Cause and Effect

Chapter 2

quatervois [kah-tehr-vwa]

(n). a crossroads; a critical decision or turning point in ones life

//--//--//

Charles Smith worked at VDL Car Shop for about three years now, taking over unofficially as head technician for the shop when the last one suddenly became part-time only coming a few times a week if that. 

He worked hard, real hard, and his technicians were jealous of the way he was able to tune up an engine so quick, face smeared with oil and grease, hands as gentle as if the engine was a living creature. 

Boss didn't come in much either, just coming in a few times a month to look over the expenses, to check over the money and Charles knew enough of his erratic comings and goings when to expect him and when to get the receipts out for him. 

He finished up work, wiping his hands on an old grease rag, having sent his co-workers home a few hours ago, before remembering the man that had pulled up in the car that had looked like it was one hell rattle away from falling to pieces. He'd never seen the man around before, he'd think he would, it was something about, he pulled out the scrap of paper, John that made him stand out. He pulled out his phone, punched in a few numbers, and waited. 

"Hello," he said finally, staring down at the paper in his hand. "Man came in today, said we were hirin'."

He paused standing up, one hand brushing down over his uniform. A desperate attempt to remove any grease in his skin. "Sure, I told him we weren't hirin'. But he said Tilly sent 'im."

One hand moved up, moving the long strings of hair from the nape of his neck back over his shoulder. "Right, you know what we told her."

He turned off the lights, moved toward the office, and collected the money into a series of envelopes before placing them into the filing cabinet. "Mhm, yeah. Having another man here would lessen the load, sure."

He was locking up now, keys dangling from his belt as he checked doors and windows. "Could mean less hours here." 

The VDL Car Shop was dark now and he ducked into his car, phone pressed into his cheek. "Do you want me to call him back then?" 

He waited, one hand out the window, as the man on the other end spoke. "Sure, I'll call him tomorrow. Did you want to, or..." 

He pulled out, wheels grinding against the gravel. "Alright, I'll see you tomorrow sir."

//--//--//

John hadn't really expected a call back the next day. 

He was passed out in his car, having celebrated his maybe job by getting plastered and stumbled back to his car, barely able to throw the door open and crawl inside before passing out. The vibrations of his phone bit into his back, and he opened his eyes, wincing against the sun that peeked past his homemade curtain. He turned over, wiping away the drool that had formed under him, sticking him to the leather seat below and groaning when he realized he hadn't really had the mental capacity to fall asleep in the back seat last night, but had slept all curled up and crooked in his passenger seat. He stretched out, back hating him. 

His phone vibrated again, and he reached out to find it. His phone never rang, nobody was interested enough in him to call anyway, and he felt kind of panicked about opening the thing up and answering. He fumbled it a bit, before finally prying it open. 

"Hey," he said tiredly, suddenly realizing he was hungover as hell. 

There was a pause on the other side, and John wanted to die. "Is this John Marston?"