by Roan Parrish
“Um, is this Rafael Guerrera?”
“Hello, Colin.”
“Hey, uh, just wanted to let you know your car’s all set. No leak. Just needed an oil change. We’re open till two if you want to come get it.”
The sound on Rafael’s side of the phone gets a little muted, like he covered it, and I hear sharp words in Spanish.
“Two, huh? I don’t think I’ll be able to get there before you close. Are you open tomorrow?”
“Nope. Monday, eight thirty to six.”
“Monday, then. Thank you, Colin.” The noise on his end crescendos to a crash that cuts off the call, and I’m surprised to find that I’m a little… disappointed?
Sam, my older brother, spends Saturdays in the office getting us caught up on paperwork, but Pop and Brian come out of the house around ten, when the usual Saturday stream of quick fixes begins. Oil changes, tire rotations, flats, busted windshields. Saturdays are dull but they always move fast. Hell, even Brian can hold his own with most Saturday issues.
“Maybe we should paint,” Pop muses over a beer after we close.
“The garage?” I ask. It’s been the same yellowish-tan since I can remember.
“The outside of the shop,” Pop says. “Maybe brighten the place up a little.”
Every few years Pop undertakes some scheme to try and make the shop more successful, and every few years he leaves it uncompleted. We have some clients that Pop brought over from his last job when he opened this place. They’re loyal and they don’t give a crap what color the outside of the shop is. There are the neighborhood clients who come to us because we’re the closest garage. Some come back, some don’t, but it’s a steady stream.
It’s clear who Pop is hoping to entice with a scheme to “brighten the place up,” then: the twenty- and thirtysomething hipsters who’ve swarmed to the neighborhood in the last ten years. Daniel always called them gentrifiers, whatever that means. They look just like him.
“Sure. What’re you thinking?”
“Shit, I dunno. What’s popular these days?”
“Um.” I’m not really the right one to ask. “There’s a new place—opened at, uh, 22nd and Washington. Kermit’s. It’s cakes and pizza.” Xavier dragged me there once. Said he wanted to check out their cupcakes for Angela’s birthday. They had a bunch of fancy flavors that he thought she’d love.
“The outside of it’s cool—it’s like an old-school tattoo of pink roses and black vines. Kinda like—”
“Pink roses?” Pop grunts. “Sounds faggy. I don’t want flowers on the outside of my shop.”
Shame curls up from my stomach like a snake. “Right. I didn’t mean—I just meant, the style—”
“Psh,” he snorts. “Never mind. Maybe a new sign.”
“Yeah, sure. Sounds good. You want me to look into it?”
He pats me on the back and pulls himself up to get another beer.
“Yeah. Thanks, kid.” He runs his rough hand over my buzzed hair. “You do a good job, Colin. A real good job.”
I can’t remember the last time Pop has touched me that wasn’t to slap me on the back or push me out of his way. Usually he acts like it’s his due to have us working in the shop, carrying out his plans, playing by his rules. His compliments come irregularly, and always just at the moment I’m almost fed up with him.
The joy of his approval burns away the shame, and I feel lighter than I have in months. I remember this feeling from when I was a kid. Pop would muck around with friends’ cars in what was then our garage, pointing and asking us what was wrong with them, how to fix them. As the oldest, Sam was quickest, for a while. He had a good memory and could always repeat back ways of fixing things that Pop had explained. Brian didn’t really try, just wanted to play the game because the rest of us were. Daniel was better, even as the youngest, and he could make leaps of logic that Sam couldn’t. That was before Daniel lost all interest in cars, and in us.
I was the best, though. I could remember things like Sam and come up with creative solutions like Daniel. I cared the most, too. I wanted to be just like Pop and bring cars back to life. A few years later, when Pop opened his own shop, expanding our garage into the empty lot next door, I spent almost all my free time there, watching Pop and the men who worked with him, learning everything I could. And every time he nodded at me, clapped me on the back, or grunted at me to go ahead with the repair I’d laid out, I felt it. That warm, fizzy feeling.
Monday morning it’s as if the sky opened up and dumped every single asshole with a license to operate a motor vehicle into the shop. When I come back from getting a cup of coffee, I find Sam contending with some dick who seems to think that because he googled “why does my car make that noise,” he’s qualified to argue with Sam about the work that needs to be done. Sam, always diplomatic, is being stupidly polite because—I’m sure—this guy has a nice SUV and the repairs would be expensive.
Next is a woman who must’ve listened to an NPR segment called “How Your Mechanic Is Ripping You Off,” because she wants a fully written-out description of all the work we’re going to do so she can get a second opinion. Like I’m diagnosing her car with a damn brain tumor or something, fucking second opinion.
I don’t get lunch because Brian trips the master breaker in the office and I spend forty-five minutes resetting it so everything is getting the right power.
On top of all that, I’m furious at myself because every time the bell over the door tinkles, I look up, my stomach clenching, to see if it’s Rafael coming to pick up his car.
Right before closing, I’m arguing with a kid who can’t be more than seventeen, feeling like an old man. He wants me to install hydraulics in the beige 2007 Volkswagen Jetta that his parents gave him for his birthday. I’ve told him all the reasons it’s a stupid idea and he’s still standing there with this “but, really, why not?” look on his weaselly little face.
“You really want to know why?” I finally ask him. “I mean, besides the fact that it’s not a lowrider, it’s a fucking Jetta, and besides the fact that it’s 2014? Because you’ll look like a class-A douchebag. That’s why.”
This is not how I’m supposed to talk to customers, but this kid is seventeen and I’m sure he’s called worse in this neighborhood every day. Besides, there’s no one around to hear me.
Except that as I finish the thought, someone snorts in amusement, and when I look up, there’s Rafael.
The kid turns and seems excited when he sees Rafael. “You get it, right, yo?” he says, his speech sliding into a new cadence.
“Listen to him, man,” Rafael says, not unkindly. “Rich white kid gets hydraulics in a clean-looking car? Your shit’ll be gone from the parking lot by lunchtime the first day you drive it.”
The kid just grins, sticks his hand out, and tries to high-five Rafael.
“Okay, cool, man, cool,” he says, mostly to himself, as he drifts out the door.
“He’s probably going to go get it done somewhere else,” Rafael says. I nod.
“You got kids or something?”
“Nope.”
“Um, okay. So, like I said, there was no leak. Engine’s in good condition. I changed the oil, topped off your fluids, and put some air in your tires, but other than that, she’s good.”
“Great. What do I owe you?”
“Thirty-five.” I know I shouldn’t charge him—the guy stepped into a fight for me when we’d never even met—but Brian and Pop both saw him bring the car in and if either of them notice there’s no receipt, they’ll want to know why. Rafael steps close enough to hand me the cash, and doesn’t step away. I find myself looking up at him because it’s less awkward than staring at the skin of his throat.
“Listen,” he says, his voice pitched low even though there’s no one else on the floor, “there’s something I’d like to talk to you about. Are you free sometime this week to grab a coffee or some dinner?”
He’s not asking me on a date, is he? He doesn’t seem flirtatious; pretty
serious, in fact.
“Uh….”
“I’d like to ask for your help with something. If it turns out you’re interested.”
I do owe him a pretty massive favor. But I don’t want to go out for coffee or dinner with the guy. Someone might see us.
“Yeah. Okay. Um, why don’t you come to my place. Since you already know where it is,” I can’t help but add under my breath.
“Okay. Are you free tomorrow night?”
I nod. “Come over around 7:30?” I hand him his key and a receipt.
“See you tomorrow, Colin,” he says slowly, looking right at me, and folds himself into his car. And that? That was flirtatious.
The next day when I get home from work, I get right in the shower and blast the water as hot as it will go, my skin pinking in seconds. Sometimes it feels like, no matter how hard I scrub, I never get the grime off. Then the next day I’m filthy all over again. My mom used to say she even smelled like oil because Pop could never completely get rid of the smell. It clung to his hair, their linens, and eventually, to her.
Today is her birthday. She would’ve been sixty. When I left the shop, Pop was already drunk, and Sam gave me a look that meant he knew what today is and we should let him be.
Even though I just got out of the shower, I’m already feeling sweaty and anxious, so I grab a beer to calm my nerves and cool me off.
In the second after the doorbell rings but before I pull the door open, this absurd image flashes through my head: Rafael standing there in a tuxedo, with a corsage in a plastic clamshell and a limo waiting in the background. Something is seriously wrong with me. Get it together, asshole.
Rafael is not wearing a tux. He’s wearing jeans that fit him perfectly, navy-and-gray New Balance classics, and a tight black T-shirt. With his hair pulled back, his prominent cheekbones make him look even more severe.
He sticks out a hand and at first I fumble, thinking he wants to shake, but he’s passing me a carton of Turkey Hill Cookies ’n Cream and I can’t help but smile at how much better than a corsage that is.
“Oh, awesome, thanks. C’mon in.”
As I close the door, though, there’s the disconcerting sound of a thump from behind me. I hit the bedroom door with Rafael right on my heel. Then from the closet comes a quiet mewling, and I relax. Beneath a newly fallen pile of towels, old shoes, and baseball caps is Shelby, scrabbling while wrapped up in a flannel shirt. Cradling the ice cream like a football in the crook of my arm, I pluck the kitten out of the mess and give it a pat on the head. When it launches itself off my chest to land on Rafael’s crossed arms, he looks startled, but quickly recovers, petting the cat until it purrs like a real Mustang.
“What’s your name?” he asks the cat. Why do people do that?
“I named it Shelby. You know, because of the stripe.”
Rafael’s raised eyebrows and blank look suggest he’s not familiar with the Shelby Mustang.
“It? Is it a boy or a girl?” he asks.
I shrug. Rafael clicks his tongue at the cat and flips it on its back in his hand.
“Girl,” he announces. Shelby rolls over and kneads Rafael’s chest with a deep purr. “She do that to you?”
“Huh?”
Rafael runs a warm finger down my forearm.
“Oh yeah. It—uh, she—just showed up the other night. Can’t let her go back out there yet. Too little.”
Rafael trails after me, Shelby still in his arms, as I stick the ice cream in the freezer, order pizza, and grab another beer.
“Want one?”
“No thanks.”
“Or I have whiskey if you want.”
“No, I don’t drink. Water would be good, though.”
Wow, I don’t think I know anyone who doesn’t drink.
We sit on the couch with our drinks, Shelby now permanently attached to Rafael. He runs a finger over the kitten’s back, making her wriggle closer to him.
“She likes you more than me,” I joke.
“Maybe she doesn’t want to get attached if you’re not planning to let her stay.”
I laugh. “Yeah, she’s reading my mind. I wish. Then maybe she’d stop unrolling all the toilet paper.”
But Rafael isn’t smiling. “Animals can sense peace or anxiety, dedication or disinterest. They’re incredibly attuned to people’s moods. They pick up things we’re not even aware we’re transmitting.”
“Transmitting? Man, you make it sound like a radio or something.”
“I think it kind of is like a radio. The way our feelings and thoughts are expressed without words. It’s not mind reading. If you pay attention, you get better at it. Animals do it automatically because they don’t have the option of verbal communication.” He looks strangely comfortable on my couch, talking about animal radios and shit. I’m never that relaxed on my own damn couch.
“You, for example,” he says, and I tense. “Not hard to read. You’re anxious about what I want to talk to you about but you think you owe me something because I saved your ass the other day.” His version of a smile is just small enough to move his mouth to neutral.
“I would’ve been fine,” I say automatically. “Um, so what do you want to talk to me about?”
He sits up a bit straighter, slowly, so he doesn’t dislodge Shelby.
“I work with an organization in North Philly that does programming for youth in the neighborhood. Giving them activities and a safe space so they stay off the streets. We have after-school programs, sports, art and music programs, mentorship and counseling. And on Saturdays we have drop-in hours all day, but we try to also schedule some special programs. Workshops on things the kids might be interested in, performances, demonstrations, that kind of thing.”
“That’s cool, man.” Jesus, I hope he doesn’t want me to be some kind of Big Brother volunteer. Because I kind of already fucked that up with my real little brothers.
“So, I think some of the kids would really like to learn about cars. Knowing how to do basic maintenance would help their families save a little money. And if any of them get into it, it’d give them a skill so they could potentially get a job—that’s a big part of what we do, too, trying to connect these kids up with long-term strategies for success, like jobs or internships. And I think some of them probably just think cars are cool. So, would you be interested in teaching a workshop about cars or what it’s like working as a mechanic?”
“Wait, seriously? That’s what you wanted to talk to me about? If I would teach auto mechanics to some kids?”
“Yeah.”
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but not that. Maybe some kind of blackmail for the other night, or—fuck, I don’t know. This guy’s tripping me out, though. He’s handsome, looks like he could be an MMA fighter or a gang leader or something—wait, is that racist?—and he works to keep youth off the streets. I guess that’s why he was so good with that kid at the shop last night. Telling him a hard truth in a kind way.
It sounds like a pain in the ass, honestly. I don’t know anything about kids and I’ve never taught anyone anything—unless you count teaching Brian and Daniel how to fight. But I don’t really feel like I can say no after he helped me the other night.
“Uh, yeah, I could do that?”
“Yeah?” He smiles, the first one I’ve seen from him that’s bigger than an amused quirk of the lip. “That’s great, Colin. I think you’ll be good at it.”
“Well, you don’t really know me. For all you know, I’ll fuck it up. Hell, shouldn’t you make sure I’m not a child molester or something?”
“Are you?” he asks evenly.
“Uh, no.”
“Good. I’ll be there. You’ll never be left with the kids unsupervised.”
“I was just kidding,” I clarify. “Obviously. I wouldn’t hurt a kid.”
Rafael nods and an incredibly awkward silence engulfs the room. Yeah, that’s kind of what happens when you try to lighten the mood by bringing up child abuse, asshole.
On
ce the pizza arrives, Rafael explains the particulars of the workshop, then falls silent. He seems comfortable, but I hate the quiet. I’m hyperaware of the sound of my refrigerator running and the fact that I need to blow my nose because when I inhale there’s a slight whistling sound. So I start breathing through my mouth. That makes me hyperconscious of my breathing. Every third or fourth breath, I’m straining to breathe in fully.
“I want to be clear,” he says. “I’m gay. I was at that bar the other night to pick someone up. My sexuality isn’t an issue for me, and all the kids I work with know about it. I’m assuming that isn’t the case for you, and that’s fine. It’s not my business. I’m not going to bring up how we met in front of anyone. Okay? Does that help?”
“Help what?” I croak.
“Help whatever you freak out about every time you talk to me.”
I go into the kitchen and scoop some ice cream for us, trying to pinpoint what it is about Rafael that I keep reacting to so strongly. My mental picture keeps focusing on his eyes and his mouth and his thick arms, but that’s not it. That’s what I’d notice at the bar.
It’s more that Rafael is the first person who knows about… me. The first person who knows I’m—that I would let a dude suck me off—and who I’ve had an actual conversation with. I’ve been sitting with him, eating pizza with him, hanging out, and he’s gay. And knows about me.
A wave of heat flushes through my stomach and chest, and when I turn around to find him standing next to my hand-me-down red Formica table, looking at me curiously, I can’t quite meet his gaze.
“Having second thoughts?”
“No, no, I’m cool.” I hand him a bowl of ice cream and stand there awkwardly. “So, uh, how’d you get involved with the—what’d you call it? Organization?”
“My mentor, Javier, started it about thirteen years ago. At first it was an after-school program and some sports. Help with homework, football, safer sex pamphlets, stuff like that. As he got the word out and more people started using the resources, they got more funding. I started volunteering there a few years after it opened. Helping Javier out.”