Page 17 of However You Want Me

My boss and I have an understanding too. He knows it’s better for me to pick my own hours and show up when I’m able. When the thoughts aren’t so loud that I can focus. He doesn’t box me in on a schedule or chew me out for coming in at different times depending on the day. He lets me have my way with it, and I repay him by working forty hours every week and putting in extra time when the other guys need days off or get sick. And I always get the job done on time. Even if I come in at 3 am because I can’t sleep. He’s fine with it.

With my hands in my checkered jacket pockets, and in my blue jeans which are already stained, I walk outside and lock up, ready to head to work. The air still smells fresh and dewy as I walk, and it's a bit crisp.

I walk into the shop a little after nine in the morning. It’s full of familiar noises—wrenches clanging, guys shouting from the pit under the cars, the smell of oil, tires, and grease.

Rick, a barrel-chested guy in his early fifties, and wrinkles around his eyes that show every bit of his age, nods to me as he twists a rag around greasy fingers. He’s already been in the guts of a car this morning. Knowing him, more than one. The man’s a machine when it comes to fixing cars. He could charge a lot more, but he doesn’t.

“How you doing, Dean?” he asks.

“Good. And you?” I keep it easy as I always do. Waiting for my list and ready to get lost in whatever car they give me.

“Good as I can be.”

With a quick glance in the back I can see there’s plenty to do. There almost always is.

The way people talk about Rick means he’s never had to put an ad in the paper or post on websites or anything like that. People just keep coming back. They tell other people to come to our shop. That’s the dream, really. Rick has a guaranteed job. That means I have a guaranteed job. It’s steady income and I appreciate that.

One of the other guys comes to ask Rick a question. I pick up a clipboard hanging from a nail on the wall and look over the day’s projects. I pick the one that’s next up and get started, initialing next to it so they know I’m on it.

With that I head back, grabbing my overalls and minding my own business.

My hours go by like they do every day at the shop. I run down the list of repairs and squeeze in a little old lady’s car when she doesn’t have an appointment. She came in worried as hell about it—something to do with her groceries and having to shop on a certain day. She won’t miss it. That’s the kind of nice shit I never pictured when I was at that place. Why would I bother? Now it gives me the kind of satisfaction I never thought to want.

It’s not that it makes me happy to be a good person, but it is nice. Deep down inside, I’m not sure I could ever be a good person after the things I’ve done. Those thoughts are always there. They never leave, they just bury themselves deep down inside and let me have a moment to pretend.

In the afternoon, Rick calls it quits. He gets a list going for tomorrow and tells us we’ll work on it then.

The last thing I do before I leave is strip off my coveralls and throw them in the pile with the other guys’. Rick has them washed all together. Too much oil and grease will fuck up a regular washer and dryer, so he takes care of that. I get a fresh coverall from the stack so I’ll have it tomorrow morning, say my goodbyes, and head back down the sidewalk to my house.

A simple end to a simple day. I’m all set for tomorrow. Ready for the routine.

At home I wash the day off, scrubbing the stains out of my hands. The hot water crashing down on me, washing away every thought and my mind wanders to Haley. It always does.

I got rust under my fingernails somehow. It takes a solid five minutes with a fingernail brush to get them clean.

Then, once I’ve dressed in fresh clothes, I head to the bar. This is part of the routine that I chose, too. The bar itself is cozy and clean and only a few blocks from my house. The bartenders know my name and my face. One of them has my beer waiting when I slide onto a barstool, inhaling the peanut shells and beer and burgers.

My friend takes the stool next to me, accepts a beer from the bartender, and nudges me with his elbow.

“Good day at work?”

“Good as it could be. You?” I answer like Rick does.

“Hell of a day, I’ll tell you what.”

He does tell me what. Michael tells me about some mix-up with a copy machine and somebody trying to order pizza from the appliance repair place he works at. As he talks, more of the regulars show up. We give each other shit for having boring jobs and take turns commenting on the game. I nurse the same beer the entire night. I’ve done it for years although I always order bottle after bottle. I just give it to someone else.

I like a buzz now and then, but I mostly come to the bar for the company and I don’t trust not being in control. The guys aren’t afraid to touch my shoulder or look me in the eye. That was the simplest thing they took from us at school. Couldn’t look. Couldn’t touch. Still feels like I’m getting away with something when it happens now.

They all do it now. Easy and comfortable like. With every touch I’m reminded and my hands stay on the bottle of beer. Picking at the label.

Picking. Picking. Picking. Sometimes I hear them, sometimes it changes to a loud ringing and the screams. All the screaming.

My phone vibrates in my pocket while I’m leaving money at my spot on the bar. Michael snags my elbow and tells me one more quick story, then lets me go.

The walk goes quicker on the way home.

I don’t bother looking at my phone until I’m behind the wheel of my car. I already know what’s going to be on the screen.

---