zoe I’vebrought along, but decide to keep it in my pocket after his last answer.
    â€œCouldn’t you look me up on your computer?”
    â€œThey’re down. We’re doing all paper receipts today.” Corey holds up a notebook with greasy fingerprints on it.
    I try to engage Corey in shop talk to get away from my embarrassing situation. I ask him about starters and ignition systems.
    â€œTo be honest with you,” he says, “Tom over there is the mechanic, I just run the register and manage phones. Honestly though, I’ve been learning a lot by watching.”
    Now Corey is embarrassed for being a garage clerk instead of a mechanic, while I stand there feeling like an idiot for driving to Hoboken over a postcard. Corey chews on his thumbnail while I feign interest in Tom’s handiwork.
    â€œTell you what,” I say, “if you or your mechanic remember anything or find anything on your computer, give me a call.” I write my cell phone number on a Sunny Smiles business card and hand it to him.
    He seems grateful, like he wants to give something back. “Hey, you like calendars?” he asks, and bends down behind the counter. He pops up with a Sunny Smiles Garage calendar emblazoned with the portentous light I saw on the postcard. “You can have one. Give you something to look at in the meantime. The oil change should only be about twenty minutes.”
    â€œThanks.” I walk outside and turn the calendar in my hands. On the back are twelve squares: a month for every smiling girl. They are all bikinis and bright eyes, brilliant white teeth and slippery skin, every photo full of glossy luminescence.
    A hydraulic press exhales and groans behind me, a car rising on the lift. I turn to see if it’s mine, but it looks like I’m next. I catch a whiff of oil and metal, and then some unexpected smells:peanuts, chips, cigarettes. It’s the bar attached to the Laundromat attached to the garage. I’ve got time to burn, so I continue my