parts and service, pt. 2

The address probably wasn't necessary. As I exit the garage, I can already see Maura's Parts and Service across the highway, a dull red sign in the sunlight that probably glows bright all night. The shop is decked with a tacky racing theme, all horizontal stripes and checkered flags, that makes it look like a Pep Boys, but something about it gives off a different vibe. Flowerpots in front, with a ceramic statue of the Virgin Mary like a sacred garden gnome ministering over them. An engine revs loud around the back, and the hair on my neck stands.

From the window, I can't see anything of the dark inside, just a reflection of myself and the highway and the white sun. Opening the door sounds an electronic chime behind the counter, and a heavy-set Mexican man saunters out from the back as I'm walking in. Air conditioning and an overhead fan make the room refreshingly cool, but he's drenched in sweat. He calls one word of Spanish through the screen door to someone still working out in the sun, then slides the glass shut to hold in the cool air.

"What do you want?" he asks in English, not aggressive but plaintive, exhausted. I think he can't wait to make the sale and sit back down. I empathize with him, thinking we both got stuck with dunce work today. I feel deeply connected to the soul of el vato.

I tell him, "I need an exhaust system for a '95 Neon. I'm from the garage across the road."

As I'm talking, an older man comes in through the sliding door, and interrupts. "We know where you're from. You don't belong here. This is our garage, this is a family business, and we're not gonna help you drive us out. You can get your parts from the dealer like everybody else."

Maybe I'm not as close to his soul as I thought. The old man shoos me with his hands, exerting a firm but polite force as he follows me all the way to the door, and all I can say is, "Okay, jeez, ow, don't touch me." But a second pair of hands grabs me from beside the door as soon as I get outside, much smaller but no less powerfully coercive. I look into the face of the woman I saw in the locker room at Alignment on my first day. She's as beautiful as I remember, as beautiful as I dream. She's got one hand on the back of my neck, where the hairs still bristle, and in the other she holds me an enormous, curved pipe in clear plastic wrap.

"Go," she tells me. "Fix your Neon."