Page 103 of Elf-ish

“You don’t owe me anything. I’d say we’re definitely even, if we need to be.”

Jude lifts his head, hearing the irritation in my voice.

“We don’t need to be even,” he counters. “But I still want to do this.”

I’m curious what this is.

“Okay,” I hesitate.

“Be ready by seven?”

I agree, and then Jude and I go our separate ways for the day.

+ + +

When Jude picks me up, it’s started to snow outside, although he’s already told me we’ll be inside.

He drives us to the Ravenswood neighborhood, where old warehouses along the train tracks have been converted to a variety of spaces for entertainment.

“What is this place?” I ask of the rather nondescript building with classic red brick that’s difficult to appreciate in the dark.

Jude only smiles as he uses a main code to enter the outer door, then leads us up a floor and uses another code to enter a large room. The space is big enough to hold roughly thirty classic cars roped off with red velvet loops near the front of each vehicle, suggesting one can look but not touch. The cars range from a 1920 mobster-looking sedan to the most current Corvette.

Several walls contain metal automotive signs from historical gas stations and iconic highways. An antique gas pump dominates one corner of the room.

A focal point of the room is a 1950-something, cherry red, Chevy pickup truck, complete with wood slats on the back, like it’s from an orchard or a Christmas tree farm. Or maybe, it even belonged to Santa Claus. The truck is separated from the rest of the collection and parked in the middle of the space, as if highlighting its uniqueness.

I’m not a car enthusiast, but the collection is impressive.

“Where are we?” I ask, spinning in a slow circle, just taking it all in.

“A guy from the softball team owns this place. He didn’t have space at his house for his babies, so he stores them up here, and rents the place for corporate parties and wedding receptions.”

Tonight, though, we’re the only people present.

“And we’re here because . . .” I’m not complaining about our being alone, I’m just confused.

“You asked me once if I’d ever been to a drive-in, and I told you no.”

“Okay?” I glance around the space again, taking in the shiny chrome and vibrant paint jobs on most of the cars.

“Since you’d never been to a hockey game, and that was a first for you, I thought I’d take you to the drive-in, which would be a first for me.”

Still puzzled, I say, “Here?”

“Here.” He holds out his hand, pointing toward that cherry red beast in the center of the space. Walking over to it, Jude follows, then leads me to the driver’s side. He opens the door, exposing a beautiful red leather bench seat with a picnic basket pushed up against the passenger door.

“Hop in.”

I do as he asks, and then he slides in after me, closing the door. From this seat, I see a large movie screen opposite the hood.

“Jude,” I whisper, suddenly excited by the prospect of what’s happening here.

He leans across me for the picnic basket, exposing a red and white striped box of popcorn, a variety of candies, and a thermos.

“We have movie theatre popcorn, a selection of chocolates, and mulled wine.” He shakes the thermos.

“Jude,” I whisper again, unable to find the words. This is so romantic.