Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
“Of course, Tía.”
“Make sure you get all the weeds. They love popping up in the front all over the place, stubborn things.”
“Got it.”
There’s always this breathy hesitation right before she says goodbye. I feel it every time. The held-back words. The questions. The are-you-okays.
She knows better than to let any of them out.
So instead she says: “You should try the papaya. Wyatt always finds the best ones.”
I’m sure he does. We hang up.
In the afternoon, I’m at the auto shop, a ten-minute walk into town from the house. Through a connection of my tío’s, I was hired here to keep my hands busy. My immediate supervisor is a skinny dude a few years younger than me named Joel, whose dad runs the place or something. I learn quickly that I was hired for engines, not conversation. That’s just how I like it. Engines are logical. They work or they don’t. They don’t judge you. They speak in clicks, squeaks, and screeches. You find the problem. Fix it. And they stay fixed if you do the job right.
They don’t bring you a basket of passive aggression.
And insanely fuckin’ tasty muffins.
“Your aunt and uncle are good people,” Joel says when we’re taking a five in the break room. It’s the first time since I’ve been hired that he’s started up conversation. I hope this doesn’t become a habit. “Marcos and my own pops go way back.”
“Okay.”
He waits for me to say more.
I don’t.
“Well.” He takes a slurp of his Coke and tries again. “Do you know their neighbor on the left side? Wyatt?”
Why is it everyone’s mission in town to talk about that guy?
“He’s real nice,” Joel goes on. “My wife Mindy’s friends with him. He owns a flower shop. Just look close enough, you’ll see his fingerprints all over Spruce. Down at the park. Inside the church.”
The way he just invited himself up on the driveway.
Kicking my tools around.
Bearing that basket like he’s the self-appointed head of some neighborhood wellness committee.
Smiling.
This is what happens when you give in to the smile. You turn into a greasy mechanic going on about fingerprints.
But there’s something about that Wyatt I can’t put my finger on …
Joel nudges me. “What? Hate flowers or something?”
Guess I’m making a face.
And I guess I make another one, because he shrinks away and immediately seems to regret nudging me.
A head appears at the door. It’s the guy from the front whose name I never learned. “Hey, I got someone out here who needs—”
“On it,” I say, not caring what the job is.
I head into the garage and fling a rag over my shoulder. The customer, a fidgety twenty-something with short curly hair and a goatee, starts spilling his story. I’ve already popped the hood and am scanning the engine, gnawing on the side of my tongue.
“Folks at Fairview Auto said I needed a mass air flow sensor,” he goes on, sounding overwhelmed, “but those go for over $100 plus labor, so I wanted to get a second opinion. The car wasn’t this rumbly before. All I went in for was a damned oil change, and they offered a new air filter, I said sure, but then the check engine light came on a day later, and so I went back, and their computer says I needed to replace my mass air flow sensor, which I guess is just a coincidence ‘cause I—”
“No such thing as coincidence.”
He jumps when I speak for the first time. “Huh?”
I get out my torque wrench and work on the cover. The filter flops out like a dead fish the second it’s open. I pull it out. Show it to him. “Does this yellowed-ass thing look new to you?” I turn the filter over and run a finger over a wide circular indent, which the customer appears surprised by. “Jammed this old thing in wrong. See? Didn’t even seat it properly. No wonder the car thinks your sensor’s fucked.” I go to the wall, fetch a new air filter, tear it out of the box, and pop it in. “Bright white. New.” I wrench the cover back on. By now, Joel’s come out of the break room to watch the show, his eyebrows tugged together. “We can unplug the battery and clear the code,” I explain, wiping my hands with the rag, “but in three, maybe four more driving cycles, should clear itself.”
The customer blinks at me. “So … I don’t need a new sensor?”
“Pretty sure that’s what I said.” After a quick look, I slap shut the hood. “Saved you a couple hundred bucks. You’re welcome. Send my regards to Fairview Auto.” I head back to the break room.
Few minutes later, chatterbox Joel’s back. “The car’s running smooth as butter now. Wow. That was … That was somethin’. Don’t like to talk bad about another shop, but Fairview almost did that guy dirty.” He shakes his head and whistles. “You saved him a lot of unwarranted trouble. Your uncle didn’t say anything about you being a car whisperer.” He smiles. “You’re a good man, Diego.”