Right before closing, I’m arguing with a kid who can’t be more than seventeen, feeling like an old man. He wants me to install hydraulics in the beige 2007 Volkswagen Jetta that his parents gave him for his birthday. I’ve told him all the reasons it’s a stupid idea and he’s still standing there with this “but, really, why not?” look on his weaselly little face.
“You really want to know why?” I finally ask him. “I mean, besides the fact that it’s not a lowrider, it’s a fucking Jetta, and besides the fact that it’s 2014? Because you’ll look like a class-A douchebag. That’s why.”
This is not how I’m supposed to talk to customers, but this kid is seventeen and I’m sure he’s called worse in this neighborhood every day. Besides, there’s no one around to hear me.
Except that as I finish the thought, someone snorts in amusement, and when I look up, there’s Rafael.
The kid turns and seems excited when he sees Rafael. “You get it, right, yo?” he says, his speech sliding into a new cadence.
“Listen to him, man,” Rafael says, not unkindly. “Rich white kid gets hydraulics in a clean-looking car? Your shit’ll be gone from the parking lot by lunchtime the first day you drive it.”
The kid just grins, sticks his hand out, and tries to high-five Rafael.
“Okay, cool, man, cool,” he says, mostly to himself, as he drifts out the door.
“He’s probably going to go get it done somewhere else,” Rafael says. I nod.
“You got kids or something?”
“Nope.”
“Um, okay. So, like I said, there was no leak. Engine’s in good condition. I changed the oil, topped off your fluids, and put some air in your tires, but other than that, she’s good.”
“Great. What do I owe you?”
“Thirty-five.” I know I shouldn’t charge him—the guy stepped into a fight for me when we’d never even met—but Brian and Pop both saw him bring the car in and if either of them notice there’s no receipt, they’ll want to know why. Rafael steps close enough to hand me the cash, and doesn’t step away. I find myself looking up at him because it’s less awkward than staring at the skin of his throat.
“Listen,” he says, his voice pitched low even though there’s no one else on the floor, “there’s something I’d like to talk to you about. Are you free sometime this week to grab a coffee or some dinner?”
He’s not asking me on a date, is he? He doesn’t seem flirtatious; pretty serious, in fact.
“Uh….”
“I’d like to ask for your help with something. If it turns out you’re interested.”
I do owe him a pretty massive favor. But I don’t want to go out for coffee or dinner with the guy. Someone might see us.
“Yeah. Okay. Um, why don’t you come to my place. Since you already know where it is,” I can’t help but add under my breath.
“Okay. Are you free tomorrow night?”
I nod. “Come over around 7:30?” I hand him his key and a receipt.
“See you tomorrow, Colin,” he says slowly, looking right at me, and folds himself into his car. And that? That was flirtatious.
THE NEXT day when I get home from work, I get right in the shower and blast the water as hot as it will go, my skin pinking in seconds. Sometimes it feels like, no matter how hard I scrub, I never get the grime off. Then the next day I’m filthy all over again. My mom used to say she even smelled like oil because Pop could never completely get rid of the smell. It clung to his hair, their linens, and eventually, to her.
Today is her birthday. She would’ve been sixty. When I left the shop, Pop was already drunk, and Sam gave me a look that meant he knew what today is and we should let him be.
Even though I just got out of the shower, I’m already feeling sweaty and anxious, so I grab a beer to calm my nerves and cool me off.
In the second after the doorbell rings but before I pull the door open, this absurd image flashes through my head: Rafael standing there in a tuxedo, with a corsage in a plastic clamshell and a limo waiting in the background. Something is seriously wrong with me. Get it together, asshole.
Rafael is not wearing a tux. He’s wearing jeans that fit him perfectly, navy-and-gray New Balance classics, and a tight black T-shirt. With his hair pulled back, his prominent cheekbones make him look even more severe.
He sticks out a hand and at first I fumble, thinking he wants to shake, but he’s passing me a carton of Turkey Hill Cookies ’n Cream and I can’t help but smile at how much better than a corsage that is.
“Oh, awesome, thanks. C’mon in.”
As I close the door, though, there’s the disconcerting sound of a thump from behind me. I hit the bedroom door with Rafael right on my heel. Then from the closet comes a quiet mewling, and I relax. Beneath a newly fallen pile of towels, old shoes, and baseball caps is Shelby, scrabbling while wrapped up in a flannel shirt. Cradling the ice cream like a football in the crook of my arm, I pluck the kitten out of the mess and give it a pat on the head. When it launches itself off my chest to land on Rafael’s crossed arms, he looks startled, but quickly recovers, petting the cat until it purrs like a real Mustang.