I love working with guys like Jimmy. They give me crap, but there’s respect under it. They’re not treating me like I don’t know what I’m doing. I love giving people shit, and I don’t mind receiving it when it’s respectful and fun for everyone. Around here, it’s a sign that people care. If they’re straight-out mean and disrespectful, that’s where I have a problem. And I get plenty of that around here, too. I went to school to be a mechanic, and Iknow what I’m doing. I have been working in my dad’s shop since I could practically hold a wrench. I started doing my own oil changes when I was eight.
I start cleaning up when I hear the front door slam shut in the cold January wind. “Murphy?”
Inwardly, I groan. For one, I wanted to be done for the day. I can’t afford to turn away business right now, though. I need the money. But this customer, I truly wish I could turn away.
It’s Randy Garvin, who once told me women shouldn’t be mechanics while he pointed and laughed at me at The Black Dog with his friends. Today, he’s here with his broken-down Ford and wearing a defeated expression. He looks like he doesn’t want to be here, but he has no other choice.
“Hey uh,” he starts, scratching his neck. “So, there’s this weird noise. Sorta like athwap thwap thwap. Or maybe aclunk.”
“Wow,” I shoot back. “What happened to your mechanic with a penis, Randy?”
He knows damn well what happened to his mechanic. That was my dad, Sully, and he hasn’t worked here for several years now. He also knows he has no other licensed mechanic in Bridger Falls to help him, other than me, or he’d have to drive over an hour away to get his truck fixed.
His face flushes red, frustration twisting his features, and he bites out, “I know what I said. But I need your help, Murphy.”
“Murphy was my dad. I’m Poppy,” I remind him, kneeling to check his tire. I don’t like being associated with my dad or the Murphy last name. When I took over this shop, I wanted to start fresh. The name Murphy might still be on the building, but this place is practically mine, now. “Did you rotate these yourself?”
He shrugs and looks away. “Maybe. It’s been a while.”
I pop the hood and try to lift it, and it’s stuck. I plant my footon the bumper and jerk with both arms until it pops loose with dramatic force.
Randy watches, slack jawed. “Nobody could get that off.”
Interesting. So, he did try to go to someone else before he came to me. I’m his last resort. Not surprised.
I use my machine to quickly pull off the lug nuts. I see the look of surprise on his face when I zip through them in record speed. I lift the tire effortlessly because I do this every day, and I’m in hella good shape now. There was a time back in high school when I was bigger and got made fun of for my weight. These days, though, I’m feeling pretty good about myself. I’m strong and confident. I still have my curves, but to be honest, I like them. I need to be strong to do this job.
I inspect the tire. “How long have you been driving around like this?”
He blinks. “It didn’t get that bad until recently.”
“Yeah, right,” I mutter. I don’t like Randy Garvin, but I love a challenge, and I need the money right now, so I’m going to fix it for him.
He looks around. “So, Poppy, you got a man?”
I snort, shaking my head, and glance up at my giant poster of a bear behind my toolbox. The bear. I will always choose the bear. And why is everyone so interested in my love life? If they want to be interested in something, they could get interested in my never-ending grocery bill. Or the other bills that I’m behind on.
I glance up at him, eyes sharp. “The line of applicants starts at the back of the parking lot. By the dumpster. I need references.”
He stammers, looking confused. “What kind of references?”
“I prefer a letter from your therapist,” I grunt as I lift the new tire and place it on the machine and turn it on.
He shuts up after that, and I see the irritated recognition onhis face that I’m teasing him and it’s never happening. First off, Randy Garvin is old enough to be my father, and I’m not into the whole age-gap romance. And another thing, Randy Garvin is a sexist pig. I wouldn’t date someone like him if he were the last person on the planet and mankind were at stake, needing us to be together. Sorry, mankind, you are dying out and taking Randy with you. It’s probably best that his lineage is extinct after his personality. My love life may be on life support, but I’m not and never will be that desperate. That’s why God made battery-operated machines.
I fix his issue, take his payment, and send him on his way. I don’t have time for this sexist bullshit. I know none of these assholes ever came in here and asked my dad if he had a woman after my mom died. Number one, I don’t want to think about my dad’s love life, and my dad was probably already screwing anyone he could. He is not a good man and never was. I still have no clue what my mom saw in him. And number two, my dad would have knocked their teeth out for talking to him like that. These assholes better start respecting me, or they’re going to get a different version of me and a reminder that my last name is still in fact Murphy.
I get my bay ready for tomorrow and swipe a swig of water. Today has been nonstop, but it feels good when I get my work done, and everything is going relatively well.
As soon as he leaves, the door opens again. Mrs. Harmon, our neighbor from across the street, strolls in with her gray poodle, Bernita, in tow. She offers me a Tupperware of banana pudding like a tribute. Now this is a nice way to be treated by a customer at the end of what feels like a never-ending day.
I hug her and smile. “This looks so good, Mrs. Harmon. You spoil us.”
Every week, she drops by a random treat. We never know when they’re coming, but they never disappoint.
“You look tired, dear,” she says as she looks around at the chaos.
“I am,” I reply. “Being iconic takes a lot of energy.”
