First of all, before you ask, no, I don’t have any particular interest in cars. I applied for this job for one reason and one reason only: it was near a cute house that had crazy low rent. See, in my last year of university, when I realized I wanted to work in a creative field like film or art, it was too late to go back and change my major. But I figured, hey, a bachelor’s of science is still adegree. I could still apply for low-paying entry positions or internships in creative fields. Surely my passion and enthusiasm would make up for my lack of a BA.
(Spoiler alert: they didn’t.)
The trouble was, for every job or internship I applied for, I was competing with equally passionate, enthusiastic people who had figured out what they wanted to do in the womb, like you’re supposed to, and who not only had proper arts degrees but who had already done all these impressive, artsy things. Like when I applied for a job at an art gallery in Toronto that went to a girl who had won a National Geographic youth photography award. Or when I applied for an internship at a Vancouver film studio that went to a twenty-one-year-old who had directed an award-winning short film. And honestly, I don’t blame them for not choosing me. I wouldn’t have chosen me either. But it felt like I was trapped in a catch-22. I couldn’t get a job without any experience, and I couldn’t get any experience without getting a job.
To make some money in the meantime, I applied for a few entry-level jobs for people with a bachelor’s in chemistry (my actual degree), but there I ran into the opposite problem. I had the degree and decent grades but absolutely zero passion or enthusiasm. I didn’t want to be an agricultural chemist or a toxicologist or a water chemist (whatever that is), and I just couldn’t fake it well enough to get past an interview.
So, after about a hundred rejections (and eighteen months of living with my parents in their tiny condo in Halifax), I made a new plan. I was going to go back to school and do a proper, creative degree. But I already had a twenty-six-thousand-dollar student loan from my bachelor’s in chemistry, and no clue which arts degree I wanted to do. I wanted to choose the right thing this time, and every time I thought I knew for sure—Writing for Film and TV, yes!—I’d get prickles of doubt when I actually started the application. Was this what I was really passionate about, or did itjustsoundcool? What if I dug myself twenty-six thousand dollars deeper into my student debt hole and wound up with nothing to show for it?
I waffled and I stressed, and all the while my loan payments piled up and my living situation grew a little more strained. Not that I don’t get along well with my parents or anything, but it was pretty tight quarters, and I just felt so pathetic every time I’d run into an old friend and they’d ask, “Where you living these days?”
So, when my mother’s friend told me her sister was looking for someone to rent their house in Waldon, Prince Edward Island, for practically nothing, I jumped onto my computer to find jobs nearby. And there were exactly two: line cook at a local restaurant and receptionist at an auto shop called Martin Auto.
I applied for both. After a ten-minute phone interview with the auto shop owner, Fred Martin, during which he asked me zero questions and complained at length about his old receptionist leaving without any warning, I got the job.
(It’s probably lucky for the people of Waldon that the restaurant never called.)
I work at the shop from nine to five, Monday through Friday. I could try to describe what the shop looks like for you, but that feels like a waste of both our time. Hop in your car and drive to the nearest auto shop. That. It looks exactly like that.
Martin Auto has two mechanics—Dave, who’s old and car-obsessed, and John, who’s young and car-obsessed—and only schedules about ten appointments a day. The owner, Fred, doesn’t actually work in the shop anymore, so I’ve seen him maybe three times since I started. I answer the phone, check people in and process their payments, tidy up the break room, and empty the garbage cans. And... that’s about it.
There are definitely good things about it. It pays just enough for me to chip away at my student loan, and it’s not very busy, which gives me plenty of time to do Wordle and research arts degrees. And the town of Waldon is actually pretty lovely, with brightly colored buildings scattered around a small fishing harbor, red sandstone cliffs to the east, and a long stretch of farmland to the west. The air always smells like the sea, and in spring and fall, I wake up to the sound of lobster boats whirring in the harbor. If I was someone who wanted a small-town life, I might be perfectly happy here.
Hang on a minute.
Happy.
H, P, Y.
Of course! I smack my forehead with the heel of my hand and swipe open Wordle. I type in HAPPY and voilà. The letters turn green, one after another. My streak’s up to three hundred and one days!
As I do a little celebration dance in my chair, the shop doorbell jingles and an elderly woman with curly white hair steps inside. She’s wearing a heavy coat even though it’s pretty warm out for May, and she looks vaguely familiar, although that isn’t saying much. Waldon is such a small town that basically everyone looks vaguely familiar.
“Morning,” I say cheerfully. “Do you have an appointment?” I glance down at the schedule and wonder if she’s “Maud Williams, tire change, 9:30 a.m.”
She looks a bit nervous. “No, there’s something wrong with my car. It’s making this awful sound.”
“Oh no.” I pull a sympathetic face. “Have you brought your car to us before? What’s your name?”
“Ethel Cox.”
I type her name into the awful, ancient program they use to keep track of customers and open her file. “You were here last month.” I squint at the scanned receipt, struggling to make out a word of Dave’s writing. “Your car was acting up then, too, wasn’t it?” I squint harder. “For a—a squelching noise, it says?”
“A squeaking,” Ethel corrects.
“And did they fix it?” I ask uncertainly. I can see that Dave charged her forty dollars last time, but I can’t see exactly why.
“No, they couldn’t find anything wrong! Then the squeaking stopped, just like that. I thought it must have fixed itself, but now there’s a new sound.” Ethel’s brow creases. “Could someone look at it today? I’ve got bridge in Charlottetown at three.”
She looks really stressed, poor thing. “It’s a pretty light day,” I tell her. “Let me go see if they can squeeze you in.”
She brightens. “Oh, thank you.”
I smile at her and then retreat into the garage to find Dave. He’s got a car up on the lift that belongs to one of the local lawyers. It’s an old Porsche that’s apparently really rare or interesting or something. Dave and John both went nuts over it when she brought it in.
“Morning, Emily,” Dave says. He’s a tall white guy in his late fifties, with graying hair, broad shoulders, and large, calloused hands. He’s divorced, with two adult children named Analyn andJenny. Or at least, that’s what I’ve managed to glean from his Facebook page. He’s not big on personal talk, Dave.
“Morning,” I reply. “Do you have time for a fit-in today? There’s a woman here whose car is making a weird sound.”
