Dirty Drivers

Chapter 2

Gon's POV

I fumbled inside my shop, my muddy shoes making me slip on the old wood floors. I was about half a mile away when it started pouring rain on me.

That's my luck I guess.

I shuffle inside the shop behind the desk and through the beaded back room door. I flip the drenched grocery's on the counter and look around, noticing that I'm the only one at the shop today.

That's perfect, I'll be able to work on my car without Leorio or Zushi pestering me.

The shop was like a maze on the first floor, with unnecessary walls behind counters and doorways without doors that lead outdoors and into other rooms. There was one downstairs bathroom, a stuffed kitchen, and windows in the break room.

Our electricity consisted of lamps, hanging lightbulbs, and plug in fans. The wall's paint was peeling revealing ugly antique wall paper and stripped dark oak panels. Cracked concrete greeted customers at the front, as well as stacked shelves of supplies, magazines, tools, and a few small machines. Strips of antique wallpaper peeled off the wall leaving white and rose patterned dust on the floor.

The floor boards creaked with every step, and had splats of paint and oil coating it. The tip tap of the leaky roof dripping in a pail mellowed out with the pounding rain and the warm hum of the plug in fans. It wasn't nearly perfect but I am fortunate to live in.

The shop had been my place since I dropped out of high school. The owner let me stay and taught me everything I knew about cars. He let me camp in one of the upstairs lofts and allowed me to make myself comfortable. The owner barely came by anymore, just to collect rent and occasionally get his car checked out.

I walk over to the small kitchen and put the groceries away then quickly jog up the two flights of stairs to my room and unlock my door. Stripping out of my soggy clothes, and muddy shoes, I grab a pair of worn down oversized work pants with many pockets and rips and no shirt, lord knew I wasn't about to waste a clean shirt. Since I was the only one here today no one would see the bruises. I slide on a pair of scuffed and dirty heavy duty workmen boots and grab my radio. I exit my room and lock the door, placing the key in one of the many pockets in my pants. I rush downstairs and grab some medical tape and bandaids to prevent blisters.

I finish wrapping my hands and walk into the supply area to grab my tool cart. I roll the cart to the back of the shop and push through the double doors that lead outside.

Outside is filled with rusted cars, bits of medal, tires, and extra pieces of cars that can be reused. The rain echoed on the junkyard medal with the squeaky wheel from the cart. I quickly hauled my way through the rain and made it under the dry tin roof of the workhouse. I turned on the radio and walked over to a car covered with a glossy black tarp. I pull off the tarp revealing my pride and joy.

The car started off as a rusted piece of junk I found in the woods, it was unrecognizable now. It was the first vehicle I started working on, and after years of hard work, trail and error, and failing and learning, racing seemed like a pretty good future for it. I love getting to fix up old cars like Crown Victorias, and El Caminos, but this 1985 Mustang was my dirty little secret.

She was going to have a deep green paint job with black and silver pinstripes. And beautiful whitewall tires that matched the refurbished white leather interior. The bench seats no longer were yellow and had cracks, but the cars radio and front lights still didn't work. The windows were clear and rolled down with a crank under the door handle, well they were supposed to, they got jammed quite often. The engine was still faltering alongside my search for silver tire rings, but I was still trying to fish myself out of the debt I dug myself and the store into.