Can’t Complain
A Day in the Life of an Absurd Mechanic
Impact drivers whir, saws shriek, and electric ratchets wail. The air is thick with potent scents of gas, rubber, and steel. The odor tickles the nose hairs and tricks the taste buds into the moment. When standing in the right spot, the shop is lukewarm, but the winter chill gusts through the garage door to stifle any succoring illusions. Several mechanics diligently tinker as they sell their sunsets for someone else. They’re a diverse lot. Each is a different make and model. Hammers clang, and engines sputter as a phone begins to ring.
“Johnson Family Auto Body! This is Tim speaking, how may I help you?” a man sings with his best customer service voice.
The man holding the phone wears a smile, exposing white pearls that any dentist can appreciate. His razor-sharp jaw shifts, and sweat drips from his beige, suave skin. Tim’s bright, yellow-green eyes light up as the caller murmurs a greeting to him.
“Can’t complain!” Tim answers as he runs his fingers through his silky brown hair. He is the highest ranking employee on shift— after all, he has the most knowledge and experience in automotive technology. He momentarily forgets about the parking lot of cars he needs to attend to.
“How may I help you today?” Tim asks again in a slightly higher pitch than before. It sounds like he’s auditioning for the alto seat in the choir.
Tim leans against a workbench while he earnestly listens to the caller’s inquiry — nodding his head every so often. He wipes his brow on his white t-shirt stained with grease and oil. His blue jeans are cuffed where they meet his work boots and a red rag dangles out of his back pocket.
The conversation lasts a couple of minutes before he wraps it up with some final remarks.
“Alrighty then, looking forward to meeting you! See ya tomorrow!” Tim exclaims before slapping the phone down. He is happy to end the call, but isn’t thrilled about getting back to work.
A balding man wearing dark blue overalls caked in paint and oil notices the interaction, then waddles over to Tim.
“Who was that? Another privileged schmuck having a bitch-fit?” the balding man snickers. His voice sounds more raspy than the average smoker.
Tim smirks then responds “No not yet Danny! I bet it will be the next one!” They have customers constantly complain about the cost of repairs.
Danny chuckles to himself before he is interrupted “We’re getting another warm body tomorrow!” Tim tells Danny. “He was the one who called. Sounds like a kid!” He adds. Tim drifts off to his youth. He feels like a child playing an adult role.
Danny cackles so hard that he sends himself into a coughing fit. As he recovers his breath, he shifts his tone “Good! Another know it all youngster with a piece of paper that says he can fix a car!” he projects with a sarcastic look on his face. They sigh in agreement and get back to work. Danny is the oldest mechanic at the shop and is well aware of the owner’s tendency to bring in young, experienced workers who undermine him. Tim aligns with this archetype, yet he is never dismissive to the wisdom Danny provides. Tim doesn’t know whether or not Danny puts him in this category of mechanics. It is hard to tell when Danny is serious and sincere.
At the end of the day, Tim goes where he stops every day after work. The small building has red and blue neon lights lining the edges of its brick walls, long window panes that reflect the sunset, and a worn sign that reads: Sally’s Burger Stop. It smells like cheap potatoes fried in beef fat, but this is special to Tim. He doesn’t tend to find any notable moments in his life, but he prides himself on his consistent routine and loyalty to the shop. An old man standing behind the counter starts to doze off as a fly lands on his nose. He wears a small paper hat, a long white apron, and a name tag that says Benjamin.
“Hey Walter! How’s it going, buddy?” Tim asks the old man. He isn’t sure why he called him buddy. Tim knows nothing about Walter.
Walter lightly shakes his fatigue away and paints an alert look on his face. “Tim! I thought you skipped out on us today! How are you doing, my friend?” he says eagerly.
“Living the dream!” Tim exclaims as he slightly shrugs his shoulders.
“Did you get that promotion to Lead Mechanic yet?” Walter asks Tim with hopeful, blue eyes.
“No, not yet” Tim answers nonchalantly.
“I’ll have my usual burger and fries” he declares after a short pause and slaps a couple of bucks on the counter.
“Coming right up!” Walter yells. He is much more lively than when Tim first entered the building.
Tim sits to eat his meal and takes note of his friends in attendance: Sleepy, Glasses, and Cellphone. These relationships are purely parasocial. Their interactions are limited to subtle, insouciant glances between daydreams. Sleepy is awake, oddly enough, sipping on a coffee and picking at a salad in front of her. Glasses has his napkin tucked into his collar while he disects his burger with a fork and knife. Cellphone is staring down at her phone with a gaping mouth — she lets her thumbs do the walking and talking while her eyes gorge.
Tim has never spoken to any of the other regulars. He constantly thinks about introducing himself and never does. Tim wonders if they have nicknames for him. What would it be? Pretty boy? Gearhead? Snake eyes? The thought of solidifying their club washes over Tim. He takes his last bite shortly after his first. Following an easy sigh, he tosses his tray atop the garbage can, and signals Walter as he exits Sally’s.
On his drive home, Tim encounters the white noise found in silence. He appeals to the radio, switching it on. He aimlessly flips through stations when a pothole throws off his steady scanning. Holes in My Back by Dr. Dog plays over the speakers. Tim tries to turn the dial, but he comes to realize the knob is missing. He looks down at his feet for a moment in search of the missing piece. He directs his attention back on the road and finds a car stopped in front of him. Tim slams on his breaks and bites his lip. His car lets out a screech as it stops inches away from the other driver’s bumper. He exhales slowly as the synth horns and steady upbeat bring him back to the present.
Tim pulls up to a tall apartment building not far from the shop. Cars honk at one another as they pass. The wind rips against Tim’s face as he picks up the scent of a fellow tenant smoking a cigarette outside. The man has a white bandage wrapped around his right hand, and his blonde hair falls just past his shoulders.
He vigorously scratches his unkept beard as he greets Tim, “Hey neighbor!”
“Hey Lou! What happened to your hand? Tim asks.
Lou glances at his hand and drags his cigarette “I sliced the damn thing on scrap sheet metal!” He laughs as he exhales smoke. Lou’s diction is slow, and dim. He takes pleasure in sharing his latest injuries.
Tim laughs uncomfortably “Nice!” he replies without a thought about what Lou said.
He suspects Lou suffers from a traumatic brain injury, and he fails to recognize this as a disadvantage. Tim perceives Lou as a simple man who is content with his situation. He doesn’t care about Lou’s injuries, because he identifies the disability as a privilege. In spite of his own opinion, Tim admires Lou’s gleeful disposition.
Lou nods in response to Tim and begins his daily maundering about his plan to travel to the Everglades and wrestle an alligator. He mentions this dream to everyone he meets. It is as if he is waiting for someone to take him there and grant him permission to challenge the prehistoric reptile. Tim shakes his head and flashes a half smile. Most people try to sneak past Lou as quickly as they can, but Tim let him ramble until he was finished. He seized the opportunity in Lou’s digression to forget where he was.
Tim’s evening commute is a blur to him now. He climbs the stairs to the seventh floor and navigates the long drab hallways leading to his studio apartment. Lou’s story about fighting off a rabid junkyard dog is replaying in the back of his mind. Tim freezes when he finds a note from his landlord posted on his door. He gives it a quick skim — itching his dry scalp. His landlord is notifying him that this month’s rent payment is late.
“Is it already the first?” Tim mutters as he checks his phone to be sure. It’s four days past the first. He reaches for his keys, unlocks his door, and enters his apartment.
“It is what it is” Tim whispers to himself. He decides this is a problem for tomorrow and topples over onto his couch.
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