Fresh air, I liked that. And I could provide a woman’s touch? That was maybe the one thing I was good at. Cute crafts and snacks and warm tea? That must be what that meant.
But going to theShop?
It was a massive, industrial-looking motorcycle garage outside town, located at the end of a strip mall filled with liquor stores, dive bars, and smoke shops.
That place was kind of scary.
But this job offer must be legit, right? Otherwise it wouldn’t be in the paper.
It was kind of vague, though. Like what exactly was it? Housekeeper? Cook? Gardening? There was a lot of good soil over there. Maybe administrative work?
The Shop was the absolute last place a 42-year-old mother probably ought to be applying, but something about the ad intrigued me.
What was all the mystery about? Whatwasthis job?
I decided to apply the next day, dressing in my nicest pearl gray suit jacket, white blouse, and skirt, all of it just a little tight over my tits, belly, and ass, but too late to do anything about that now.
I didn’t know much about motorcycles, besides the fact that they were very noisy, and I walked past the open bay of the garage with some trepidation.
It looked full of large men working on large bikes, all of them wearing black leather vests with different patches on them that I was too far away to read. They were all absolutely filthy, and the scent of motor oil and cigarettes hung low in the air.
Now with a little bottle of Dawn I could make some of those dirty engine-looking pieces shine, it was just that everyone was too busy.
Feeling like maybe I reallycouldhelp around here, I walked into the office with a bounce in my step.
There was a husky man around 25 at the front desk, with a full ginger beard and long hair in a braid.
“I’m here to apply for the job?” I said, smiling at him.
“Which job?
“The—er, assistant job? I’m not sure. It wasn’t very clear. The one that needed a woman’s touch?”
His bearded face split into a grin.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Mac. And you are--?”
“Polly Pepper. I like that you have some cilantro in a vase. You don’t see that very often. It’s a nice smell.”
The young man’s bushy eyebrows went up.
“Hell, I thought that was lavender or some shit.”
“It’s good,” I beamed, gently touching one of the stems, all gathered together in an old mug that served as a vase. “Cilantro is great for spaghetti. Or salsa. Or just for making the waiting room smell good.”
He looked me up and down, but not in a weird way.
“You’re pretty nice, lady. You’re the first one that’s noticed that, at any rate. So let’s see if we can convince the boss to hire you. I think you might be good for him.”
“Wait—your boss doesn’t know about the ad--?”
Mac got up and knocked at a nearby office door.
“Bonemangler! Someone to see you!”
TheBonemangler? What kind of name was that?
Then all of a sudden another customer came in behind me, with one of the mechanics from the garage. The mechanic was in his early 60s, strong arms pushing his wheelchair, while the customer looked like a body builder.
