"Will you do me a solid?" she asked

I was tinkering with a car I was remodeling when my iPhone rang. "It's Razor, wassup?"

The silky feminine voice on the other end of the line spoke in somewhat of a delicate whisper. "Heyyy, Razor, will you do me a solid?"

"A solid? What's a solid?" I asked.

"A favor. I need some assistance if you have the time."

"Happy to help you in a few; I'm just shutting the hood of my car here. I slammed the hood. What are the specifics?"

She hesitated for a beat. "I'm not sure, but I think my carburetor is not getting any water. My truck won't start."

I chuckled. "Ah, okay, well that's actually a good thing."

"That my truck won't start?" she queried.

"No, no, no; that your carburetor is not getting any water," I explained.

Silence. And then, her dumbfounded sigh was emitted followed by an exasperated, "Oh, I see. Well, would you mind stopping by and having a looksie?"

I took a peek at my iWatch, wondering why I even bought the darn thing. It tracked me like the flippin' FBI. "Gimme 10 minutes and I'll be there with bells on."

"Bells? Oh, yeah, okay - awesome! And if you fix it," she began, "I'll be happy to buy you your favorite bottle of wine. These winter nights are pretty chilly, after all."

I didn't know if that was a come on or if she was just being sincere. Either way, I didn't feel any need to be paid for doing someone a favor; and yet on the other hand a bottle of bubbly sounded pretty good. It was 22 degrees Fahrenheit at four in the afternoon in upstate New York, and getting colder by the minute. I shivered from the top of the nape of my neck to my damp snow boots below.

I wheeled my '65 Pontiac GTO into her expansive driveway right off the lake and came to a stop in front of her 2010 Chevy Silverado. She had snow chains on the tires, in expectation of a heavy snowfall later that evening. Eight inches the meteorologist had predicted.

Tiffany came out to greet me wearing a short-sleeved sweater, yoga pants, and a New York Yankees ballcap. "Hey, Razor. Well, here it sits like a 2-ton paperweight."

"No worries, we'll get it cranked up in a jiff," I promised.

"So, I haven't seen you in months. How's your love life these days?"

"Oh, my last relationship ended because I didn't open the car door for her," I teased.

"So sad," she breathed.

"Yeah, instead I just swam for the surface."

"Damn you, Razor!" A grin flowered over her narrow mouth, much like a Chia pet lamb. "I never know whether to believe you or not."

"How could you, you're rarely in touch anymore," I argued.

"Yeah, I know," she admitted. "I've been focused on writing a darn cookbook to self-publish on Amazon. I don't know whether to include the recipe for rum-flavored candy balls or not."

"Balls? Rum? Sounds delish!"

"Oh, you're gay now?" she needled.

"Gay? No, of course not. I don't mean that in a negative way; it's just that...well, no," I finished.

I checked to see if the carburetor was getting any gas. It was. Next I wanted to check to see if the engine was getting a spark from the coil. "Get in and crank it up for a sec."

She turned the key and nothing. I wiggled the wire on the coil and had her try again. Still nothing. Then I spotted the problem: the battery cable to the positive node was completely off.

"What is it? she asked with a tone of impending doom.

"Serious problem here, little lady," I began. "Looks like you're going to need an engine overhaul."

"Oh, no!" She hung her head in a melancholy way I'd not observed in her since she broke her leg in high school when practicing for a dance cheer 10 years previous.

"Just kidding!" I immediately responded. "Look here."

She bent over and brushed against me, as I pointed at the disconnected battery cable. I popped it on, tightened it with my right hand, then snagged a wrench from my toolbox and tightened it up properly. "Get in and crank it up."

The engine sparked to life with a muffled roar. She popped out of the truck clapping her hands in an excited glee. "Woohoo, you did it, Razor!"

I bowed, genuflected and then replied, "At your service, Madam."

She dashed to the house as I shivered in the cold and snow flurries caressed my cheeks. In a New York heartbeat she returned with her skinny purse. It was a Balenciaga Lariat. The gal had class.

She handed me a twenty dollar bill as her lips pecked by frosty, red cheek.

"I don't need your money, Tiff," I began; "I'll buy a six-pack of beer on the way home."

"But I insist," spat the queen.

"That won't buy my favorite wine, dear," I offered.

"Which is...?" and then her voice trailed off.

"Well, I don't really drink wine, but a fine champagne is more to my taste bud's liking."

"Cold Duck?"

"Dom Perignon," I stated matter of factly.

"Oh." She reached into the Lariat and pulled out two crisp Benjamin's. "That ought to do it," she pouted. "Sorry, I wasn't trying to be a cheapskate."

"Save your money and instead do me a solid," I countered.

"In what way?" she replied coyly.

"Let me take you out to dinner later tonight...on me, of course."

"I thought you'd never ask me, Razor!"

"McDonald's?"

"Burger King!"

"See you at 7:30 sharp."

"I'll be here with bells on."

"Lemme have a look," I replied, popping the hood.