January 26, 1973

 

WISHBONE

I eased the hood of the late-model Mercedes to a soft close and wiped my greasy handprint from the dark gray metallic finish. It was a bear to diagnose the timing issue without the documentation the shop was too cheap to provide, but I’d done it. Took me six hours, but I’d done it. Imports, an exercise in frustration.

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“Don’t you have work to do?”

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The snide comment churned the lousy coffee I’d downed an hour ago. I stood to my full six-foot-three height, and turned to study the already-thinning hair of my new dipshit boss. The owner’s son, for crissake. Wesley Stanton, or Weasel, according to my fellow mechanics. “Just finished,” I said, with a full-toothed smile I hoped looked sincere.

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“Hmm,” the guy said, eyes narrowed. “Then why are you just standing around? You think we pay you to look pretty?”

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The guys working in the adjacent bays suddenly had lots to do.

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God but I hated this asshole. Knew zero about auto repair and maintenance. Check that. Knew less than zero. God only knew how long before he wedged his Ivy-League degree into the works like a five-foot-eight socket wrench.

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Steady, man. You need this job.

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“Actually, I worked straight through lunch so this beauty would be ready for the owner at five. Figured I could take a quick break before my ham and cheese went bad.” I managed another smile as my stomach punctuated my comments with a deep rumble.

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The weasel pushed back the sleeve of his ridiculous long-sleeved white dress shirt and studied his expensive gold watch like it was a complex math formula or something. What an ass.

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“It’s nearly two p.m. I think you can survive another hour without filling that giant gut of yours.” But his smile was in no way sincere. Plus my gut wasn’t only flat, it was ripped.

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God but I’d love to meet this jerk in a dark alley some night. I’d show him survival. Survival of the fittest, man.

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“Well? You need me to put that in smaller words for you?”

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Oh no he didn’t.

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“And tuck your shirt in. It’s a uniform, not a suggestion. And didn’t I tell you yesterday to either get rid of that stupid ponytail or put it up under a Stop-N-Lube ballcap? I can’t believe Father’s okay with your beard. You look like a goddamned hippie. If I didn’t know you’d spent time in ‘Nam, I’d think…”

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He kept talking, but I’d checked out at the hair comment. I liked my hair. I liked my beard. If Weasel and his other college buddies wanted to disrespect returning vets, that was their own biz…wait a second.

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You can shit on my looks and even my service for Uncle Sam, fuck you very much, but do not attack my skills. “Did you just say I need to go back to vo-tech, asshole?”

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“What did you call me?”

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Uh oh. Guess that came out my mouth. “I’m the best goddamned mechanic in this goddamned, stupid, second-rate repair shop. I deserve twice what you pay me, and a hell of a lot more respect than you shove my way each and every day.”

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I had the attention of the other four mechanics, and the two girls from the office watched through the open window into the garage, eyes wide. Oops.

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Weasel’s grin looked authentic for once. “Thank you, Kane. Take your greasy tools and your white trash attitude and get the hell out. You’re fired!” His pale blue eyes twinkled like Christmas morning.

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Thanks for making this easy for me, asshole. “You can’t fire me. I quit!” Not the most original line, but I was out of practice. I stripped off the ugly orange franchise t-shirt and tossed it at him, shut my metal tool case and headed out the roll-up door. “Enjoy my sandwich!” I yelled, then revved my Harley’s engine.

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My Electra Glide and my tools. The only things I truly needed. I roared out of the lot and in five minutes arrived at the basement apartment I’d been renting. I could read the paper nailed to the door from six feet away. NOTICE OF EVICTION.

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Guess it wasn’t my day.