"Something made me. I don't know what. Desperation, maybe. Or I had this feeling. Like maybe this was my last shot." He almost smiles at the memory. "I walked in and Mick was behind the counter. Big guy, probably six-two, maybe two-fifty. Covered in tattoos—full sleeves on both arms, something on his neck. Beard down to here." He gestures to his chest. "Looked like he could kill me with one hand and not even break a sweat."
"Sounds intimidating."
"He was. Still is. But he looked up when I came in and he didn't dismiss me. He didn't look at me like I was trash. He asked if I had experience. I told him I'd worked at Carl's garage for a couple years, that I knew engines, that I could fix pretty much anything if you gave me the tools and time."
"What did he say?"
"He didn't say much. Just grunted." Jay grins at the memory. "Mick's not big on talking. He pointed at the back and said—" Jay drops his voice to a deep growl to imitate him. "'There's a Harley Sportster back there. Won't start. You've got one hour to figure it out. Tools are on the wall. Don't break nothing.'"
"That was your interview?" I can't help but smile. "That's it?"
"Yep. No questions about where I'd been or why I needed work. Just fix the bike." Jay's smile grows. "The fuel line was kinked and the carburetor was gunked up with old gas that had basically turned to sludge. I had it running in forty-five minutes."
"And he hired you?"
"He came back to check on me and heard the engine running. He listened to it for a minute, then said, 'Ten bucks an hour, cash, end of each week. You show up on time, you don't steal nothing, you don't give me trouble, we'll see how it goes.'" Jay shakes his head. "It wasn't much, but it was more than I had. And he kept teaching me. Every day, something new."
"Like what?" I lean forward, genuinely interested. "What did he teach you?"
"Everything. How to rebuild a transmission from scratch. How to diagnose electrical problems by testing circuits. How to listen to an engine and hear what's wrong—he's got this ear for it, can tell if a valve is sticking or if the timing's off just by sound." Jay's whole face changes as he talks, his eyes lighting up. "How to take something broken and make it run again."
"He sounds like a good guy."
"He is. He doesn't say much, doesn't get personal. But he shows up. Every day, he's there. After the fight, after I got arrested—he bailed me out of jail. I was sitting in that cell thinking no one was coming, that I'd be stuck there until they processed me or whatever. And then the guard came and said someone posted bail."
"What did he say when he saw you?"
"Nothing at first. Just drove me back here in his truck. We sat in the parking lot for a minute and he said—" Jay pauses, his throat working. "He said he wasn't going to tell me how to live my life, but that he needed me at the shop. That he couldn't have me sitting in jail cells because I couldn't walk away from fights."
"That's it?"
"Yeah, no lecture, no yelling. Just concern. Like he actually gave a shit whether I lived or died." Jay looks at me. "I never really thought about it like that before. That he might actually care about me."
"Of course he cares about you," I say. "You show up every day. You work hard. You're good at what you do. Why wouldn't he care?"
Jay doesn't answer, just shrugs.
Betty arrives with our food. Plates piled high with eggs, bacon, toast, hash browns, enough to feed a small army. She sets them down with a wink and refills our coffee without being asked.
"Eat up, boys. You're both too skinny."
I dig in, suddenly aware of how hungry I am. The eggs are perfect, the bacon crispy, the hash browns golden and seasoned just right. Jay eats more slowly, but he eats, which is something. I get the feeling he doesn't eat enough.
"What about you?" Jay asks after a few bites, pushing his eggs around his plate. "Tell me about your work. What's it like being an electrician? What do you actually do all day?"
"It's good. I really like it." I think about how to explain. "It's like solving puzzles, you know? You've got this system—wires running through walls, circuits connecting to panels, everything linked together in this network. And something's not working. A light won't turn on, an outlet's dead, a breaker keeps tripping."
"So, you have to find the problem?"
"Exactly. You trace it back, test different points, use a multimeter to check voltage and continuity. You follow the path until you figure out where the break is, where the short is, what's causing the issue." I take a bite of toast. "And when you find it, when you fix it and everything lights up again, there's this satisfaction. Like you solved the puzzle. Like you made something work that was broken."
"Sounds familiar. Sounds like what I do, just with wires instead of engines."
"Yeah, I guess we're not that different. You fix engines, I fix wiring. Same basic idea. Taking broken things and making them whole again."
"Except you probably make a lot more money than I do."
"Maybe. But money isn't everything." I shrug. "I mean, it's nice to be able to pay my bills and have some left over. But the work itself—that matters more. Doing something that means something. Tell me about your motorcycle. You said you rebuilt it yourself?"
