I used to go to big chain car maintenance shops. Well, one Firestone shop because it was behind a Dunkin Donuts and a Starbucks — a place to sit, read, and not be bothered on any budget.
But I heard enough older men in my life grumble about them, "damn chains overchargin' for tar rotations." Now I go to a small garage in Halls.
My 4Runner's left rear tire had picked up a piece of aluminum. I came out one morning, saw the flat, and laughed. It's always an adventure with this car.
The cold has shown up in Tennessee. My hands were frozen, and the lug nuts were a little harder to kick, but I got the tire off and threw on the spare, which was covered in dirt, had plastic pealing off, and wasn't in much better shape than the flat tire. But at least the car could now roll, I smiled and rubbed the grease on my hands together. It's basic auto maintenance, but I sit at a screen all day. Doing something with my hands makes me feel human again.
I ambled down Emory Road to the little garage and handed my keys to the man in the Goodyear Racing windbreaker. He gave the iconic line oft-repeated by mechanics across these United States: "Well, we'll take a look at'er. See what we can do."
I sat in the 4-seat waiting room, beneath the framed picture of a Bugatti and opened my book. An older gentleman in his late 50’s wearing a blue hoodie and Keens sat across from me. He'd set his phone in the chair and had his hands in the front pocket of his sweatshirt.
Since I've been reading Sean of the South, I've felt convicted by how little I talk to strangers. Sean always seems to get a story out of people whether he writes about it or not, he just seems to enjoy it and likes his fellow humans. Me, I prefer to hide behind a book.
"Books!" the gentleman said. "Didn't know people read them anymore." I dog-eared my page.
"Well, it's a way to pass the time," I said. I felt the urge to offer vague pleasantries. I can BS with anyone, a false smile on my face, people pleasing. I rarely want to offer anything real to people. The more vague, the shorter the conversation.
But the fewer conversations, the fewer stories you hear. I set the book on the chair. "Where are you from?" I asked.
"New Jersey. But I’ve been here 33 years. I'm a redneck now."
"One of us. Where in Jersey are you from?"
"I spent a lot of time in the mid-state around Monroe Township. But I'm from the Shore."
"What was that like?"
"Love the ocean. Down around Long Beach Island. Loved it. Used to scuba dive out there."
"Scuba? In New Jersey?"
"Sure did. Once, I was diving in an inlet and had my dive flag up. There were some fishermen nearby, and you gotta have your dive flag. We were down there with a trident spear looking for flounder 'cause we'd take 'em home and fillet 'em."
I bet he lived in a wood bungalow by the sea and cooked over a gas range with a beanie on his head and a Carhartt jacket. He never said that, but I saw it so vividly that I could smell salt and searing fish. He wasn't making eye contact anymore. He was back on the floor of that inlet, looking for tell-tale signs of flounder.
"Well, I felt a tug on my flipper. And I thought, 'That old fellow hooked me.' Sure enough, I felt a few more tugs. He was trying to set the hook, you know, like you do. So you know what I did?"
He looked at me, a smile on his face.
"I waited for one big tug, pulled my knife, and clipped it. It was a big tug; that guy ended up on his ass."
He hitched a ride back to his house because the oil pan in his Accord was done for, and that's a three-hour fix.
As he walked out the door, I picked up my book.
"Got you all done," the mechanic said. "She's out front. Had two holes in there.: screw and a piece of aluminum." I dog-eared my book, smiled, and paid $68 bucks for the patch and the tire rotation.
“See you next time,” I said.
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LBI is beautiful, as is Monroe Township. They make Bayonne look like a toilet bowl. But he really has been down here long if he’s calling flounder by their real name and not “fluke.”