He drove into the service bay just as I was locking the door from the inside to close for the night. I could see him, blonde and shirtless, wiping his entire face: pale with patches of bright red. His voice struck me like needles to my skin causing my hair to stand; it was choked and had a quality of tremolo which was beyond his control. His eyebrows were fixed at a worried arch, his eyelids seldom blinking. “We were driving it through the woods and the bumper came loose.” He said with a slow southern accent, trying to regain his composure. As his words trailed off, another boy, taller and fully clothed, stepped off of the chrome rail and onto the pavement. His voice was markedly higher, although sounding more mature and insisting. “What the hell are we gonna’ do? Fuck, your dad is gonna’ kick both our asses. His dad is fucking crazy about his truck—he is fucking insane over the stupidest shit.” “So it’s just the bumper, let me look at it” I said using my most soft and comforting tone.
The new FORD bumper had come into two different pieces; separated at a plastic point: the only support for the left side. “I don’t know who the hell designed it this, but they must have been drunk that day,” I said as I walked toward my car. I reached for my tool bag and produced a two-part epoxy which I was sure would hold the two poorly made units together.
The shirtless boy looked to be sixteen. He showed a latitudinal scar, running across the entirety of his pelvis, as though he were, at some point, cut completely open. More scars presented themselves: on his upper torso; they looked aged, not recent enough to be recalled to conscious memory. “My dad can’t know this happened” he said firmly. “He won’t.” I said as our eyes locked. “I left my house when I was seventeen” I told him, “You won’t have to take it forever, there is always a way out.” The expression on his face was one with which I was very familiar. It was a slow and dull panic which caused adrenaline to surge at any thought of going home. Pure and unfiltered terror had drained his face of any color.
“You won’t have to worry about this tonight” I said as I mixed the epoxy with the hardener, being careful to mark the time and maintain consistency. I felt the right amount of resistance and immediately sprang under the fender, applied the epoxy, and pressed the two parts with all my strength. I took the shirtless boy’s hand and placed above mine to hold the two plastic pieces until all were cured. “Hold this for a solid ten minutes.” No words. He looked up at me and nodded. I gave him a half-smile and returned to the shop entrance to lock the door a final time. I watched casually, from a far, as the two interacted: perhaps speaking of the horror which might await them if this attempt failed.
Ten minutes passed as though it were an hour. I approached the boys and sat by the driver’s side wheel. He was still holding fast to the pieces; by now his knuckles were as white as the paint outlining parking allotments. I quickly moved in and surveyed my work. “Let go.” They looked at me as though I were speaking a foreign language. His grip loosened as the blood rushed in his hand. The fender held, as I knew it would.
The change is his expression was immediate, and pronounced louder, and more articulately than any words he could have said. The muscles in his face relaxed and calm swept over him; like the moment that Ativan is fed through a central line and reaches the bloodstream. He laughed and reached a hand to his eyes shaking his head. His stare returns to me, his eyes water as before. “Thank you so much, I don’t know what else I can say man. Thank-youd-on’tknow…” “Yeah, I do.” He smiled a sincere and appreciative smile and stood along with me. We all crossed our arms and surveyed the truck in total.
“He would have kicked the shit out of me.” I turned to him and extended my hand: “I’m Daniel.” “I’m Drew.” His voice had obtained a masculine depth and quality. “Some day I’m gonna’ stand up to that sonofabitch,” he said, and lowered his head.
By now the August sun was setting, painting a red and pink sky. “Hey thanks again man” he said as he swung his hand meeting mine in a firm handshake. He might have said something more, but words do not lend themselves to such emotions. He nodded very deliberately and walked to the driver’s side of his father’s truck: smiling to his friend, as he should have been all along.
Add your comment
You need to login or signup to add your comment to this work.