by J A Wynters
“Wait here.” I eased backwards, taking slow measured steps until I was at a safe distance, turned back to the door and stepped inside. I took the stairs two at a time and flung my fridge open, scanning the contents.
Dogs liked milk, didn’t they?
The bottle was mostly empty, and the milk sloshed around as I ran downstairs. I found an old bowl near the pantry and tucked it under my arm as I stepped outside again. I rounded the dumpster, my chest heaving.
The dog was gone.
I scanned the street, squinting in the dark looking for a hidden shadow. I saw nothing. My numb hands fell to my side. I sighed, my breath coming out in a long plume of white. I turned towards the door and had one foot inside when I heard the whimper.
I swung back around. The dog was about twenty paces away sheltered in the shadow of the neighbouring building. His scared eyes reflected like yellow pools in the street light.
I put the bowl down and filled it with milk. “Come here, boy.”
I whistled softly.
The dog kept staring at me, he paced a little, not coming any closer. I called him a few more times. When he didn’t budge, I left the milk and walked back inside. I closed the door and leaned against it, peering through the small window.
The dog waited. He probably smelt me, but I had no intention on venturing outside again. I ignored the biting cold as it stung my skin and clawed at my bare legs. My eyes stayed glued on the animal.
The dog edged out of its hiding place. His nose sniffing constantly, his eyes looking around, shifting and scanning. Now that his face was in the light, I could make out the long snout and shaggy hair.
He skirted closer to the bowl, rounded it a number of times and, with a final sniff of the air, began to lick the milk. He was nearly done when my foot scuffed the door. His head shot up, and his eyes met mine for a split second. Before I could react at all, he bolted into the darkness.
I waited, staring at the black street, knowing he wouldn’t be back. Eventually, when I could no longer contain the chattering of my teeth, I went back to bed. I couldn’t fall asleep. That fucking dog reminded me of Alice. I hadn’t seen her in almost six months and the last two have been cold. Frigid. I tossed and turned until the friction of my body against the sheets warmed me enough to pass out into a fitful sleep.
The dog came back every night that week. For the first two nights, I saturated bread in milk; by the third day, I bought some dog food; on the fifth night, he stood waiting, not in the shadows and not by my door, but close enough that I could make out its face. At first, I thought he was a Border Collie—he had the light underbelly and long snout—but as he got closer, I realised he was an Australian Shepard. His long coat was dirty and sticky in parts, the fur clung together in clumps. His ears were matted, and he had two perfectly round bald spots by his left ear, as if someone had used a cylinder of some kind to hurt him, mark him, brand him. He was young, not a puppy but not quite an adult—hanging somewhere on the fringes.
By the sixth day, he allowed me to sit on the stairs and watch him eat. He gulped the food, and the street echoed with crunching. Each time I moved, he would freeze and eye me. His body tense, his legs doubled up, ready to bolt. I admired him from afar; this desolate miserable runt, unloved and broken, needing shelter and food. It was like looking in a mirror.
When the dog finished his meal, he sat down next to the empty bowl. We watched each other for a while and, deep in his watery eyes, I thought I saw recognition. I wonder if he saw me for what I really was.
“Come here Spots. Come here, boy.” I patted my thighs and waited. The dog cocked his head then took off into the darkness.
Progress.
Work was shit, an endless line of cars that needed to be cleaned.
My life was spent watching others polish and wax shells. But, what I craved was to see the heart and valves of the machines, to smell the oil and petrol and let it coat my hands. I needed to bend and twist wire, screw bolts and replace washers. I missed the shop. I missed working with my hands. My cramped office stank of flowery soaps and chemicals.
Money kept rolling in and out, and the books had to be kept in order. Three sets of books; one for the tax man, one for Tony, and a third that only existed in my head. Turns out, placing numbers in columns and making other numbers disappear or reappear in another column came quite naturally to me.
I started saving. I know you might use another term, like skimming off the top or outright stealing, but I liked to think of it as a retirement fund. One on which I could actually retire, a sum that would help me disappear—just like the bills did.
Salvatore knocked on my door at 10 am sharp every Tuesday. “You ready to go, boss?”
“Sure, let me grab my coat.” I stood up and peeled my jacket from the back of the chair. “And, I’ve told you to stop calling me that.”
It was a short drive. If it was up to me, we would have walked. But things were never up to me. We pulled up outside the shop, and I looked at it with longing. Despite what I had been telling myself over the last year, trying to convince myself the car wash was my new home, I still felt like a stranger there. I couldn’t settle. The shop was my home. It was where I belonged.
I pushed open the red iron door, letting Salvatore catch it in my wake.
The shop floor was full of cars, each in various stages of repair; some with their engines exposed, others with their wheels off. My fingers itched to get in there. I was eyeing a Mercedes; its engine sat exposed and the cylinder head removed. I took a step closer. I wanted to see the problem, solve the problem—even if it was with my head and not my hands. I stuffed my hands deep into my pockets, and that’s when I walked into something covered with a plastic sheet.
I stopped dead and studied the object rubbing against my hip. I grabbed the corner of the plastic and peered beneath.
My heart stopped.
A Harley Fatboy sat broken beneath the sheet. I can’t actually call it a motorcycle, all that was left was a burned out frame. The seat was still attached but was scorched and scared; the wheels were gone and headlight blown out. A single footrest hung limply from the right-hand side. I was smitten.
My heart thumped in my chest. I was in love. I needed that bike like I needed to breathe.
Salvatore walked up behind me and cleared his throat. I pulled the plastic sheet back over the bike, almost reverently, and led the way to Tony’s office.
“Good morning, Tony.” I hissed.
“Do you have what’s mine?” He didn’t need pleasantries. In fact, since I left him at my graduation, he had been icy cold.
“Here you go.” I handed over the books and he skimmed them.
As always, this was more of a show than a necessity. He was showing me that I was a dog and he was my master. He could pull the leash at any time and I would sit, roll or play dead. We both knew it; he just thought I needed constant reminding.
Each time he skimmed the books and didn’t find the leak I created, I grated my teeth and forced my self-satisfied smile to remain buried. Tony was smart, he should have seen it. But he was looking for a missing bucket of water, when all I was siphoning were tiny drops.
I guess as long as he saw money in his basement and the walls of his home, in the walls of the pizza shop and under the car wash, he didn’t care.
His stubby fingers traced the lines of numbers. He stood up and his chubby fingers patted my cheek, “Good boy.” He smirked.
Condescending fuck.
“You can go now; I have a busy day.” He waved his hand in dismissal and fell back into his chair.
“Tony?”
His eyes rolled up at me, dissatisfaction ploughed his brow, a thick vein ticked on his forehead. In the silence, Salvatore took a minute step back—a micro movement. Tony lifted his head in full when he realised his scathing look wasn’t going to get rid of me.
“Whose Harley is on the shop floor?”
“What business is that of yours? You have your own business to look afte
r.”
“And I do. Very well.” I straightened my shoulder and sucked in every inch of bravery I had left. “I would like to fix it, please.”
“Fix what?”
“The Harley.”
“That burned out piece of shit?” He cocked his head, the creases on his brow deepening.
“Yes.”
Tony’s astute gaze bored through me. He snorted and his body shifted towards his desk. “I’m not paying for any parts.”
“Of course.”
“And it best be after work hours. I don’t need you in my way, or the car wash losing business because you’re distracted.”
“Of course.”
“I don’t need you to agree with me.” His hands fell flat on his desk as his head snapped back in my direction.
“Yes, Tony.”
“Now fuck off, you’re putting me behind.”
I felt almost weightless as I took the steps one at a time. I stuffed my hands in my pockets, pinching my skin, forcing my face to remain taut and expressionless. Although my hands itched to glide over the ruined body of the bike, I had to go back to work. I walked out without a second glance at the covered bike. Tony made it clear that pissing him off would only bury me in more shit. I didn’t want to give him an inch.
For the first time since I started at the car wash, the day didn’t feel like it was at a standstill. I stared at the books and inhaled the noxious fumes of overindulgent perfume, but my mind was focused on head gaskets and transmissions, crankshafts and frame bolts. That day I built that bike in my head ten times over. I saw with perfect clarity what she might look like when I was done with her.
It was agony to wait, but I would. I couldn’t be too eager. I also couldn’t afford any parts, not with my meagre salary. Paying for parts with my stolen money would raise more suspicion than I cared to attract. Once again, Tony gave me an impossible gift and he knew it.
The staff cleaned up and cleared out. I locked up, went upstairs and got in the shower. The hot water pelted my skin, searing it. My body ached with the need to make, to fix and mend. I needed that bike, it was all I could think of. I don’t know why I was so obsessed. Maybe it was because I saw another broken thing that I thought I could fix; the need to take something so mangled, so wrecked and turn it into something beautiful. Maybe if I could fix that bike and fix that dog— maybe, just maybe—I could also fix myself.
I pulled on my long slacks and hoodie, and` grabbed a beer from the fridge. The cool liquid sizzled against my hot throat.
I sank the plastic bowl into the bag of dog food and went downstairs to start my vigil. The freezing concrete floor burned through my clothes. I placed the bowl at my feet. Then I waited.
A whimper cut through the silence and my head jerked to the right, my hand knocking over the empty beer bottle. He was standing in the middle of the street, eyeing the food by my feet, but he didn’t approach. Even after all this time, he didn’t trust me. Maybe he could smell what really lay under the surface. I can’t say I blame him.
“If you want to eat, you’re just going to have to come here and trust me.” I wasn’t trying to be soothing or quiet, it was all so matter of fact. Life sucks; it throws you around and beats you up, but you have to get up and keep going. You can’t hide in the shadows.
The way I saw it, I gave this dog all the time it was going to get. If it wanted to eat, it would have to give me something in return. It might sound cruel to you, but his companionship was something I needed just as much as he needed mine.
We both waited.
Spots scampered a few steps forward and whimpered. I just looked at him. I didn’t make any move to stand or walk or breathe. I just wanted him to come over so I could get a good look at him.
When he was five steps away, I could hear his stomach growling. Or maybe that was just him. I was forcing him, I was making him uncomfortable but, fuck it, nothing ever happens if we always stay in our comfort zone. We don’t grow or evolve, and this fucking dog was going to love me whether it wanted to or not.
His dance of uncertainty continued. The tension of the standoff eased out into the world as Spots took the final few steps to the food bowl, relenting at last. I didn’t move as he chewed his food; the crack of the biscuits sounded like breaking bones, saliva coated his lips as he gulped and sucked. He kept his eyes firmly on me, his right leg rigid in readiness to flee.
Now that he was close, I could see how damaged he really was. Those two scarred spots on his head were not his only marks. Someone really went to town on this guy. No wonder he didn’t want to trust me. I didn’t move until he finished eating and backed away.
When he was at a far enough distance, I grabbed the bowl and stood up. He didn’t bolt. “That wasn’t too bad now, was it?”
When I pushed the door open, he turned away and scuttled back into the shadows. I felt like I had finally gotten through to him.
By the end of that week, I moved the bowl to my side. Spots took less time to come near me, but being so close made him edgy. I could see it in the tightness of his mouth, in the tension of his legs and the way his tail was stiff and still.
I pretended that I didn’t care. I let him eat and watched him go. Still, it was progress.
PART IV
I waited three weeks before I let myself think about that bike, and another two before I decided it was safe enough to go and have a good look at its wreckage.
I wonder if it was because I kept looking at the clock in his office that Tony dragged out yet another unnecessary meeting. I hardly paid attention to anything he said, my mind firmly fixed on the body waiting for me downstairs.
When Tony had grown bored with torturing me, he dismissed me unceremoniously with his usual, “Now fuck off.”
I obliged. I took the stairs one at a time fighting tight muscles that ached to leap to the bottom. I ground my teeth, willing my expression to remain stoic. I stuffed my hands into my pockets and, in my efforts to seem causal, walked too slowly and too deliberately. If I was trying to avoid attention my gait did just the opposite.
Salvatore smirked and shook his head.
I stared at the hump beyond the sheet for a second before I tore it away and exposed the bike’s naked frame.
I sucked in a long breath at the sight of it. The damage was worse than I had first thought.
The frame was scraped and burned, but still intact. There was no obvious crash or crack damage. Some of the tension left my body with the discovery. It would still need to be sandblasted and coated, if I was going to rebuild on it.
I would need an engine. I toyed with the idea of a 107 cubic engine, but that would depend on my funds. I already envisioned the ripple exhaust pipe and the ape handlebars. My fingers traced the stitching of the ruined gunfighter seat that would need replacing, too.
I made a mental list of the parts I would need. My mind churned at the possibilities. It would take a few months to get the body cleaned and coated. I could use that time to collect the parts I needed. I knew Tony had some bits and pieces in the back. I could create an inventory, set a budget and I would know how much I would need to steal, so I can pay Tony with his own money.
My mouth split open at the idea.
I grabbed the sheet and tucked the frame away. I would be back that night to sift through his stock. Excitement coursed through my veins. I sucked in a deep breath, hiding any sign of pleasure and met Salvatore by the door.
The moment I made the decision to return to the stock room that night the clock stopped moving and the day dragged on, despite a deluge of stupid customers and equipment breakdown. As the day wound down, coming to a close, I had the displeasure of a confrontational, irate woman who insisted that we scratched her car. On closer examination, the alleged ‘scratch’ was evidently a large, twisted dent in the back. After a short probe, she admitted that she reversed it earlier that day and thought her husband would be less likely to be angry if she explained that it happened at the car wash. I wished her luck and gave her a
sympathetic car freshener. Then I welcomed her to fuck right off.
I didn’t bother with a shower. I knew I was just going to get dirty again in that dusty, dark storeroom. I pulled on my torn-up work jeans. They were stained with oil and grease, but they were comfortable and homely. I pulled on a black t-shirt and my hoodie. I sucked down a beer, waiting for the sun to disappear and the world to turn black. I stuffed down a microwave dinner, and I waited.
Spots arrived just before midnight. With some hesitation, he walked right up to me and ate. I waited for the slurping and chomping noises to fade away. We watched each other for a second, and I stood up. Spots sank backwards towards the wall, cowering in fear.
“Hey buddy, I’m not going to hurt you. I just have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.” With as much care as I could muster, I squatted down once more extending my hand. I held it up, my palm open. The muscles in my legs began to cramp, and my arm grew tired. I was about to retreat when Spots stood up and sniffed, then buried his nose against my hand for a second and proceeded to lick. My heart wedged itself in my throat, and I thought it might burst.
And then, as if he knew how much I needed it, he wagged his fucking tail. My eyes filled with tears that I brushed away. I stroked his head, feeling the rough scar tissue for the first time. The unevenness of lumps and bumps beneath his matted fur grated against my fingers.
“It’s ok buddy, I’ll look after you now. No one will ever hurt you again.” He panted and wagged. Fighting screaming muscles, I stood to my full height, and he cowered again whimpering.
“Don’t do that buddy. I won’t hurt you.” I held my hand out again and let him relax. I patted his head and stroked the length of his body.
“Ok I have to go; I have a hot date.” I winked at the dog who cocked his head. I stepped off the curb and crossed the street. I could hear the scratch of nails on bitumen behind me. Spots was following keeping his distance. I kept walking, throwing occasional backward glances. Spots followed.