I’m ready.
I park my hands on my hips, survey the garage, and drink in the place that’s been my second home for nearly a decade. Checking out the way this shop looks.
Awesome.
That’s how it looks.
Best in the city, best in the Tri-state region. Hell, let’s be blunt—best in the country.
It’s been dubbed the gold standard by countless magazines and papers, and topped tons of “best of” lists. That’s why my garage was featured in a reality series showcasing kick-ass rebuilt classics.
Framed posters of the cars I’ve restored line the walls. Like the Studebaker Golden Hawk that dampened as many panties as the leading man who drove it for six seasons of The Bad Doctor.
Or the 1971 Pontiac GTO that starred in a recent reboot of Disco Nights and Hollywood Days.
And, my personal favorite—the sleek black Bentley that ended up splashed across the movie poster for a blockbuster spy flick.
All courtesy of Jesse’s Garage.
I’m barely thirty, and I’m one lucky bastard to have had my tools, my hands, and my vision all over these sweet wheels.
Sweeping out an arm to encompass the goodness, I turn to my buddy Max. “Admit it. She’s perfect.” Because all garages, all cars, hell, all good things are shes.
“Of course she’s perfect. That was the plan.” He sets the final page from a stack of documents on the counter beside us. He offers me a pen. “And because she is, I’ll need your John Hancock one last time.”
I scratch out my signature on the final page, then hand it to him with pride thrumming through me.
I did this.
I made this happen.
Max takes the pages, drops them into a folder in his messenger bag, and pats the side of it. The messenger bag is incongruous on a lawyer. But then again, so are the skinny pants and paisley patterned button-down. Max is rocking a look I call Brooklyn hipster attorney versus city-slicker in a three-piece suit.
“And now you, sir, are the proud owner of a brand-new Edsel,” he says.
“Anyone ever told you you’re a smart-ass?”
“Anyone ever told you not to hire a friend as your business attorney?” he asks with a wink.
“Look at you. A lawyer, cracking jokes.”
“Almost as unheard of as hand delivery of documents from legal counsel.”
“Benefits of being friends with said legal counsel.”
He adopts a blank expression. “Friends? We’re friends?”
I roll my eyes. “Dickhead.”
He glances at his watch. “That’ll add another five minutes to your hour.”
“But it took less than five seconds to say.”
“Billing increments. You know how it goes.”
“Speaking of you working off the clock for a buddy, want to grab a beer tonight to celebrate the deal?”
He taps his chin. “Hmmm. In that case, add a full sixty minutes.”