“I know a guy,” he said. He wasn’t talking about a plumber for my toilet or a roofer for last spring’s hail damage. He said it after I mentioned Sharon’s fender bender. It hadn’t been my wife’s first one this year. Not even her first this month. Sure I was upset. It was my car. Her car was in the shop. For damage done to the radiator in her last accident.

“You know a guy? Like to do car repairs?”

He leaned in close, although the coffee shop was empty. But because he seemed so conspiratorial, I leaned in too. “No,” he said. “I know a guy.” He glanced to the left. To the right. “He can take care of it for you.”

I looked to the left. To the right. “Thanks. But I’m good.”

He stood up, rising to his full height of 5’5”. He reminded me of a roly poly. He swigged down his coffee then laid a business card on the edge of the table and pushed it toward me with one finger. “Trust me.” He walked away, his gait listing slightly. Probably uneven leg length. Or something besides cream in his coffee.

I looked at the card. Only a phone number. I slipped it in my pocket.

***

“I know a guy,” he said.

I looked up from my phone as he slid into the opposite chair. “I’m not interested.”

“Sure you are.”

He didn’t even have a coffee with him. Had he come in here just to see me? Creep.

“Really.”

“You took the card.”

He had me there. “I threw it away.”

His slightly raised eyebrow said he didn’t believe me. He didn’t press the issue. Stood up and, like last time, put his card on the edge of the table and pushed it toward me with one finger. I had to admire the move. Not flipping it with arrogance. Not handing it over like a mundane businessman. It was subtle. Controlled. I would have to try it sometime in my mundane job.

“Just in case you change your mind.”

***

“I know a guy.”

“Look,” I said, losing patience. “I’m not interested. And who the hell is this ‘guy’ you know?”

“He can take care of it for you.”

“Yeah! I know! You said that before. Whose number is on the card? Yours? The ‘guy’”—I made air quotes—“you know?”

“Keep your voice down! We don’t make this offer to just anyone.”

I dropped my volume because I was used to being bossed around. “What makes you think I need a guy?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “You told me about your wife.”

Why had I told him about Sharon? I didn’t usually talk about my personal life with strangers.

“But I knew even before that. It’s why I sat down with you.” He pronounced it “wit’chu.”

“What did you know?”

“Certain look. I see it sometimes in guys about your age. Lost dreams. Not only settled down, but just settled. House in the ‘burbs, wife who ruins cars and runs up bills. What did you want to be in your 20s? Wait,” he said as I opened my mouth, although it wasn’t to answer his question. “A musician … no, wait. Something artsy-fartsy, though.”

“Really. That’s the best you have?”

He leaned back, one arm tossed over the back of the chair. Grinning. Smug. “There it is, right there.”

“There what is?”

“See, a regular guy would say ‘that’s the best you got.’ You didn’t say ‘got.’ You said ‘have.’”

“So what?”

“English degree?”

I felt a twinge of annoyance. “So what?”

“A writer. You wanted to be a writer.”

I leaned forward, the annoyance nudging into irritation. “And what did you want to be? A little Weeble who gets clients for some ‘guy’ who can ‘take care of things’?”

“Redundant.”

“What? What the hell are you talking about now?”

“Little Weeble. Redundant. There ain’t any big Weebles. And that’s rather hurtful. I got feelings too, you know.”

“I have feelings. Have!” I wasn’t keeping my voice down. Although I did have to admit the phrase ‘rather hurtful’ sounded strangely articulate for a guy who said ‘wit’chu.’

He stood and held his hands up around shoulder level, palms toward me. “Okay, okay. You got the number.”

***

“I know a guy.”

I leaned back in my chair. I hadn’t seen him come in; after two days of not seeing him, I figured he had gone elsewhere.

“Okay. Let’s say I’m interested. What will this guy ‘take care of’?”

He smiled.

***

“You didn’t call,” as he slid into what I now considered “his” chair.

“No,” I said and leaned forward. “I’m not going to call. I have nothing that needs to be taken care of.”

“Not even the writing thing?”

“No. And for your information, it wasn’t writing. It was art. I was an art major.”

“Lit minor?”

“Yes!” I practically shouted. “Yes! So there you have it! Art major, English minor. With a garage full of paintings. I haven’t settled. I’ve grown up. Moved on. Married one of the prettiest girls in college.”

I grew calm thinking about Sharon. One of the prettiest. Maybe even the prettiest. Too good for this art major English minor college boy. She made me happy, even after all these years. Even after two fender-benders and who knew how many would lie ahead.

"I know a guy,” he said, interrupting my thoughts.

I smiled. “Yeah, me too.” I pointed at myself. “This one.”

He nodded once. Stood. He pulled out his wallet, fished out a ten, put it on the table and pushed it toward me. One finger. “Next coffee’s on me.”

I stared at it, not sure what to do, what to say.

He put his wallet back. He wobbled to a table by the front door and sat across from a man waiting for his coffee to cool.

“I know a guy,” he said.

FICTION

The Road Between

I Know a Guy

One Jarful of a Wanted Man