| Page 2 of 5 |
|
I made a big show about checking my watch and staring up at the red sky while I did my phony calculations. There weren't any cars waiting in Pop's garage, and hadn't been for two nights. "I think I can fit you in, Miss." I grabbed our logbook from a lawnchair and scribbled "oil change, filters, sparks, new screen door" on a blank page of the greasy notebook. "Cindy Claire Johnston." She looked directly at me for the first time, and I could picture what she saw clear as if I was looking into a rearview mirror: an oversized, six and a half foot gearhead wearing an oil-stained Durham Bulls cap, sagging coveralls, and worn-out workboots who had buck teeth and lots of freckles. She kept staring up at me without saying anything until Pop's logbook slipped out of my hands. "Give me about an hour, Cindy Claire." Her name felt like peppermint candy on my tongue. I picked up the notebook and wiped mud off it. "You can sit inside our waiting area if you'd like. There's magazines and TV, but watch out for the screen door on the way in. It's busted, you know." "Thanks," she said in a soft, almost-laughing tone of voice. "I can see that." She walked around me in a careful half-circle through the mud and stepped up to the trailer, where Pop stood holding the inside door open for her. His back must have thrown itself into place again. I heard him say "Welcome to Peterson and Son Automotive" like a recorded message. Behind the wheel of the Mustang, as I adjusted the seat back as far as it would go, I thought for the hundredth time about the double lie in our company name. Peterson and Son. Two sons in a company name didn't make one real son. I let out the GTs clutch too fast and stalled it on my way to the garage.
The spark plugs of Cindy Claire's car were as clean as her shoes, hardly even worn. I turned them each a half turn to the left with Pop's wrench, then tightened them a full turn to the right. She didn't want the plugs Pop picked up from his night trips to the salvage yards and stored in his disconnected 47 Frigidaire. A line of oil was still spitting into the pan, so I wiped my hands on an old pair of underwear and went in to check on our customer. Cindy Claire sat with her knees together on a folding chair by the door, next to a crooked and cracked vase that I was trying to glue back together. Her back was tight against the back of the chair, and she looked ready to make a quick escape if she needed to. She must have forgotten that she had no getaway vehicle. Pop was talking about the job he'd had as a tree-topper when he was younger, and Cindy Claire nodded every ten seconds or so. Nobody noticed I was there. "Got to haul your butt down the tree fast," Pop said, his face getting some of its old shape back. "It's when you go slow that you hurt your back. Problem was, with me, I liked to just free fall down half the tree, then slow down with my spikes, like this." He stuck his skinny legs out and jammed his feet together side-by-side. A look shot across his face, full of real pain this time, and Cindy Claire's tight, polite smile softened. "Hurt my back that way, and now here I am." There was a couple of seconds of silence, and Cindy Claire stopped nodding. She looked at Pop and flicked her hair back. Her eyebrows went down. "Does it ache all the time?" she asked finally, leaning forward a tiny bit. Pop put his feet down onto the footstool and nodded sadly. Neither of them had seen me yet, so I went back outside, feeling shriveled up and empty. My boot got caught on the welcome mat by the door, and I almost missed the second step. I had to catch myself hard on Pop's workbench to keep from falling again. Two hubcaps hit the floor with a clatter. "Everything okay out there?" Pop called, then added, "Son?" I told Pop I was almost finished and took an oil filter, one of the last ones we had, from a shelf. My left hand was still stinging from where I'd
|
generic ed drugs |
Erectile Dysfunction |
|
HOME |  |
www.3ampublishing.com