Stick Shift

“How can you know? You’re asleep.”

Lucy could feel the agitation building. Could feel the back of her neck tense until she could barely move it. “All right!” she said. “I’ll get a bell.”

“Why you want to yell at your mother like that? I’m just trying to keep you from getting hurt.”

Lucy sighed again. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Your father wants to say something.”

Lucy waited with her eyes closed while they argued over what he was going to say. Her mother kept telling him not to talk too long because this was costing Lucia money. In the meantime, Lucy stood there waiting, calling, “Mom! Just let him talk. Mom!”

Finally, her father got on. “Lucy, honey, have a productive trip. Don’t be afraid to show those people who’s boss.”

She pictured her dad holding on to the phone, her mother standing next to him counting the seconds. Her dad would be wearing his Sunday outfit. He believed in uniforms and wore the same thing every day. The color of the shirt varied, but the pants were always black Dockers, except on casual Friday, then the Dockers would be changed for his one pair of Levi’s. “I’ll try, Dad.”

“That’s all anyone needs to succeed, the right attitude and you’ve got it made. Go get ’em.”

Her mother told him, “that’s enough,” so he said his goodbyes and her mom got back on the phone.

“I want you to look up the Donicos while you’re there. I hear the boy is a big shot.”

“Mom, I really don’t think I’ll have any free time.”

“Is this how I raised you? To be so selfish to your own mother?”

Lucy gave up. She couldn’t argue anymore. “Okay, I’ll look up the Donicos. I’ll find a bell. I’ll keep my purse close, and I’ll get the pound of prosciutto. Can I please go now?”

“You should have gone a long time ago. What do you think? I got all night to be on the phone with you? I got things I gotta do for the wedding. I gotta order some nice red carnations for the altar. Love you,” she said, kissed the air two times and hung up. Lucy collapsed in a nearby chair.

When she finally regained her composure about fifteen minutes later, she was gliding down the crowded escalator in Leonardo da Vinci airport, spotting Eurocars International and a feeling of accomplishment swept over her. Even with her phone call to her mother, she was ahead of her own schedule.

Then she saw the line of people standing in front of the counter. It was all that secretary’s fault at the Italian office. She had made the travel arrangements. Lucy had told the girl that she wanted to fly directly into Naples, but the girl, probably an airhead, couldn’t get her on a connecting flight. She could book it on the return, but not on the arrival. So this was the result.

Sigh.

San Francisco and Leonardo da Vinci airports might have different names and be on different continents, but the lines were all the same. Long.

So much for hot baths and sandwiches.

It was a beautiful morning, from what she could see out the huge windows surrounding her, but each person in line had to quibble with the staff behind the counter over silly things like the color of the car, or the quality of the radio or the size of the engine. Lucy thought it was insane. Rome waited a few steps outside these walls and all anybody seemed to care about was the color of paint.

She let out a series of yawns. Her ears crackled, then popped. She could hear again. The crowded airport was unexpectedly loud, and the people in front of her seemed to be setting the pitch.

She had to restrain herself from jumping into the fray, from yelling out her own innocuous frustrations, like a cranky kid unhappy about a purple sucker when she wanted a green one.

Was it something about Italy? About the culture? It seemed as though when a non-Italian arrived, and there were plenty of non-Italians standing in front of her, they suddenly developed the Italian instinct to argue. Your normal, average, calm Brit or Spaniard or Frenchman abruptly found themselves whining over every last detail. Every minute inconvenience. And the irony was, everyone seemed to enjoy the banter. She thought there was something wonderfully liberating about public bickering and no one noticing.

When it was finally her turn, Lucy wheeled her suitcase up to the counter, calmly reached into her purse, took out her driver’s license and smiled at the chubby, short woman standing behind the gray counter. “Hello,” said Lucy. “I have a reservation for a compact, automatic.”

“No automatic. Stick,” the woman said as she reached for Lucy’s driver’s licence and read her name out loud. “Signorina Lucia, only stick.”

“I can’t drive a stick shift. I’m sure the reservation was for an automatic,” Lucy replied in a calm, clear voice.

The woman’s voice went up an octave. “We no got no automatic. Just stick. You want or not?”

Lucy spoke in Italian. “I want the car I ordered.”

The woman responded in Italian, “I’m sorry, miss, but they’re all gone. If you want a car, you’ll have to take a stick. That’s all I have.”

“You’re not listening. I can’t drive a standard. I need an automatic. Surely you can understand—”

“You want a car? I give you a car. So you have to learn something new. So what!”

Lucy hesitated, counted to ten and thought of Sister Gregory; stern, unemotional Sister Gregory from ninth grade. It’s time you learned something new, young lady. Time you learned how to swim. Lucy remembered the shock as she hit the cold water and the silence as she sank to the bottom of the pool like a schoolhouse desk. The only good memory of that day was Sister Gregory, brown habit and all, jumping in after her.

“Look, I have to drive all the way to Naples and I don’t have the faintest idea—”

“I can drive you,” someone said in English. It came from behind her. Lucy turned to see none other than Mr. Garlic.

“Not you again,” she said, dismissing his offer.

“Perdona, but have we met?”

Lucy realized just how rude she must have sounded, and how unimportant she must have been to him because he didn’t even remember her. She softened her voice. “No, we haven’t actually met. Not officially, but I remember you from the flight. I was in your seat and you ate my shoe…your shoe. You ate your shoe, not mine…I mean.”

“Ah, I am famous!” he said, full of himself.

“For fifteen minutes.”

He smiled, and once again Lucy felt the heat of his attraction. Her toes itched. She wiggled them inside her shoes, trying to get the itch to stop, but it wouldn’t, not as long as he stood in front of her, smiling.

He was taller than she had first thought, at least six feet, but then she had never been this close to him, at least not facing him. And the scent of garlic was gone, replaced now with the scent of basil. How odd, she thought, for someone to smell of herbs.

“Thank you for the offer, but I can drive myself,” she said.

“Nobody with a brain wants a car in Napoli,” he answered.

She didn’t like the implication. “You have a car. What does that make you?”

“No brains. My mamma, she always say I got no brains, so I buy a car. Please, allow me to drive you to Napoli in my brainless car.”

Lucy had to smile at his innocent chivalry.

“You want the car or not, miss?” the woman roared.

Lucy stood unnerved in the midst of airport chaos and tried to decide what to do with his offer. If this were the U.S. and some eccentric guy volunteered a ride, she would absolutely refuse. He could be some crazed killer. But this was Italy.

Her Italy.