The Last Shepherd

12. HAMABI

| 67 »« 12 h a m a b i Females scare me. They always have. Even before my teenage years when I realized that the difference between boys and girls had nothing to do with dresses and everything to do with what was under those dresses, girls made my stomach all shaky. It was the same feeling I got when I had the flu—right before I threw up. In the beginning of high school, as the girls’ dresses took on new and exciting dimensions, the shakiness became a steady tremble. It was like I’d swallowed a block of ice and had no control over my body’s reaction to it. When I was around the opposite sex, I folded my arms across my chest and locked them in place. But even then, I could still feel the tips of my fingers twitching. By my senior year, as the girls threatened to become women, I gained some control over my body. Still, I never really trusted them—or myself— when we were in close proximity. There was always the outside possibility that a girl might actually touch me, and at that “contact,” a good chance I would fall onto the floor and go into spasms. Maybe it was because I was only two years old when Mom died—hit by a car that didn’t even slow down. And even though my mother had no choice in the matter, she left me. And so I learned that women leave. Maybe it was because after Amatxi passed away, I was raised by silent men who moved through a world where when something had to be said, it was almost never a good thing. And so I learned to fear a woman’s need for words. Maybe it was because Dad didn’t remarry. I never even saw him kiss a woman other than my mother, and time had faded that memory, so I was | 68« » no longer even sure it was real. And so I learned that being alone was how a man should be. Or maybe it was just because I was an idiot like Jenny said. After she punched me, which hurt way more than I would have expected, Jenny walked back into the diner. After she was gone, I sat with my back up against the dumpster and waited for the pain to subside. I didn’t think a lot about why she punched me. Just that she’d punched me. That was enough. The why, I was sure, was way beyond my understanding. When I could stand up straight again, I walked around the outside of the diner to the front. I still had Jenny’s car keys in my pocket and needed to return them. I thought about chucking them into the dumpster, but then as Jenny had just proved she was a “violent” woman, I didn’t want to risk it. I would leave the keys on a table in the diner and go. I eased open the diner door and peeked inside to see if the coast was clear. Jenny was there, sitting on a stool, counting money onto the counter. “Get in here,” she said when she saw me. I strolled in like I was doing her a big favor by just being there. “I called the shop,” Jenny said. “The insurance covered most of the body work, but you still owe two hundred and eighty-five dollars. I’m giving you three hundred because you probably don’t have any food at home.” “I got food.” “You got a passport?” She jammed the wad of cash into my hand. “Where do you get those again?” “Talk to Mrs. Fickle.” Jenny got up and moved around the counter. “Thanks for help—” “Don’t,” she said and walked into the kitchen. I waited until the swinging door was still before leaving. Then I walked over to the garage and paid the repair bill. I asked the mechanic who’d worked on my truck if he knew anyone who might want to buy it. In response, he offered me $1200. “It’s worth more than that,” I said. “Don’t forget—I seen exactly what was busted up,” the mechanic said. When I asked if that included the $285 I’d just paid to have it fixed, he laughed and said, “Hell, if I’d known I was going to buy the thing, I’d have used new parts.” [3.146.221.52] Project MUSE...