I expect his next question to be about me working in a male-dominated profession, since everyone always brings it up, so I’m shocked when he asks, “What’s the hardest tool to work with?”
“In my opinion, the tire balancer. Trusting machines to calibrate a car’s key component isn’t my favorite.”
“Don’t you use a lot of machines, though?”
“We do, but it doesn’t mean I always trust them. More often than not, I find myself double-checking things after to make sure nothing was missed.”
“I can relate. Sometimes I prefer to hand knead a dough rather than use the mixer because it doesn’t always turn out the way I want it to otherwise. What brand of car is your favorite to work on?”
“Toyotas are theeasiestto work on, but I don’t have much of a preference. If I’m honest, I prefer to work on motorcycles over cars. I’ve had the chance to rebuild two, and they’re a fun and easy fix.”
“Do you work on a lot of motorcycles?”
“Not as many as I’d like.”
We’ve both finished our sandwiches by now, and I’ve moved on to chips while he eats grapes when he asks, “Is your job fulfilling?”
I’ve never been asked that before. I don’t know how to explain the work itselfcanbe fulfilling, but I’d much rather be working on restoration projects. Instead of changing oil day in and day out, I’d rather be tinkering with run-down motorcycles.
“Most of the time, yes.”
Saint hums. “What about the rest of your life? Are you fulfilled, Mikey?”
What the hell kind of question is that?
I’m about to come up with some bullshit answer when Patrick rushes through the door, holding Saint’s keys. The sun is just starting to set, so hopefully Saint can make it home safely before it’s too dark.
Since when do you care this much about a customer?
Since Saint brought me cookies and started asking insightful questions.
“I am so, so sorry. This is a massive fuckup on my account. If you ever need another tow or oil change, it’s on me.” Patrick hands Saint his keys, looking sheepish.
Saint doesn’t curse him out or berate him, he just gives him a nod and a smile. “No problem at all, man. Sorry you had to come all the way back here.”
Patrick looks taken aback by the apology. “I—it’s all good. Mikey, do you need anything else before I head out again?”
“No. I’ll see you Monday.”
“Have a good weekend,” Saint says as Patrick leaves. “Let me help you clean up in here,” he offers, gesturing to the lobby. It’s not in disarray, but the floor needs to be swept, and I need to wipe some smudges off the doorframe.
“It’s okay. You should probably get going before it gets too dark.”
Saint hesitates, like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. I help him pack up the sides I never got to try and throw the rest in the trash. He hands me the Tupperware of cookies, insisting I take them as a thank you.
“Oh, I?—”
“Mikey, please. Take them.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
He seems pleased by his small victory, and I… I like that I pleased him.
Goddamnit, this crush is out of control.
Just as Saint gets to the front door, he turns around. “I don’t like leaving you alone here when it’s getting dark.”
A smile spreads across my face. What a gentleman, this lumberjack-Viking-baker. “Oh, don’t worry. Merv’s in his office in the back of the garage doing whatever it is he does. He always waits for me to leave before he does. But I appreciate you looking out.”
