Car Trouble-1
Car Trouble
Terrence Jackson is on his way home from another long day at the advertising firm he owns when he hears it—a steady chug-chug-chug beneath the hood of his brand new, candy-apple red Mercedes that he knows the sports car shouldn’t be making. He paid too much money for this damn thing to have it sound like an old man wheezing uphill. The late afternoon heat only adds to his discomfort. By the time he pulls into the driveway of his modest, split-level home, he’s ready to call the dealership and chew someone out for selling him a lemon.
By morning, he’s calm enough to call the firm first to tell them he’ll be late. His secretary answers. A pretty, young girl with a thick Southern accent, Melissa Jones is fresh out of college and, if truth be told, was hired more for her looks than her filing abilities. Though Terrence isn’t the least bit interested in the fairer s*x, she’s nice to look at, and sounds sweet on the phone. “Would you like me to call Gary’s Auto for you, Mr. Jackson?” she asks, her voice bright despite the early hour. “They’re such nice people there. I always have them service my car.”
“I was planning to take it back to the dealer,” Terrence admits. “It’s not that old.”
Through his cell phone, he hears the rustle of papers as Melissa digs amid her obscure filing system to find the paperwork on the car. He’s already behind the wheel of his Mercedes, his tie not quite cinched tight just yet. The first beads of sweat trickle down the back of his thick neck into the cool cotton of his button-down shirt. He angles the rear-view mirror to take a look at himself—dark skin with a hint of reddish undertones like mahogany, short buzzed hair beginning to turn gray at the temples, large eyes the warm color of hot chocolate. He’s a big man, a one-time high school football quarterback now on the downhill side of forty and picking up speed. The muscle around his middle has begun to soften, and lines etch around his eyes when he smiles. Melissa calls him handsome, in a flirty, innocent way that suggests she thinks he’s past his prime.
After an eternity, she tells him, “No, sir. You bought the car last year, and you didn’t get the extended warranty. If you don’t mind me saying, I think the dealership would just rip you off. Gary’s is pretty cheap.”
For a young co-ed on a tight budget, Gary’s might be fine perhaps, but not for the principal of Richmond’s largest ad firm. Still, Terrence is touched she’d think him naïve enough to get rooked by the dealer.
“Besides,” she says amid a flurry of noise as she shoves the papers back into her unorganized drawer, “Gary’s is just down the street. If you have to leave your car there, you can walk to the office, or I can send someone over to pick you up.”
That cinches it. “All right,” Terrence teases, “you’ve convinced me. Do you get a commission or something for referring people that way?”
“I’m sort of seeing Gary,” she admits with a laugh. “I can call them for you—”
Figures. “Just give me the number. I know you have a million other things you need to be doing. I can’t tie you up any longer.”
As Terrence dials the service station, he turns the key in his ignition. The engine purrs like a kitten, without complaint. Maybe something just got caught up under the hood, he thinks as he puts the car into reverse. With the phone ringing in his ear, he eases his foot off the clutch, gives it a little gas…
A heavy knocking sound comes from the hood, as if gremlins beat against the metal, trying to get out. Terrence steps on the brake and the car stalls beneath him. f**k.
Before he can restart the car, a young male voice answers the phone with a gruff hello. Despite the fact that it’s after eight in the morning, the guy sounds as if he just woke up. He even punctuates his greeting with a barely stifled yawn.
Terrence isn’t impressed. He hates businesses that answer the phone without announcing their name. The first thing Melissa says when she picks up the receiver is, “Jackson Ads.” Callers don’t have to wonder if they called the wrong number.
His voice is sharper than he intends it to be when he snaps, “This Gary’s?”
“Yeah. This is Gary. Who’s this?”
Terrence can almost picture the guy—one of those dark Italian boys, judging from his northern accent. He was probably dozing at his desk when the phone rang, and even now rubs his eyes sleepily, his dark hair a disheveled mess, his cheeks and chin rough with stubble he should’ve shaved off but didn’t.
And Melissa recommends this place?
“Listen up, son,” Terrence says, his already deep voice dropping a notch or two. A big guy like him can sound positively intimidating on the phone. “I need my car serviced, and my secretary suggested your place. Can you take a look at it today?”
Gary groans. Literally, over the phone, he groans in Terrence’s ear. As if this car were the last thing he needed right now. Terrence is about to hang up and just call one of the name brand places, Jiffy Lube maybe, Meineke or Tuffy or even Walmart, anywhere other than this rinky-dink little shop called Gary’s.
But then Gary sighs. “My mechanic should be in around nine. I only got one guy working today, so I don’t know how long you’ll have to wait.”
“Fine.” Terrence thinks he’ll wait all damn day if he has to, if only to piss Gary off.
Through the phone, he hears Gary scrambling around for something, a pen maybe, or a piece of paper. He sounds as organized as Melissa. “What kind of car is it?”
With a certain measure of pride in his voice, Terrence tells him, “A Mercedes.”
Gary groans again.
Rich prick, that groan says. A dull anger rises in Terrence at the implied prejudice he thinks he hears in that groan, and part of him hopes this Gary i***t is at the shop when he arrives, because he plans on telling him exactly what he thinks of the guy’s customer service and phone etiquette. How is it someone half his age can make him feel so unworthy and unimportant with just a few unintelligent grunts? Terrence wants to know that. Melissa likes this place? Did she actually say the people were friendly?
“Be here in a half hour,” Gary says, then hangs up. He doesn’t ask for Terrence’s number, the model of the car, his name, even.
Fuck. Terrence twists the key in the ignition so hard, the engine growls as if goosed. This time when he peels out of his driveway, he doesn’t give the car time to act up. It chugs to itself, once, then settles for a desultory knock every now and then to remind him it’s unhappy.
After a few feet, Terrence rolls down the window and a sweet spring breeze fills the car. A few beads of sweat have begun to trickle down the side of his face. He raises an arm, presses his jaw against his shoulder, and wipes the sweat away.
This is not going to be a fun day.
