â€œyea, b ther soon.â€�
A pudgy hand sent the text, then reached out and dropped the LG G3 back onto the crooked night stand.
â€œF-cking Monday, fukk.â€�
Eyes adjusting to the early morning light at 10:20, Carl was already running late. He sighed a couple of times while thinking of all the minority dickwads he would encounter today. Sitting up and putting bare feet to some light yellow shag carpeting, dusty blue eyes blinked and focused across the room on a well-worn t-shirt, ZOSO screen printed across the front. Heaving himself out of the bed with a crack or two to his back and neck, hands slid through the sleeves and the large size shirt was applied over a shaved head and chunky body, past its prime at age 27.
â€œGotta get off the Dominos. Eh maybe next month.â€�
Some worn black jeans were pulled on as well, along with winter boots. Bespectacled eyes glared at the falling snow outside through a muggy damp window. That would add time to the morning proceedings. Grabbing a particular light grey jacket with some red stripes, he braced for the cold.
Fresh powder smoothed under his considerable heft, and as the flat, black key turned to the right in the lock cylinder, a pfft could be heard. The old pump in the trunk fired up, and two of four doors unlocked. Which today? Carl pulled the cold plastic handle at the rear passenger door. No.
â€œGod you piece of scheisse.â€�
Smirking to himself â€œHa, you understood that too!â€� Too bad no chicks were around to hear that one â€“ have to remember it for later. Around the other side, the rear door needed less verbal thrashing and opened willingly. Plopping into the aged beige velour, he leaned between the seats and fired up the ancient 5-cylinder. The apartmentâ€™s parking lot was immediately filled with the clatter-clatter of ruined lifters, and a new, different clattering underneath the car.
His coworker in tow, a few minutes later the old Quattro pulled past the premier level parking lot with its many shiny German ornaments and into the shabbier employee lot. He had to hit the pedal a little harder than normal to make it up the small incline to the lot. Pulling up next to an early Q7 that was losing some silver paint on the hood, Carl scowled contemptuously.
â€œThatâ€™s not even a REAL Audi, look at it. Piece.â€�
A quizzical look came from the guy seated next to him, â€œItâ€™s aite, what are you talkinâ€™ about?â€�
â€œYou wouldnâ€™t understand die Reinheit.â€� He countered in an irritated tone.
Tony rolled his eyes and got out.
Carl affixed a white plastic tag to his slick jacket, reading SNOWMASS â€“ Carl Weismann and sighed with a glance at the lodge above him. Exiting the 100, he didnâ€™t bother locking up. His smoke break was later, and he didnâ€™t want the locks freezing up on him â€“ like last week â€“ twice.
That afternoon Carl sat in the 100 with Tony, smoking some Swishers while Carl eyed and critiqued the Q7 out loud. Tony was doing his best to ignore the ranting, and opened up the Arizona heâ€™d got from the vending machine for $3.75. The car was making an awful racket underneath, which Carl tuned out by changing the volume on Kashmir from 14 to 26. The lights blinked on the Q7 then, and two sets of eyes shot across the lot to the employee door.
There she was. Her tag said Helena but Carl wouldnâ€™t have noticed – he was too busy with her form. She must have been off already, one of the early shifters. Slightly wavy blonde hair was adjusted by a pale, fine boned hand, manicured nails dipped in red metallic polish. She must have been 5â€™10â€� without shoes, or about three inches taller than Carl. Heeled leather boots crunched the packed snow. He waited, this was his moment. He had seen her a couple of times before, but never knew they had anything more important in common than their race. Waiting, this had to be just right. Her long, cream colored cable knit sweater entered view in the ample rear windscreen.
Helena approached the driverâ€™s door of the Q7, keys in one hand and a quilted Michael Kors purse in the other. She turned briefly to her left as the window of a ruined old white car rolled down, cherry-scented smoke rolling out over the flush glass window. Kashmir went from 26 to 0, suddenly.
â€œHey, so you gotta Quattro too huh? Itâ€™s nice right.â€�
Carl punched his right foot down on the small pedal, and the clatter increased while the 5-cylinder tried to escape the embarrassing situation. It was short-lived, as the piece of filter banging around in the catalytic converter had gone through, and the car sputtered to a stop.
â€œHuh? Scheisse!â€� Could be heard, and Carl winked confidently to the beautiful and pure female specimen outside the window. But the silence was superior to all in that moment, and after two blinks of heavily-lashed blue crystal, she opened the door to the Q7 and climbed in. The moment was broken with the heavy thud of a Germanic door built by Slovakians.