Page 1 of Grease & Grips
1
“I’m hoping you won’t let this ruin your night, Mack.”
That’s how I know it’s already ruined.
Gary’s walking over like I’m a bear and he’s got a death wish, all slow and careful, like maybe if he moves quiet enough, I won’t maul him. I duck out from under the hood of a beat-up 1997 Ford Ranger and look down at him.
I’m not tall, but Gary’s short. Barely 5’5” and maybe 140 pounds if he’s holding a wrench and a wet towel. A strong gust of wind or an aggressive hawk could carry him clean off. I’m well over six feet. I know me looming over him doesn’t help, so I try to fake some patience into my stance while I brace for whatever favor he’s about to disguise as a question.
“Triple A needs us out on a tow job. BMW off Griffin Road.”
I arch a brow. “Which part of Griffin? Paved or dirt?”
“Dirt,” he says, already wincing.
I curse under my breath. “Did they say what’s wrong?”
“Nope. Just said it needed a tow.”
I yank the hood strut out on a sigh and slam the hood of the Ranger shut with more force than necessary.
“I’d do it, but my girl’s recital is tonight,” Gary adds, like that makes it better. “You don’t mind takin’ the truck and grabbin’ it, do you?”
That’s the thing. People always ask that like it matters. Like I’ve got some real say in it. Doesn’t matter if I mind. It’s my job, and if I don’t do it, who will? Doesn’t matter that it’s late, or that I had plans. Not that I did, but still. What if I did? Don’t I get to want things? Free time? A damn night off?
Apparently not.
The rest of the guys around here have real lives.
Gary’s got his ex-wife and two daughters he actually shows up for. Julio’s playing house with that girlfriend of his. Chuck can’t stay late ‘cause he’s taking care of his mama. So who does that leave?
Good ol’ Mack.
Ol’ reliable.
Ol’ “he’s got nothin’ better to do.”
And I don’t. Not really.
Ain’t nobody worth dating in Sycamore. Best I could hope for is a guy two hours in either direction, up or down I-75, praying I get lucky in Atlanta or Tallahassee. Emphasis on lucky. And even then, it’s apps and awkward drinks and ghosting before dessert.
Ask me how I know.
No family, either. Only my mom, and she only called herself that until I came out. After that, it was Christmas cards signed “All the best.”
She passed a few years back. Didn’t even know she was sick until she wasn’t around to ignore me anymore.
This job’s about all I’ve got. Mechanic for the only shop in town, tow truck duties included, because why not squeeze a little more outta the guy with no kids, no dinner plans, and no one waiting on him.
That’s why it’s me. It’s always me.
Late shift. Long drive. Some rich dumbass with tires made for mall parking lots stuck up to his axles on a road Google Maps probably called “scenic.”
Sounds about right.
I can already see it. I’ll find him out there, standing by some shiny car like it personally betrayed him, looking sheepish and soft not a scratch on him.
He’ll give me a shrug and say something real helpful like,“I took a wrong turn.”
