Читать книгу A Family Thing - Randy Beal - Страница 5

I rubbed my eyes, the glow of the computer finally getting to me. How long had I been sitting here trying to finish the article? "Susan will kill me," I muttered out loud, though no one was in the room with me. Rachel was no doubt already in bed; she got so tired so early these days.

It suddenly occurred to me that my unfinished piece on a local charity just needed something from an old article. I knew there was a print out of that somewhere. I started shuffling through the various piles on my desk and inadvertently knocked one of them over, which fell behind the desk into spider territory. I was down on my hands and knees trying to tease it out when Rachel smacked me soundly on the rump.

"Careful where you point that thing, babe," she joked.

"What are you still doing up?" I asked without rising. "And I didn't say stop."

She smacked me even harder. "Look at this when you're done mooning me."

I shook my fanny a few more times, and rose to see what she had. A handful of swatches. Looked like she was still undecided on colors for the nursery.

"What do you think of this combo? And what are YOU still doing locked away in here? I thought your article was due at nine."

"You know I always use up my one hour grace period." I flipped through the swatches. "Seriously? You think I have an opinion between taupe and mauve?" I winked, just in case I needed to prevent a mysterious offense. "This one," I pointed.

Rachel tore the swatch I had pointed to in half and threw it in the trash. "Excellent work. Helpful as always."

I pretended to be more shocked than I was. "Why'd you ask me in the first place if you were just going to pick what you wanted?"

"I wanted to make you feel like you were a part of this, even though we both really know who's in charge."

I rolled my eyes.

"I saw that," she said. "The nursery color is no big deal, but you'd better up your game, mister, when this baby is born." She jabbed a finger into my chest.

A flash of anger rose up in me and for an instant I envisioned myself bending that finger backwards until she cried out in pain. Instead I said, "What are you talking about? I'll get the nursery done in time."

"Will you?" she paused for a moment as if deciding to push it further, then turned without waiting for an answer.

I huffed and went back to searching for the article. I found it a short time later, worked it in to the right place, ran spell check, and submitted it to Susan, all well within my one hour grace period. I should have been pleased with myself, but instead I was still in full-on stew mode with a low and slow setting and couldn't shake what Rachel had said about upping my game. Why did that bother me so much?

I put my head down on the desk to rest for a moment.

I guess Rachel's finger-pointing bothered me more than I wanted to admit. Maybe because she was right. I was dragging my feet: on the nursery, on being ready, on this whole dad thing, even though it was my idea to begin with. I had promised to read What to Expect When You're Expecting faithfully along with Rachel, but hadn't gotten past the first chapter. I did want to—DO want to--have a kid. It was Rachel who initially resisted the idea. I now found it difficult to remember the arguments I had used on her. Whatever it was, it did the trick and in her usual Rachel way, once she had resigned herself to the idea, she went after it hard core and by-the-book. She insisted we read the standard parenting books, dove into planning the nursery, reminded me at every turn how things would change. At first, it was endearing, seeing her finally excited about my dream. But her zeal got me thinking that I should be more excited and why wasn't I?

True, this was all new territory for us, but I usually was up for change, for an adventure. Like when Dad would poke his head into my room growing up and say, "What ya doing, boy? Wanna go for a drive?" He never told me where we were going. It was always a surprise. Sometimes there was ice cream at the end of it. Or sometimes we were visiting a relative. Or offering free mechanic services for a shut in. But it didn't matter to me back then. I just loved going for the joy of the journey.

I can picture Dad now, one hand draped across the wheel casually, a setting sun tinting his hair gold. He's absently tapping the lid of his nearly empty Styrofoam coffee cup while telling me a story about the work day. Traffic is swirling around us at 75 miles per hour despite the posted 65 signs, but we seem to be frozen in time as cars whiz by.

"Oh shit!" I see it a split second before Dad does. The semi in front of us stops suddenly and the "how's my driving?" ad on the hinged back door rushes up to eye level. I hear a horrific crunching sound and watch helplessly in horror as the tailgate of the semi smashes through the windshield. Glass flies everywhere.

Adrenaline takes over and I'm out of the car the next instant. I realize my Dad has also made it out. He gives me a look as if to say, "Holy crap! Did that just happen?" But we don't say anything out loud. Our pick-up is totaled. There is no conceivable way anyone could have made it out of that alive, yet here we both are, standing beside the wreck with not a scratch on us.

I woke up instantly, relieved this was only a dream, but stunned at how vivid it was. It was the kind of dream that leaves an emotion behind even as the image fades.

I found myself missing the times when Dad and I worked together. We sometimes could go for most of the day in the shop and not talk to each other. I would be working the front desk, talking with customers, scheduling the mechanics shifts while Dad would be back in the shop with the guys, getting his hands dirty, busting his hump to make sure we got a customer's car ready by the end of the day. We might pass each other briefly in the hall and he'd nod his head and say, "Son." Other days when the orders were slow, we'd hang out in the office playing stupid office games and drinking coffee.

Ah the smell of the shop . . . smell memories suddenly permeated the air. Slightly burnt coffee was always at the base mixed in with used oil and the chalky dustiness of Oil-Dri. Food smells from the guys' ever-present brown-bag lunches wafted in and out, in particular Dad's fried bologna and raw onion sandwiches. It was rare for the mechanics to bring fast food in. They saved money by bringing in peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and a bag of chips. Dad always had a box of donuts in the kitchen, and by the afternoon one or two of the stale ones that had sat out added their doughy sweetness to the aroma party. We always hazed the new guys by telling them it was their responsibility to bring in donuts in the morning--the good ones from Dunkin with chocolate icing and sprinkles. Before long they would figure out they were being duped and we reverted back to the plain gas-station bargain donuts that Dad could justify bringing in.

And Old Spice. Charlie always seemed to steep himself in it. He was old school that way and it might have been off-putting if Charlie weren't so darn funny. If there were outbursts of laughter floating above the clank of the tools in the shop, you could be sure Charlie was behind it. Charlie was as old as the shop itself--the first employee Dad had officially hired. He had worked as a mechanic in the Army and was always ready with a story about his time spent in the service.

Charlie was a talker, but one who could take apart a carburetor or flush out a radiator while regaling me with a story and he'd never skip a beat with either. He was no slacker, just very energetic and jovial.

"See you later," we'd say at the end of a shift.

"Not if I see you first," was Charlie's constant reply. Even though we knew it was coming and had heard it a thousand times, it still seemed funny coming from him.

It was always fun to be around Charlie. One got the sense that instead of damaging him, his years in the Army had shaped him and given him purpose and made him happy. While I couldn't fully relate to his war stories, I shared a corny sense of humor with him. Some of the jokes I still tell to this day came from Charlie. His personal favorite:

"Man goes to the doctor and says, 'Doctor, you gotta help me. Every time I drink a cup of coffee, I get a stabbing pain in my eye. What should I do?' The doctor says, 'Take the spoon out first.'"

On slow days, we'd sit around the shop and pitch lug nuts into Styrofoam cups while Charlie gave us his best imitation of his barrack's sergeant or walked us through a battle. Dad sponsored a snack tray that sat out in the afternoons: chips, cookies, jerky, sodas, and the like, provided by an outside vendor. Payment worked on the "honor system." Little did Dad know his son was eating up the profits by sneaking snacks. I always felt guilty later and would secretly pay back the balance in cash when the vendor noted how much they were short.

Of course, Mitch put an end to all that. Dad brought Mitch on initially as a temporary mechanic to help with overflow, but soon Mitch proved to be indispensible and Dad offered him a full time position. I always felt that Mitch kissed up to Dad and only put his best foot forward when Dad was there to see it. In moments of real honesty, though, I knew it was because Mitch was damn good at his job. Mitch was twice as fast and three times as knowledgeable as anyone else on staff, except maybe Charlie and Dad himself. Mitch and I didn't see eye to eye on anything. Dad moved me to an office role shortly after Mitch went full time, which meant I spent less time hob-nobbing with the guys. It was the beginning of my dissatisfaction with working at the shop and made me long for the good ol' days.