I work at the shop from nine to five, Monday through Friday. I could try to describe what the shop looks like for you, but that feels like a waste of both our time. Hop in your car and drive to the nearest auto shop. That. It looks exactly like that.
Martin Auto has two mechanics—Dave, who's old and car-obsessed, and John, who's young and car-obsessed—and only schedules about ten appointments a day. The owner, Fred, doesn't actually work in the shop anymore, so I've seen him maybe three times since I started. I answer the phone, check people in and process their payments, tidy up the break room and empty the garbage cans. And...that's about it.
There are definitely good things about it. It pays just enough for me to chip away at my student loan, and it's not very busy, which gives me plenty of time to do Wordle and research arts degrees. And the town of Waldon is actually pretty lovely, with brightly colored buildings scattered around a small fishing harbor, red sandstone cliffs to the east, and a long stretch of farmland to the west. The air always smells like the sea, and in spring and fall, I wake up to the sound of lobster boats whirring in the harbor. If I was someone who wanted a small-town life, I might be perfectly happy here.
Hang on a minute.
Happy.
H, P, Y.
Of course! I smack my forehead with the heel of my hand and swipe open Wordle. I type in HAPPY and voilà. The letters turn green, one after another. My streak's up to three-hundred-and-one days!
As I do a little celebration dance in my chair, the shop doorbell jingles and an elderly woman with curly white hair steps inside. She's wearing a heavy coat even though it's pretty warm out for May, and she looks vaguely familiar, although that isn't saying much. Waldon is such a small town that basically everyone looks vaguely familiar.
"Morning," I say cheerfully. "Do you have an appointment?" I glance down at the schedule and wonder if she's "Maud Williams, tire change, 9:30 a.m."
She looks a bit nervous. "No, there's something wrong with my car. It's making this awful sound."
"Oh no." I pull a sympathetic face. "Have you brought your car to us before? What's your name?"
"Ethel Cox."
I type her name into the awful, ancient program they use to keep track of customers and open her file. "You were here last month." I squint at the scanned receipt, struggling to make out a word of Dave's writing. "Your car was acting up then, too, wasn't it?" I squint harder. "For a—a squelching noise, it says?"
"A squeaking," Ethel corrects.
"And did they fix it?" I ask uncertainly. I can see that Dave charged her forty dollars last time, but I can't see exactly why.
"No, they couldn't find anything wrong! Then the squeaking stopped, just like that. I thought it must have fixed itself, but now there's a new sound." Ethel's brow creases. "Could someone look at it today? I've got bridge in Charlottetown at three."
She looks really stressed, poor thing. "It's a pretty light day," I tell her. "Let me go see if they can squeeze you in."
She brightens. "Oh, thank you."
I smile at her and then retreat into the garage to find Dave.
He's got a car up on the lift that belongs to one of the local lawyers. It's an old Porsche that's apparently really rare or interesting or something. Dave and John both went nuts over it when she brought it in.
"Morning, Emily," Dave says. He's a tall white guy in his late fifties, with graying hair, broad shoulders and large, calloused hands.
He's divorced, with two adult children named Analyn and Jenny.
Or at least, that's what I've managed to glean from his Facebook page. He's not big on personal talk, Dave.
"Morning," I reply. "Do you have time for a fit in today? There's a woman here whose car is making a weird sound."
"Not today," Dave says. "John might."
I turn away with an inward sigh. Great.
It's not that I don't like John, it's just—
Actually, no. That's exactly it. I don't like John.
