Come Closer

1.

Continuing from the book -  'Come Over'.

I bring you - 'Come Closer'.

Vote, Comment, and Enjoy.

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Park the vehicle on a dry and install wheel chocks. I should probably wear goggles and gloves, but I never have.

   Open the hood and check the brake fluid reservoir. It's full, so some fluid needs to be removed. This will help avoid spillage due to overflow when compressing the brake caliper piston.

Next, raise the vehicle and remove the wheel. Then, remove the bolts and the caliber. I should be able to reach the caliper bolts pretty easily.

My movements are swift and deliberate. It takes me about 30 minutes to change the brake pads and rotors before returning to the register to ring up the customer, who has been waiting very impatiently.

"Alright, sir. You're car is ready, I'll ring up your total and you can be on your way. Okay?-"

"Finally! Jesus Christ!" He exclaims querulously.

"Right..." I respond dryly, not even slightly bothered. "For your front-left and right axles, each brake pad was $24 dollars, rotor replacement was $40, calipers $37.75-"

"Didn't we do this already? Christ, I feel like I'm having Déjà Vu. Just ring me up already, will ya'!" He cuts in before slapping his debit card onto the counter under an open palm.

I stone face him. My jaw clenches tightly as I exert all my energy into restraining my eye from twitching with agitation. He reminds me of my late father - may he forever rot in hell.

Seventeen years under the persecution of a man can harden you like nothing else.

"$575." I state, before waiting for his hand to move away from the card.

It does and I quickly take it up before swiping harshly and slamming the card and receipt back into the counter in the same fashion; all the while, not losing eye contact with him.

"Fuckin' homos, I swear.-" He mutters as he takes the card and hurriedly pushes himself into the garage where his car is waiting.

"Dickhead." I mutter audibly as I watch him drive off.

"That guy was a total dick earlier." My coworker, Buddy, says to me as we close up the shop for the night.

"Who isn't nowadays?" I respond.

"I'm not!" He says as he slides his arms into his leather jacket.

I just glare at him, unconvinced as I slowly slide the shop keys into my jacket pocket.

"Hey! I have one, but one I am not!" He proclaims.

"Right..." I drag out teasingly. "See you tomorrow, Buddy."

"Jerk!" He calls out as I walk away.

"Dirt-neck!" I respond over my shoulder.

Buddy and I aren't exactly close friends. We work together at a small auto garage that I opened 2 years ago and we occasionally have drinks at the local pub up the street. That's it. He's twenty-one, almost a foot shorter than my 5'9" stature, and if Buddy wasn't the name written on his birth certificate, I would never place his ass behind the meaning of the word. He's a simple, goofy kid - the type to play the comedic relief in a Disney show. I tolerate his presence.