I looked at new cars this past weekend. With the new job I figured I could get a loan and maybe a reliable car. But strangely it made me sad. I loved my Bug. I knew every defect, dent, and I could feel when it was about to break down and that's what I felt yesterday on Santa Monica Boulevard .

Kerplunk...bing ...kerplunk. I pulled over. Zzzz .... ing ....kerplunk. Then

nothing. It was hot and I was hungry. I looked up and saw that I just

happened to break down in front of Delores' Pasta Shack.

I wrote a note, slipped it under my windshield wiper, and headed for Delores'. I had been there once before on a blind date that ended with her girlfriend bursting in, my date bursting into tears, and me bursting out the door. It looked the same. Small square tables covered with traditional red and white checkered clothes, glowing red plastic candle holders, and religious contraband on the walls. High in a corner shelf was the Madonna in discoloring brass, peering down as if keeping everybody in line.

The place was empty except for a plate of pasta and a half full glass of red wine waiting for someone's return. No maitre'd greeted me so I sat a few tables away from the table with abandoned food until...

"Hello, hello." The maitre'd's shirt was unbuttoned and his hair was slicked back. He approached me quickly with menu in hand and a smile on his face. I opened the plastic covered menu. "How about a drink? You want something to drink?"

"Beer. Corona, if you have it."

"We've got everything for you. For a pretty girl like you, we've got everything."

If he knew I fantasized about making love to the Madonna throughout my childhood, maybe he wouldn't be so eager to please.

I read my menu and heard the return of the other patron.

"Oh shit! " I heard a voice say nearby. I turned. It was Steve, returning to his meal. " Are you following me or something?"

Just my luck. "Yeah, that's right Steve, I'm following you. I've got nothing better to do than to follow you."

"Just turn around and let me finish my lunch without barfing." And I did, I turned because I didn't not want to continue this childish and viscious banter.

I looked down the list of salads, suddenly unable to read. My nerves were electrified, my muscles tingled, and my head buzzed. Where was Hugo? I hated the thought of him alone, desperate, and miserable. I turned back to Steve.

"Excuse me, Steve?

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry."

"Huh?!"

"I'm sorry. I mean, there is no reason for us to be at odds is there?

He looked nervous, trying to figure out the score. "No," he said. "I couldn't give a shit about you." He went back to twirling his pasta, but my eyes kept a firm hold. "What?" he finally blurted.

"Nothing. Really nothing. It's just that ... well it's just that I see your dad in you."

"What the hell are you talking about?" His eyes twitched.

"Steve, I know that you're Hugo's son." He shoved more pasta in his mouth, slurped it up, and chugged some wine.

"Yeah, so."

"Aren't you worried about him? Do you know where he is?

"Listen Fran, he never seemed to worry about me, so why the hell should I give a shit where he is? Tell me Fran, why should I? You tell me."

"Steve, if Hugo knew-- he would of done all he could. I know that. He talked to me about you and was truly concerned."

"Well, it was too late." He voice started to shake. He stood, dropped a twenty on the table, and split. I ordered pasta carbonara and thought about Hugo.