Free The Funnies by John Lennon

may be true too,” she said.

    * * *
    There was a message on the answering machine for me. It was from the Sunoco station in Washington Crossing. They had an estimate on the Chevette.
    I called back and got the woman I’d talked to when I broke down. “You threw a rod,” she said.
    â€œI kind of figured that.”
    â€œYeah, well, it’s gonna cost you six hundred bucks. We gotta get a new engine, okay? And there’s one up in Ringoes we can get you used for about four hundred, and believe me that’s a real good deal, and then labor’s two hundred, and I know that sounds like a lot, but it’s the best we can do in these particular circumstances.”
    â€œOh.”
    â€œSo we need a decision from you on whether to go ahead or not on it.
    â€œI’m wondering if the car’s even worth fixing.”
    â€œWell, that’s a possibility.”
    â€œI’ll have to get back to you,” I said. “It’s technically my girlfriend’s car.”
    I hung up and stood a moment by the phone, waiting for inspiration. Six hundred dollars! On the day I was supposed to have become rich! I grabbed a pencil from the grease-spattered mug next to the stove and snapped it in two against the edge of the counter. This felt good, so I did it to all the other pencils too. Then the pitiful theatricality of the gesture struck me and I put the pieces back into the mug and wiped off the counter with a damp rag.
    I called Amanda. She picked up on the first ring. “It’s me,” I said.
    â€œHello, me.”
    â€œMore bad news.” I waited a few seconds. “It’s the car. It needs a new engine.”
    â€œHow much?” she said.
    â€œSix hundred bucks.”
    â€œHmm.” In the background, at our apartment, I heard somebody say “What?” “Nothing,” replied Amanda.
    â€œWho’s that?” I said.
    â€œNobody.”
    â€œOh, come on.”
    â€œIt’s Ian,” she said. “I know how you hate him.”
    â€œI don’t hate him,” I said. “Why would you say that with him around?” Ian was our upstairs neighbor. He borrowed things and played “whimsical” little “jokes” on me when I wasn’t home, like adding dead birds or dandelion chains to my installations, or filling my sneakers with bread crumbs. I hated him.
    â€œDon’t worry, Tim,” came Ian’s voice, shrill even far from the phone. “I can take it!”
    â€œDon’t let him into the studio, please.”
    â€œI don’t know about this repair,” she said. “Are you sure they’re not just ripping you off? You can look like a sucker sometimes, no offense.” This refreshing frankness suggested that they had just been talking about me.
    â€œI’m sure, Jesus Christ.”
    She was silent, briefly. “Tim?”
    â€œAmanda.”
    â€œDid they read the will?”
    â€œYes,” I said.
    â€œWhat’d you get?” Her voice was small and quiet, as if it were coming out of a dictaphone.
    â€œNothing,” I said.
    â€œYou didn’t get nothing.”
    â€œI got the comic strip,” I said. “If I can get it together in three months, I get to draw the Family Funnies, and I’ll live in my father’s studio and be him. That’s my inheritance. An endless, meaningless task.”
    This time the pause was longer, a nice slack length of rope to hang the conversation with. “Are you going to do it?” she said.
    â€œOf course not,” I said.
    She sighed. “No, of course not.”
    â€œWhat?” Ian was saying, “What?”
    â€œIan, shut up!”
    I said, “Look, we’re not going to have any money anytime soon. We have to decide about the car.”
    â€œI guess we let it go, then. I guess we don’t have a car.”
    â€œI suppose that’s best,” I said.
    â€œUnless you sell a piece or