Page 6 of A Little Christmas! Johnny
“Good Boy T and T. This is Johnny,” I mumble reflexively when I pick up the receiver. Wincing at the fact that I slipped up and used my nickname in a professional setting, I hope the person on the other end doesn’t think badly of us for my lack of professionalism.
“You're the guy who came and got my neighbor’s pastel piece of junk off the side of the road on Thanksgiving, right?”
“Uh, yeah. That’s me. Let me pull up the file and I can give you a rundown.”
I blink rapidly and try to hide my sniffles while I pull up the file for the Aveo on my computer. This guy says they’reneighborsbut I saw how close they were. Is neighbors the new code word replacing roommates? I don’t care if they’re gay. I’m not exactly straight myself, so it’s not like anything they do or don’t do is going to surprise me.
In all honesty, the only thing surprising me right now is that the thought of thisneighborbeing involved with someone else makes me want to cry even more.
6
DEXTER
From mid November through the beginning of January is fucking retail hell. For the last few years, I managed to snag temp jobs to carry me through without having to resort to working with the public during this time of the year. Unfortunately, with the uptick in the number of companies using artificial intelligence to scrape resumes for their human resources departments, it has become more and more difficult to land a decent job without a college degree.
My parents’ accident happened during my sophomore year, and I was never able to go back after that winter break ended. I remember getting off the plane that morning and the notification of a voicemail on my phone. My parents had dropped me off at the airport for my red-eye flight back to Seattle the night before. At first, I didn’t understand why a hospital in Pittsburgh was calling for me. I thought maybe one of my buddies from high school had listed me as their emergency contact so that they wouldn’t get into trouble with their parents or something. Thankfully, I waited until I got back to my dorm room to call the hospital back because I fell apart. Everything after that was a blur. I know my RA helped me pack up and getback home. He even shipped all of my other things home when it was confirmed that I wouldn’t return for the spring semester. Things came back to me later, after the funerals.
Dad died instantly. The doctors said he had a heart attack from the rush of adrenaline combined with the shock caused by all of his injuries. Mom somehow managed to hold on long enough for me to come say goodbye. I couldn’t bring myself to go back to life as a college student despite their life insurance policies ensuring that there was enough money to do so. After paying the medical bills and the funeral costs, I bought a car and then stuffed the rest of the funds into an account with a financial advisor. I could have bought a house and lived carefree for a while, but that’s not how I was raised. Instead, I have just enough released to me each month to cover rent and some basic needs while I work to keep busy.
That’s why I’m working at the small time grocery store instead of pushing for something better. I finally get done with my third twelve-hour shift in as many days and instead of being able to relax, I have to find out what’s going on with Russ’s car. Granted, I’m the dumbass who didn’t hand over the card to my neighbor on Friday morning when he came over asking about who he needs to call. I lied and told him that I misplaced it. On Saturday, I pretended that I had already called and they said it wasn’t ready. Sunday gave me a convenient excuse to say they were closed.
In all fairness, a lot of small businesses in the area still like to be closed on Sundays. I remember my aunt used to tell me stories about when she was a kid and even the grocery stores would be closed on Sundays in Pennsylvania and that you couldn’t buy alcohol at all on Sundays. I thought she was full of shit until I moved out here to Wrenshaw. Even as a suburb of Pittsburgh, there are a lot of businesses that still hold to the older ways with limited hours or being closed on Sundays.
After getting out of work at seven this morning, I ended up getting roped into taking Russel to his job downtown because I didn’t sneak inside quickly enough. I felt guilty for withholding the information on his car, so it wasn’t difficult for him to sucker me into the forty plus minute drive (without traffic) to get him to the First Avenue T Station. His office is right across the street from the Steel Building, but it’s a bitch to drive in downtown Pittsburgh, especially having to navigate around the arena and the traffic coming off Veterans Bridge from the North Hills.
After dropping him off, it’s past nine in the morning, so I figure I can take a chance and call the shop for Russ while I’m driving back home. It took over an hour to get here because of stupid rush hour. At least now that I’m going in the opposite direction of the people still fighting to get to work, it should be closer to the usual forty minutes.
“Good Boy T and T. This is Johnny.”
I can’t put my finger on why, but something in his voice as it surrounds me in the car is putting me on edge. Is this even the same guy? After I make sure I’m talking to the same man who I met the other night, I wrack my brain trying to figure out what’s bothering me so much about this.
In between some sniffling, he outlines all of the things that would need fixing on Russel’s car. It takes a minute for me to realize what’s bothering me so much about his voice. It’s not that he’s sick. He’s been crying.
My hands clench on the steering wheel while I’m stopped at the last light in Hazelwood before the bridge. I honestly can’t say what has me more upset: the list of everything that is fucked up on my friend’s car or that this man is struggling to hold back his emotions to do his job. By the time I’m across the river and heading through Homestead, Johnny has outlined everything.
“Basically, the car is worth more as scrap than as a vehicle right now,” he manages with only a brief sniffle at the end.“It’s not worth fixing unless there’s sentimental value and deep pockets.”
I huff out a laugh at that. Does it have sentimental value? Yeah, kind of. Russ got that car as a huge “Fuck You” statement to his father when the old man didn’t take kindly to his only son liking diapers and binkies as a grown man. It didn’t help at the time that his new best friend and neighbor also happened to be a gay man. I think the only reason Dave didn’t kick me out is the fact that Russ revealed his age play kink long before I moved in. Well, that and the fact that I don’t fit the stereotype that Dave has in his head of what a gay man should look and act like.
“There’s some sentimental value, but I don’t think Russ will have a problem with scrapping it if that’s what you say is the best thing to do,” I tell him honestly. “He’s not unreasonable and honestly I’d feel better about him driving if he wasn’t in a pop can on wheels.”
The sound coming through my speakers could only be him dropping the phone on his end, so I hold back my laughter while I wait to find out what it is that has the adorable mechanic so flustered. After some creative language is mumbled in the background, he lets out a long breath.
“I’ll work on boxing everything from the interior for you then. Just send an email to the address on the card to let me know when you and your partner are ready to come by and get that and discuss how you want to handle the scrap process.”
His voice is off again. It’s almost robotic in its coldness. I want to correct his misconception that Russel and I are together, but a car cuts me off at the bridge and the call is disconnected by the time I’m done cussing out the rude jagoff that apparently learned to drive in some ass backward hick town. As soon as I’m away from the idiot, I try to ring the shop again. Obviously the number on the card is Johnny’s direct line, and I need to clear this up as soon as fucking possible.
Voicemail.
At the next stoplight, I look up the main number for Good Boy Tinkering and Towing and anxiously drum my fingers on the wheel while it rings.
“Good Boy T and T. This is Paul.”
Before I can say a word, there’s a commotion on the other end.
“Hold on a second,” he says and there’s the sound of the phone being set down. In the background, there’s the sound of voices and a slamming sound before this Paul gets back to me. “Sorry about that. How can I help you?”
Clearing my throat, I ask, “Is Johnny available? He’s working on my neighbor’s car.”
