She flashes a wan smile, glances without seeing him, and says vaguely, “Oh, no, hijito. I didn’t sleep too good.”
Amadeo also had trouble sleeping the night before—it’s his first job, and though he doesn’t like to admit it, he gets nervous, talking to people like this, professionals, people with degrees and paychecks and power.
The rest of the way to Santa Fe, Amadeo sits back, listening to the inane chatter of the morning DJs, uneasiness forming and re-forming behind his rib cage.
Chief Clerk Monica Gutierrez-Larsen meets them in the parking garage under the Capitol. The woman is miniature in a miniature beige suit. Her clicking heels echo as she approaches. “I’m so glad to meet you,” she says, smiling a glossy, white-toothed smile and shaking his hand with a tiny, powerful grip. “Your mom talks about you all the time. You’re so nice to do this.”
She is attractive, intimidating, and younger than Amadeo expected, mid-to late thirties; for a moment he’s indignant that his mother should have such admiration for someone so much younger than herself, someone, in fact, awfully close to his own age. Amadeo pictures this woman out on the campaign trail, a pocket-sized powerhouse beaming her way into office.
Repair kit in hand, he follows Monica to her car in its reserved spot, a black BMW about six or seven years old, and though the bull’s-eye is obvious, she points it out. It’s the circumference of a Little Debbie cupcake, webbed with cracks and positioned near the bottom of the windshield on the driver’s side.
“Can you fix that, hijito?” Yolanda asks. “You can fix that, right?”
“It wouldn’t be a problem for a normal-sized person, but I’m so short”—Monica Gutierrez-Larsen laughs agreeably—“it’s always right smack in the middle of the left lane. At night it catches the taillights and the whole thing blazes up like a big red snowflake.”
“Huh,” muses Amadeo. He sets his kit on the grease-spotted concrete, runs his finger over the crack and flinches. A line of blood spreads on his fingertip. He taps the windshield more gingerly, then bends to look the chief clerk in the eye. “I can repair your windshield so this”—he taps the bull’s-eye once more—“is invisible. It will be fixed both aesthetically and structurally. I can guarantee that you’ll see better and be safer.” A feeling of competence swells in him.
“Great,” Monica says, looking at her watch. “I’ve gotta run. Nine o’clock meeting.” She pulls a face at Yolanda. “See you in there, Yo.” And then she is off, feet fast and fierce in their tiny shoes.
Yolanda hands him a twenty. “Get yourself some lunch downtown after, and we’ll meet back here at five fifteen. I’ll pay you a little something later. Good luck, hijito.” She kisses Amadeo on the cheek, leaving him beside the BMW.
Cars stream into the garage, doors and trunks slam, alarms beep and squawk as doors are locked. Other people click past him and into the building. Amadeo kneels beside his kit, enjoying this busy feeling of purpose. He wishes someone would stop him, question his presence, so Amadeo can say, “Hell yes, I have business here. See this Beemer I’m fixing? It belongs to Monica Gutierrez-Larsen. The chief clerk? You may have heard of her.” Amadeo wishes he had more clients so he could spread this directed, occupied feeling over more of his day.
He imagines Monica’s gratitude. She’ll come down, eager to see his progress. She’ll have taken off her suit jacket and, impressed by his abilities, will look at him more closely. This time she’ll see him not just as her secretary’s undereducated son, but as a doer, a fixer, a man who’s good with his hands, at ease in his body. She won’t know why, but she’ll find herself attracted to his nonchalance, his smooth sexual energy that’s understated yet nonetheless exerting a pull on her.
He winces at this fantasy, but then he’s imagining telling Brianna about today. “Oh, the chief clerk’s a family friend. We’re pretty close.” He’ll imply a flirtation between them, maybe even a full-blown sexual past, and then he’ll get to assuage Brianna’s jealousy. “You got nothing to worry about. I’m into you,” and she’ll raise her gaze to meet his, eyes dewy and grateful.