Counter Man
Fan belts hang on nails like hunting trophies. Behind the counter pinned to the chipped brown paneling are several calendars with faded images of classic cars or girls with teased hair and small tops holding a wrench with an inviting look. Each calendar shows a different month and year that has long since past. I wonder about writing down the random pattern to see if they form some kind of code, but I’ve lost interest because the sound of grinding metal brings me back to the question of how much will this set me back? In the small waiting area, I sit on one of the metal folding chairs that serve as a conduit for sending small electric pains straight to my lower back. The man behind the counter answers phones and shuffles yellow receipts paying no attention as he is used to having a waiting audience as he works. He knows if he catches anyone’s eye, he will be forced into small conversations that he has no interest in. When he senses a growing restlessness, he volunteers bits of information, “They are checking the tires and it should be about 15 more minutes.” It does seem to collectively calm us to know work is actually being done in this gasoline and grease scented purgatory. Occasionally one of the guys from the garage comes to confer with him about a needed part or else to drop off a dirt-stained piece of paper that he quickly turns into an invoice. He then calls out a color and car model because giving us the dignity of our own names would be too much. The newly freed person jumps up and quickly passes their credit card through as if it is opening a gate. While the machine churns out the small tongue of a white receipt, he pushes their keys across the counter and says “out front”.
I pull out a New Yorker from by bag and begin to read about a young boy named Adam whose precociousness in his understanding of the stock market has already made his family millionaires. The article didn’t say if he went to school or if instead, they kept him locked in his bedroom with large computer screens broadcasting Nasdaq, NYSE and international markets while they wait just outside in the hallway for his next oracle pronouncement. The writer called him “Baby Buffett”. While I am wondering if Adam will one day kill his parents, the woman next to me says, “Isn’t that fascinating?” I think she has been reading over my shoulder and is in support of Adam losing his childhood for greed, but instead I look up and then follow her eyes to where there is a small rust colored bird silently hopping up and down on the dirty cement floor like a bird mime. She asks me, “Don’t you think the bird would rather be flying free then stuck here with us?” Without waiting for my answer, she kneels down cupping the bird in her hands so its small body contracts into the dark cave of her palms, and then as if I trained for this moment all my life, I get up and open the glass door and we both step outside. She looks at me and then splays her hands and with a slight push the bird flies into the air and away from us. “Lucky bird,” I say and she agrees. I hold the door back open for her and we both walk to our original chairs while the counter man says nothing.
Eventually she is called and then it is just me. He turns the radio on to fill the space. It is tuned to a talk radio show where I hear men’s voices yelling about liberal snowflakes and transgender groomers,” so I stand up and walk over to the counter to ask him to change the station. He looks at me and turns the volume up just a bit more. I make my request again which seems to be throwing a gauntlet because he comes quickly from around the counter and stands in front of me with a slash of red heat rising from his neck. I am surprised to see that he’s at least a foot shorter than me, and I am not tall. “Do you know you have a tall man’s face?” I ask him. As if hit, he squares his shoulders and narrows his eyes, “My shop. My radio. You can wait outside until your car is ready.” He then reaches up pulling the door handle to set me free.
Caren Lee Brenman lives and writes in Philadelphia PA. Her work has appeared in Philadelphia Stories, Drunk Monkeys and Still Harbor’s Anchor Magazine.