Recapitulation: Their dry run a qualified success, Barry and Jenna escape from the depressing surroundings of Jimmy Engles’ funeral. On the ride back, Jenna chastises Barry for his insensitive actions, and halts the car in the middle of the street, unwilling to move. Barry is left to figure out a way to get them moving again.
Dealing with Jenna was like dealing with a spoiled child, except even more fickle. That she had her own car and was technically an adult made her that much more frustrating. For that matter, was she even over eighteen? She might still be a kid. Oh God, he was following a child’s whim. A child that could drive, and now wasn’t. Even staring at her profile, all he noticed were the harsh green eyes, sharp as daylight. The thin face, thin nose, tiny ears, all latticework to support those piercing eyes. Who was she, how did he let himself get caught up in this.
Cars continued to honk as they flew by. Barry looked at Jenna, looked through her, stumbled for the right words. He leaned over across the mid-console, ready to say all the right words. Then he ripped a fart so loud it echoed within the car.
Utter silence. In most situations, it would have carried a profound significance, a deep message. Here, it just involved Barry, wavering between total mortification and simple pride. Then, the stink.
Jenna remained granite-immobile, but her resolve started crumbling. Her lip twitched, her eyes started to water. Without circulating air, the fart continued to recirculate. Unless something changed, they would have to breathe it all in. At last, Jenna started the car, rolled down the window, cranked the air conditioning on high. It came blasting out as warm as Barry’s fart. She slammed on the accelerater, popped the clutch, shifted directly into second.
“Alright, please, listen to me.”
Jenna turned the radio to maximum volume, picked a random station. A bunion creme commercial assured them their aching dogs would thank them for it. As soon as any identifiable song came on, she spun the dial until another commercial blared at them. They rode back to the apartment more informed about clubs, burritos and alpine skies.
In the apartment was no better. Jenna threw herself onto the couch, taking up all three cushions, turned on the television, kept changing channels as soon as anything resembling an actual show appeared. Commercial after commercial filled the screen. She also turned the volume up, so Barry couldn’t even think.
After an hour or so, the locked door open. Mr. Waller, the super, held a giant keyring packed with fifty or so keys in his hand. As usual, his immaculate tuxedo contrasted with the forever untied bow tie hanging around his neck. His lips were moving, but Barry couldn’t hear him. He walked over to Jenna, wrested the remote from her tired grasp, turned off Mr. T.
“I’m sorry what?”
“Turn it off, thank you. Barry, can I see you outside?” Mr. Waller waved him over.
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