Page 18 of No Funny Business

“Um, same name. Different sense of humor.”

“Okay, because for a second I thought maybe this Jeep belonged to Jon Voight.”

Nick smirks, confirming he gets the reference. “Seinfeld fan?”

“A show about a stand-up living in New York? Of course I am.” I walk halfway around the Jeep, admiring the bold black body. It’s a soft top, which is great for summer but a terrible choice for our Northeast snow showers. And I don’t even want to think about the fuel costs.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Nick asks.

“Yeah, she is. Not much of a city car though.”

“Then it’s a good thing we’re leaving.” He opens up the rear door. The back seats are folded and tucked in as much as possible, leaving a small space that’s already filled with boxes piled on top of one another. His large black suitcase fits just enough for the door to close. By the looks of it, I’m not the only one who brought all my shit.

“What’s with all the boxes?” I ask.

He glances at them for a moment and shrugs. “It’s merch.”

“You mean you sell T-shirts with your face on them?”

“With a face like mine, I’d be crazy not to.”

I wasn’t sure before but now I know Nick’s one of those guys who knows how good-looking he is. Without a word, he scoops up my luggage with a grunt. “Jesus, what’s in here? Bricks and mortar for your own stand-up set?”

I shrug innocently. “Home Depot was having a sale.”

“Women and their sales,” he says with a sigh like we’ve been married for thirty years and he’s given up on me. I feel the urge to playfully smack his arm and say, “Hey!” with a giggle like I’m his girlfriend. But I resist, remembering Bernie’s warning.

“This too,” I say, holding up my garbage bag luggage.

“What are you, waste management?” he asks, letting his Brooklyn(ish)-Jersey accent fly.

“You don’t think this is chic?” I stuff the poofy bag in between the luggage, the sound of the airy plastic making a mockery of me.

“As broke as everyone is these days, I’m sure it will be. What’s in it?”

“What are you? TSA? It’s my pillow,” I say, trying to make it sound necessary.

He closes the back door and leans on the hanging spare tire. “Cute. You pack like a five-year-old going to a sleepover.”

“You got jokes, huh? We’ll see who’s laughing when you’re up all night, fluffing those lumpy hotel pillows.”

“Ha, you’re not gonna get any Marriott rewards on this trip.” Nick swings the keys in his hand and heads for the driver’s side door.

“A girl can dream. Especially with proper neck support,” I say, climbing in the passenger seat. Faux new-car smell competes with stale-cigarette odor. I really hope that’s left over from Chris Rock.

Nick turns the ignition and the rhythm of an ’80s electric keyboard rises through the speakers. I know this one. Bon Jovi’s “Runaway.” Before I can comment on his choice of music, he clears his throat and turns to me like he’s got something important to say. “Now listen, this Jeep is new. And it’s special to me so I’ll be the only one driving this tour, capeesh?”

“Did you just say capeesh?”

“Yeah, it means I’m serious.”

Okay, now I’m so spooked I do a little shiver-shake. I haven’t heard that word in years. Whenever I was being stubborn growing up, which I’ll admit was a lot, my dad would always put his foot down and say capeesh. Something funny’s definitely afoot.

“Got it. You control the wheel.” For now.

“And the music.”

“Sheez, dictate much!”