A Good Mechanic
Matthew Temple
Sam tossing a hot dog wrapper at Melissa’s head, running up five steps to the pier, pastel blue railings dotted in rust, bumping into a woman in sweet floral dress crying – is that lady crying? – him sprinting too fast to be sure. Faster, run faster. I win.
Melissa muttering, “You ass, Samuel Johnson,” but a big sea taking her words away, leaving thoughts. Those legs are too short for that body. His head’s too big for his body. Samuel Johnson, you ass.
Melissa moving, her turn.
Patting her head until three fingertips find ketchup dabs on her fringe, cut geometric sharp last Monday, a lunchtime affair, less than one hour. Ketchup scabbing and Melissa hunting for a tissue in denim pockets so tight her fingers hurt going in and coming out even more but looking a million dollars. Her opinion. Are you pregnant or fat? Sam’s opinion.
“I just washed it, you ass.”
Back to her hair, big sea taking away her voice again. Melissa thinking – it’s no good, shouting at high tide, he can’t hear me. And there he is unchastened, still smiling, waving, goofy dancing on the pier. Okay you won. You won, Sam. Jesus, I’m twenty-four. I’m too old to race you, Samuel. You’re too old to race, Samuel. My man Sam.
Come August, this Samuel Johnson is going to be her husband, Sam the goofy dancer, jubilant on a pastel pier. He’s not inside her head so doesn’t know she’s too old to race, he’s too old to race. Opening her mouth, cupping hands to echo, Melissa shouting, “I just fricking washed it, Sam,” and this time, him reacting.
“Wash it again, you lazy doucher.”
Up ahead, him laughing, pointing at fat waves humping the pier, he’s been running past those pastel railings since his legs, way too short, began running, “I’ll toss you in the sea if you keep moaning. Wash your wig, you lazy doucher.”
Your laugh’s too high for a man, her again. A little boy’s voice with little boy’s legs. Oh, Sam.
Two old ladies, carrying groceries between them, mundane pallbearers, Sam shouting, “That girl wears a wig”, running along his favorite pier to a small bar, run by Nathan, named after Nathan, to see Jack, his brother, two years younger, turning twenty this Fall. Jack, the Johnsons’ baby. Jack, the army boy.
“Atten-shun!”
Six drinkers, looking to the door, seeing Sam. It’s cold out there, a drinker is thinking, why the red face? Done wondering, going back to his beer, glass wet enough for a few gulps more, not knowing Sam was racing and winning all the way.
Jack pushing a seat from the table with his left foot, noticing a dust mark on his sneakers, nothing special, blue and white. Picking up a serviette, also not special, leaning to brush them clean, army habits in his young bones.
Then Jack remembering where he is, Nathan’s on the pier, Sam looking at him with a silly grin, not brushing a sports shoe any more. Seconds later, pretending to tie an undone shoelace, fumbling in truth with a lace that’s tight and neat. A precision shoelace. Army habit.
Crouching down at his lace, remembering Sam’s dumb greeting. He does it every time. Why not say ‘Hi’ or ‘Hello Jack’? Can’t my brother act his age? He’s twenty-two. I’m the baby, for crying out loud.
“Sit down, Sam.”
The younger brother patting a free chair, creaky green and beaten, wanting to ask after Melissa. Thinking twice. Asking after Melissa, “No Mel?”
Sam rocking his seat, left right, table shaking
“Easy, soldier. Easy. I ain’t taking no orders from a ba-ba-baby.”
Sam swigging Jack’s drink, pushing out his tongue, mock horror, and belching, “Lemonade? Desert sun’s made you soft. It’ll be camel milk soon.” Swigging again, swallowing, gasping, Jack tightening with impatience. Come on, come on. Where’s Mel?
“Lazy Mel’s still dragging her fat ass up here. Sorry, the next Mrs Johnson’s still dragging her fat ass up here. Don’t get her started on the wedding, Jackie Boy. What a con…”
Jack leaning over table, lowering voice, not smiling, never that, saying, “I told you, Sam. I’ll chuck a few dollars in the hat.”
Sam answering with a grunt.
“Cheers.”
I’m the oldest, for Christ’s sake. I don’t want your dollars, ba-ba-baby. Sam thinking that on his creaking chair, left right. Nathan, fix your freaking creaking chair.
Sam rocking, looking at his fingernails, seeing grease a hundred bars of soap can’t remove, feeling proud. I loves this grease, every speck. Telling himself dirty hands are a sign of a good mechanic. And so what if Steve let me go? Who needs Steve Malone? Lazy junkie. Plenty more garages need good mechanics. People drive in tough times and good times. People drive all the time. Only a matter of time. What’s it been, a month?
Melissa walking over, passing the drinker back to wondering why the boy’s face, Sam’s that is, was red on a day like today.
“Why run off? Why dick about? And what was all that wig shit?”
Sam laughing again but nobody listening, Melissa smoothing her hair.
“Hello, Jack.”
Melissa hugging Jack, kissing his cheek close to a small mole left of his lips, soft brown, thinking it’s cute. Sam not thinking his brother’s mole is cute. Skin cancer or black death or a bull’s eye for a desert sniper that’s what he calls it depending on his mood. His mood depends on many things, beer, sleep, work. When work comes, it comes by the hour, people always need a good mechanic, don’t they? Will you look at my hands.
Jack moving to the bar trying not to move like an army man but his walk gives him away and after a few steps, he stops pretending he isn’t an army man, a man who fires bullets at strangers in strange lands nobody cared about when he was a boy, two years younger than Samuel.
Walking straight, now, shoulders back, arms by sides, proud to be in his father’s regiment. Peter Johnson, dying before his baby learned to march. Are you proud, Dad?
“Beer?”
“Yup.”
“Not you. Mel. Beer, Mel?”
Melissa nodding, smiling and nodding, not caring about work, her new job, two months old, ten minutes from the army base. It began first week in April round the time Jack came home. First tour over and he came home.
Sorting paperwork, answering phones, in a long thin office smelling of burnt plastic, Melissa’s new job. Boss is a realtor called Patricia with big spun hair, smoking and singing all day, sounding like bad jazz to Melissa. Shut up. Shut up. Get your terrible singing out of my ears. Can’t you see I need to think?
Job boring but wedding looming. I’m going to be Mrs Melissa Johnson, playing it round her mouth at night, alone. I’m going to marry my man Sam.
“Why there?”
That’s what Sam was asking when she took the job in a town with no pier. He had a point. Thirty minute bus ride there, thirty minute bus ride home. I like a change of scene, she kept saying, and the bus ride is okay. Listening to music, reading magazines, thinking about our wedding, yours and mine, Melissa and Sam. The Johnsons.
Sam beaming when he hears that, still beaming when his future wife goes to make fresh coffee, a treat for her man. But Melissa stopping at the kitchen door, motorcycle parts everywhere, forgetting fresh coffee, his treat, going to bed, reading alone.
Sam jumping on the bed. Stop ignoring me! God gave us tongues for a reason. Talk to me, Melissa. Grabbing her book, waggling his tongue in her face, she smelling his saliva. Same every time. Melissa enjoys reading on her bus ride to work.
Jack walking back from the bar. Everyone drinking, two people thinking what to say.
“How’s the bike, Sam?”
“The motorcycle? She’s beautiful. She’s the best. She’s my girl.”
“She’s all over my kitchen, that’s how she is, Jack. All over my kitchen and my balcony. We eat on our knees. My kitchen table isn’t a table. It’s a pile of junk.”
Sam leaping up, throttling Melissa, softly no harm done, playing a game.
“Junk! Hah! I know every one of those bolts by name. I’m their daddy.”
Sam’s motorcycle is a Triumph. Built in 1983 and bought ten years later, when Peter Johnson, fresh home from another desert, needs to feel full of blood again. It’s yours when I die, he’s telling Sam over a Sunday beer, Sam’s favorite kind, him and his father and beer. You’re the family mechanic, Sam. Always tinkering even as a boy, you were, Sam. Nuts and bolts everywhere. You’re the mechanic, Jack’s the soldier.
Sam leaning back, creaking, telling his brother about his beloved machine. How he’s stripping her engine, stripping her gas tank, removing her rear brake, rebuilding her wheels. Can you rebuild wheels? asks Jack. Sam shaking his head, going on with words so fast and familiar, sounding like a chant to his brother.
Sam stops talking, sudden as anything, looking under the table, turning to Jack.
“Easy tiger. None of your funny stuff today, thank you.”
Jack blushing, Don’t look at me, Mel. You’ll guess. He’ll guess. What have I done? Please don’t look at me, Mel. Look away. Look away.
Melissa looking confused.
“My ba-ba-baby bro’ was playing footsie with me. With his own brother. Join the Navy, soldier boy.”
Sam drinking beer, spilling drops, going on with his tale of engines, gas tanks and wheels. Across the table Melissa sobbing, his future wife, head in hands, saying, “You and your stupid motorcycle,” quiet as if the big sea’s there in Nathan’s bar, taking her voice away, “You and your stupid motorcycle.”
About the author:
Matthew Temple's writing was recently shortlisted in a contest run by the Newer York Press in the USA. He is currently adapting several of his stories for short film and stage.
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