Tools of the Trade

The temperature dial in the dashboard of my old minivan climbed inexorably towards the H. My senses were assailed by the hot, musty odor of steam as whatever was left in the radiator boiled over. Getting off the Interstate would be a good idea.

I took the exit for a Georgia town I had been hoping to avoid and pulled into the first gas station on the right. A Race King—good, those were big, safe, and clean. I swung into a parking space at the side entrance, shut the van off, and climbed out. Putting the hood up released a cloud of steam to the sky. I had a gallon of water for emergencies, but I couldn't open the radiator cap until it cooled down. Instead, I went to the ladies room.

At the sink, I sized myself up in the mirror. My strawberry blonde hair was a mess, my blue eyes were red and tired, and I generally looked like I could use a good night's sleep. I splashed water on my face and combed my hair. Twenty years old and stuck somewhere between a child and a woman… I tried to smile so people wouldn’t notice my habitual moroseness.

Inside the store, I browsed the sodas looking for a good sale. Their indoor audio system was quite loud, and as usual, it became a soundtrack vying for my attention. I marveled again at how my brain, inexplicably drawn to music, can identify a million songs from the first two notes and at least a hundred different artists by their voices. An annoying distraction, since most public spaces play music, and unfortunately I don’t enjoy everything that I hear.

At the registers, the cashier was a swarthy man with arms covered in tattoos. I noticed him because he wore a grey polo shirt; Race King employees usually wore blue. He was talking to a younger, slightly built male employee standing off the counter's side. I didn’t hear what they were saying at first, between the noisy music and monitoring the price of my sodas at the self-checkout.

Then, whatever annoying song had been playing faded away, and in the stillness, the younger man's voice rang out, thin and high,

"You wouldn't!"

I looked up. The older, swarthy guy was holding an open box cutter in the young guy's face.

"Ain't nothing stopping me," he said quietly.

"I didn't mean it," the younger one whined.

I freaked out. Don't look! My brain yelled at me. Keep your eyes on the card reader! I finished the transaction with a deadpan expression, pretending I hadn't noticed anything. Just grabbed my drinks and scrammed as the innocuously random opening notes of Land Down Under filled the sound gap.

I leaped into my van, locked the doors, and realized I was shaking inside. It's nothing to be alarmed about, I tried to calm my internal monologue. Just a couple guys playing around. You know how men are. Surely, right in front of customers, surrounded by cameras…

But this small, random occurrence triggered the memory of my personal traumatic experience, the very reason I was on this road trip, the one person I was running away from.

I became more aware of my surroundings. A homeless man was sitting against the wall with his bundle of belongings. Shabby people rode past on bicycles. A small grey Mercedes with a lift kit and chrome spike rims pulled in next to me, jet-black windows rattling with the pulsation of bass rap. Ugh. This was not a good neighborhood to overheat in.

After the Mercedes left, I got out my water jug and went to open the radiator. It was empty. I started pouring in water.

Suddenly someone began laughing behind me. I turned around and dropped my jug—it was the swarthy, blade-wielding employee. The plastic jug hit the pavement with a crackling smash, hurling out splatters of water.

"Girl, that thing is losing water faster than you can pour it in." He came closer, pointing underneath the van. I bent down to pick up the jug and found a rapidly expanding puddle engulfing my sneakers. Good grief.

Straightening up, I faced the guy and read his name tag: Jason. A manager. He’d been employed for five years. I saw the box cutter attached to his belt. He had greasy black hair and an old scar across the side of his face. His dark eyes glimmered with something like sneaky sarcasm… oh, that's the word: malicious.

"It overheated on the highway," I stated, unable to come up with anything else to say.

"l bet. Whatcha gonna do about it?"

"I'll keep filling it and see if it'll hold enough water to leave."

"It ain't gonna, I can tell ya that. Better get it towed and fast. We don't allow loitering around here."

I glanced at the homeless man sitting on the ground.

"Really?" I should've kept my mouth shut. Jason followed my gaze. He snickered.

"Hey, time to move along, buddy. Or I'll have you trespassed." He crossed his tattooed arms and looked down at the old guy, who slowly got to his feet, gathered his things, and shuffled away. Jason turned back to me.

"Same goes for you, girl. If you got Triple A, use it." He strolled off around the back of the building.

I refilled my jug and tried again to fill the radiator, but it only made the puddle bigger.

Calling Triple A took about twenty minutes. When the confirmation text came in, the ETA was four hours. I didn’t want to be stuck with a stalled van until dark with super-creepy Jason lurking around. But it was the only option. I stared down at the engine. A label was stuck to the chassis, with a diagram showing everything that the serpentine belt was connected to. It didn’t mean much to me, but I studied it anyway in an attempt to kill time.

The younger employee came out the side door, carrying his lunch bag, shoulders slumped, head down. He noticed my hood up and approached.

"Need a jumpstart?"

His name tag read Eli. A cashier for less than twelve months. I looked him over. Pale, skinny, and slightly built like me, with a cute mop of sandy curls and eyes the color of the Atlantic by the shores of the A1A… ok, enough waxing poetic. Say something.

"No, it won’t hold water. Got a bad leak somewhere."

"Oh? Let me take a look." Eli dropped his cooler bag and got down on his hands and knees to peer underneath. I added more water. "That's your water pump. See how it's running out the back? It's not the radiator."

I knelt beside him and watched the steady drip of water off the passenger side, somewhere by the tire.

"You got someone coming?"

"Triple A is coming… in four hours."

"Shoot. I could replace the water pump for you right here in less time than that."

"Really?"

"Sure. My dad was a mechanic. I've got my tools in my car. Would that help you out, Miss…?"

"Leah. Yeah, I guess it'd be better than getting towed to the nearest rest area and calling for a mobile mechanic. I don't live around here."

I waited for the inevitable questions about where I'm from and where I'm going. But instead, Eli rushed off to get his car and pull it into the space next to mine before someone else did.

He swung into the parking space in an old blue Honda Civic and hauled his tool chest out of the trunk. We agreed on a reasonable price. I would order the water pump myself on my phone, and he would go pick it up at AutoZone and install it. In the half hour or so that it would take for the store to process the order, he would get started removing the old water pump.

Within minutes, Eli had the van jacked up and the front passenger tire off. Then he unbolted the plastic cover protecting the side and bottom of the engine. I scrunched down on the pavement beside him, studying the enormous exposed flywheel and thick rubber serpentine belt intricately woven among the gears and pulleys.

"First thing that'll come off is the belt." He began prying it off with a crowbar. I sat back, not wanting to stare yet fascinated by the mechanical process.

Just as Eli got the belt disengaged and set it aside—"you want to buy a new belt for it whenever you get the water pump changed," he told me—Jason strode up from the back of the building.

"Eli, what are you doing?" He stood over us, glowering. "Didn't I fire you?"

"Yes, sir, you did," Eli got to his feet. So did I.

"And you're still on the property?" Jason growled. He stuck out his hand. "Give me your name tag!"

Eli fumbled at his polo shirt, unpinned his tag, and handed it over, shamefaced and humiliated.

"Now, explain this!"

Eli explained about the water pump and how I'd be waiting until dark to get it towed. Jason looked from him to me with a smirk.

"I get it. You're helping out a pretty little girl. I suppose she'll be coming home with you once you've gotten her junker running again?"

I felt my face getting hot. Eli flushed red. I leaned back against the side of my van as his right hand clenched into a fist and his elbow bent. But he spread his hand flat again, pressing it hard against the side of his leg, trying to restrain himself.

"She's paying me to fix her car," he said through gritted teeth. "I'm not trying to pick her up!"

"Oh, so now you're a mechanic? Listen, I want both of you outta here pronto. Got it?"

"Yes, sir. I'll get it done as quickly as possible."

"You'd better."

"Of course he will. And I'm headed out of state. You think we'll camp out in this slum?" I snapped, my voice tight and weird in my throat.

Jason's eyes flicked narrowly between us and settled on me.

"You getting fresh with me?"

I opened my mouth, glanced down at the box cutter on his hip, and choked back whatever stupid thing I'd been about to say.

"No, sir."

Jason laughed at me, then turned back to Eli with a darkening look.

"Remember what we agreed on." He pointed a finger at him and then drew it across his own throat. "I know where you live."

Eli nodded mutely. Jason went to lean against the wall in front of our parking spaces, pulling out his phone and a vape device. A cloud of fumes wafted our way. Ugh. The whole situation felt like a bad eighties movie.

Eli got down on his knees to continue dismantling the water pump. He reached for a socket wrench and looked up at me.

"I'm sorry about that, Miss Leah."

I scrunched down by him again.

"It's ok. You don't have to apologize for someone else's rudeness." I paused, wondering if I should pursue the conversation. I lowered my voice. "So… why did he fire you?"

His forehead wrinkled. He didn't answer for some time, focusing on undoing the bolts.

"I—I made a mistake."

"That's hardly fair. Everyone makes mistakes."

"It was pretty serious," Eli faltered and bent his head under the car to reach a faraway bolt. "I can't really talk about it… like, nondisclosure, okay?" His voice was low and muffled.

I was pretty sure Race King didn't make their employees sign nondisclosure agreements, but someone was keeping Eli scared. He pulled out, sat up, and glanced over at Jason, still vaping against the wall. Jason looked up from his phone and gave us a long, low stare as if he knew we were discussing him. I doubted he could hear us from over there.

"How come he's the only one who gets to wear a box cutter? He doesn't seem like he opens many boxes around here."

Eli let out a choked laugh.

"Don't ask, please." He glanced over at Jason again and then leaned in closer to me. "He brags that he uses it on more than just boxes. You know what I mean?"

"All too well," I answered. Eli raised his eyebrows and said nothing as he kept working.

I knelt and watched him in silence for a while, listening to the distinctively mournful downer notes of 6th Avenue Heartache drifting in from the audio system installed at the gas pumps.

The burning summer sun bounced off the shiny surfaces of cars, aiming itself in my eyes. Squawking grackles poked through litter lurking in the corners of the grimy, oil-stained parking lot. Time dragged on, marked only by that faint random rambling of music, the systematic movement of traffic at the corner, and the occasional bum walking by asking for a lighter or spare change. Jason finished his break and disappeared inside the store. Eli was dripping wet with his effort; I was sweating too, enough to get a prickly heat rash on my neck.

At last, Eli extracted the unwieldy water pump and examined it.

"Look at that big crack." He pointed to the pinwheel flaps that were supposed to circulate coolant. One of them was ready to break away entirely.

We still had to wait for AutoZone to prepare the new one for pickup. We stood awkwardly between our cars, with nuts, bolts, belts, and tools at our feet and my tire leaning against my bumper. I pulled out my phone. So did Eli.

"I'd better text my mom, tell her about losing my job…"

"Sure hope you find a better one soon."

My phone dinged.

"It's ready for pickup."

Horns started honking. We looked up and saw cars backed up in the middle of the intersection, blocking the green light.

"Yikes. You won't be able to drive out of the parking lot with that."

"I could walk there faster. It's only a few blocks away."

"And haul that heavy thing back with you in this heat? No, let's wait and see if it clears up. There must be an accident."

Eli squirmed impatiently. Neither of us wanted to be trapped here. But he thought momentarily, looked at his phone again, and his face brightened.

"Hey, I've got enough Race King rewards points to get us two free frozen yogurt bowls. Wanna have some while we sit and watch the traffic?"

"Oh, I'll pay for mine…"

"No, don't waste your money. I never use those points. And now that I'm not working here anymore, I'll have even less chance of using them…"

I let him talk me into it. I hadn't eaten lunch, and the blazing sun made a cold treat sound like just what I needed. And it might as well be free. We went to the restrooms to clean up and met at the self-service fro-yo bar.

I nervously scanned the store, looking for Jason. Spotted him messing around with the hot dogs on the roller grill, eyeing us with a frown.

Outside, Eli and I perched on high stools next to each other at a marble countertop that framed one front corner of the store, forming a patio of sorts.

"So, where are you headed to, Miss Leah?" Eli looked over at me with a smile. I figured some sort of conversation was probably better than silence. His turn to ask uncomfortable questions.

"On my way to Tennessee."

"Visiting relatives?"

"Yeah… I'm moving back in with my Mom."

"Where were you living before?"

"In Florida. I had a boyfriend…"

"Oh." He didn't say anything for a few minutes. Then, cautiously, "How'd that go?"

"Not very well." I fixed my eyes on my fro-yo.

"Abusive?"

"Yeah. Like, he's in jail now, so…"

Eli raised his eyebrows again. I assumed he was expressing doubt, as others had. I pushed up the sleeve on my right arm. A long, thin red scar stretched across it. He grimaced and looked away.

"Ouch. I'm sorry."

"Came at me with a knife. Took a couple of stitches."

He looked at it again, then at me.

"How did… usually they go for the face—?"

I raised the arm across my face with the scar pointing outwards, silently answering his question.

"Oh gawd. I'm glad you got away from him."

"I clobbered him with one of my college textbooks," I said with a sort of childish pride.

"Oh, you're in college? That's good. What degree?"

"English. Can't decide on anything more specific. It's online; I can live anywhere." I adjusted the sleeve back down over my arm. "Guess I'll be hiding that scar for the rest of my life."

"Hey, at least you're alive." He stared out at the traffic jam for some moments. Then he looked at me again. "You're hiding scars on the inside, too, I would guess."

"If you want to put it that way, yeah." I kicked at the railings under the counter and poked my spoon in the bowl. "It'll be complicated being with my Mom again. We can't stand each other. I might have to seek out other options…"

"Listen." Eli turned on his stool and faced me. "You can almost always work out issues with your parents. I'm living with my mom. It's not that hard. Your mother isn't going to knife you."

"Right…" I flushed and squirmed under the gaze of those handsome eyes.

"I'm not trying to be condescending. It's just common sense. You've made the mature decision to move in with your mother. Don't let attitudes get in the way of your safety."

"Well, duh." This was embarrassing. Eli meant well, but it made me feel so babyish. We sat in awkward silence, finishing our fro-yo. The eerie ringing notes of Keane's Everybody's Changing echoed hauntingly from the gas pumps. I pondered the lyrics.

"That feels like me: trying to stay awake and remember my name."

"Your name's Leah," Eli responded teasingly.

"I mean, like, who am I? I feel so unsure of myself."

"It's only natural. Honestly, I feel the same way now. I don't even have a job anymore." His youthful face darkened with anxiety, and I wondered again what was going on with Jason.

The Keane song faded out and was replaced with an increased din from the street as a refrigerated big rig and an old dump truck became entangled in the traffic jam in front of us.

"Hey, kids."

We jumped and swiveled in our seats. It was Jason.

"Having fun yet?" He smirked. Without waiting for an answer, he edged closer. "How's the car repair going?"

Eli gestured towards the gridlock.

"The part's ready, but I'd have to walk to the AutoZone."

Jason leaned in closer to him.

"I recommend you walk." His voice left little room to object. "By the time you get back and install it, the road will clear, and you can both drive off into the sunset."

Eli hesitated. I doubted he was looking forward to trudging along the sidewalk, lugging a water pump for a mile in the city heat.

"You're not his boss anymore. You can't order him around." I surprised myself by saying.

"Don't give me no lip," Jason snapped at me. "I'm tired of having you two loitering here."

"We're not loitering. We bought fro-yo." I stared him down. "Why are you so upset anyway?"

"None of your business, girl," he scowled.

"Hey, chill out, both of you!" Eli hopped off of his stool. "I'll go pick it up right now on foot. It shouldn't take me more than a half hour to get back and then another half hour to install it."

"Atta boy." Jason nodded at him and walked away. Eli turned to me.

"For gosh sake, don't scare me like that. I thought he was going to pull out his box cutter."

We swapped phone numbers so we could check on each other. Eli walked me to my van and made me promise to stay in there with the doors locked. Then he left.

The thirty minutes he was gone were surprisingly uneventful. Jason busied himself cleaning up, walking back and forth, pushing cartloads of trash bags to the dumpster. I watched cat videos on the phone using the Race King free WiFi. Eli texted when he arrived at the store and when he was headed back.

I saw him coming from far back, carrying the box with the new serpentine belt resting on top, grinning triumphantly. He got his tool chest out again and set to work, saying cheerily,

"Won't be long now before you're off and away."

I went inside to withdraw cash at the ATM to pay him. While there, I also bought a gallon of coolant for the radiator. Back outside, I helped him by gathering the scattered bolts and lining them up in order of size for easier reinstalling. He carefully greased the little gasket and slipped it inside the new water pump. We didn't talk much at this point.

Getting the new water pump bolted in was easy enough, but attaching the new belt was a struggle. It was thick and stiff as a board and had to be looped over, through, and around five or six pulleys of different sizes—all crucial functions: alternator, AC, idler, tensioner, dampener, the water pump, of course—and then adjusted for slack. Any errors would be serious.

Eli wrestled the belt with a crowbar while I looked on, hoping he wouldn't damage something. The traffic was still quite loud, drowning out any music from the gas pumps. I looked up as a vehicle backed into the parking space on my driver's side. A white Ford F-350 pickup truck the size of a train, brand new, with green underbelly lights, a gigantic hay bale in the bed, and jet-black tinted windows. Good grief, what a sight. Then, I recognized the muffled song coming out of it.

"Hey, it's Twenty Øne Piløts. Heathens." I grabbed my phone and tapped the Shazam button to see if they could hear it. They did. I tapped the song title, which gave me the “nerd” stats: album name, cover art, release date, label, artist, Shazam date, and location. I took a screenshot of it for a souvenir. A rad song like Heathens was a nifty addition to my “postcard” collection. As it ended, I listened for what would come next, assuming it was just one random song from the driver’s streaming playlist. But it began again.

All my friends are heathens, take it slow. Wait for them to ask you who you know…

I couldn't explain the uncanny feeling I started getting.

Please don't make any sudden moves—you don't know the half of the abuse…

I wouldn’t have collected the postcard if it hadn’t been one of my favorites. But my heart was pounding just a little harder than usual, and as my stomach fluttered uncertainly I found myself wishing I’d eaten something other than fro-yo for lunch. The arcane lyrics seemed to be addressing me personally, trying to tell me something. Eli still couldn't get the belt wrapped around the engine.

Welcome to the room of people who had rooms of people that they loved one day, locked away—just because we check the guns at the door, doesn't mean our brains will change from hand grenades…

I wondered if Jason was handy with a box cutter because he couldn't carry a gun due to being a felon. Well, he couldn't have one at work with him anyway.

You'll never know the psychopath sitting next to you—you'll have some weird people sitting next to you—

I glanced nervously at Eli's face, red with the heat and exertion. Then I looked at Jason, leaning against the wall again with his phone and a vape.

You'll think how did I get here sitting next to you?

How, indeed.

Eli dropped the crowbar with a loud clang and got to his feet.

"I gotta go use the bathroom. Be right back."

"Sure. Maybe I can get it all done while you're gone." I was just kidding.

He glanced back at me with a startled look.

"Hey, don't touch my tools!"

"Of course not." I smiled to reassure him. But he frowned.

"I'm serious. Those were my dad's tools."

"I'm not touching them," I repeated with some irritation. "I'll stay here and guard them."

I scrunched quietly back against my van for some time, monitoring my surroundings. A ragged guy scooted past on a bicycle, with a pit bull running alongside him. The big white truck pulled out, taking Heathens with it, but the mysteriously unnerving lyrics were still stuck playing in my head.

I stared at Eli's oversized red metal tool chest. It had a top that opened up and rows of little drawers underneath. One of the drawers was stuck hanging open a bit. It bothered me, like seeing a refrigerator door ajar. I leaned forward and nudged it gently, expecting it to slide shut. It didn't. Apparently, something was jammed inside.

I sighed in boredom. Eli was dawdling, probably reluctant to return and wrestle with the belt again. I should have gotten out my phone. Instead, I pulled that loose drawer open to see what was obstructing the track. The pile of hex keys inside seemed to be heaped over something lumpy.

I picked out some of them and saw a bag of white powder underneath. I paused. Stared. Then opened the drawer next to it, poked under the tools, and found more little ziplock bags. Uh-oh.

Why'd you come? You knew you should have stayed—I tried to warn you just to stay away…

The closing lines of Heathens rang in my mind with a piercing urgency.

Now they're outside ready to bust…

Someone was coming up behind me.

It looks like you might be one of us.

"Now you know why I had to fire him."

I turned. Jason stood over me, arms folded grimly. The song in my mind evaporated as reality sank in. I instinctively grabbed Eli's crowbar, stood up, and faced him.

"I can't believe it."

"You can see it, can't you? He was turning my gas station into a drug joint."

"You're kidding."

"This ain't a joke, girl."

"I'd think if anybody here were a drug dealer, it would be you."

He raised an eyebrow and bit back a laugh.

"You think that highly of me?"

"You've been insulting and unpleasant."

"Hey, listen, just 'cause I'm a bit rough around the edges doesn't make me a freaking drug dealer."

"I don't know… you were holding Eli at knifepoint in there. What was that all about?"

Jason stood silent for a moment. His eyes moved to a point far away and then came back to mine.

"You really wanna know?"

I nodded. He edged closer and lowered his voice.

"I'll tell ya. I caught him doing a deal in my parking lot. Threatened to turn him in to the cops. He thought he'd get smart with me. Said he'd pin it on me, and they'd believe him 'cause I'm the one with a felony drug record." He paused and added with dark ferocity, "I'll admit, I came darn near slitting his face open at that point."

I jumped back, almost tripping over Eli's tool chest, and held up the crowbar defensively.

"Am I scaring ya?"

"Yes, sir."

"I ain't mad at you."

"And… you're sure about this?"

"You just watch how he reacts when he gets back."

We didn't have long to wait. Eli came out slurping a fountain drink. He saw us standing by his open tool chest, watching him. The foam cup slipped from his fingers, bursting open explosively on the pavement.

"Well? Whaddya got to say for yourself, kid?"

"I—" Eli's blue-green eyes darted from me to Jason. He backed away, turned and ran. Jason strode after, grabbing his shirt collar and hauling him back.

"Where you think you're going, you idiot? You haven't finished working on her car!"

Eli was flushed and trembling as he stood there. He couldn't look me in the eyes. I held out my hands.

"I'm so ashamed of you, Eli. As if it's not bad enough to be selling drugs, you blackmail your boss so you don't get caught. Seriously?"

"I… I need the money. My Mom's got cancer, and the bills are piling up." He hung his head. I think he was ready to cry. My own eyes filled with tears.

"Well, why didn't you discuss it with me?!" Jason exploded. "I would've gladly given you two shifts if I'd known, you dumbass. This place is open all night. No, instead you do something stupid and illegal and then have the nerve to blame it on me—!" His right hand moved towards the box cutter.

I suppose the crowbar I was still holding made me braver. I reached my left hand out and grasped Jason's wrist.

"Calm down. Let's discuss the situation without getting violent."

"You think you're a social worker or something?" He growled.

"You said you're not mad at me," I reminded him. "And if this were a game of rock paper scissors, I think I'm the one with the rock."

We stared each other down for a long moment. His muscles tensed. I knew I was taking a ridiculous risk. He could have easily yanked away and turned on me. Instead, he relaxed and started laughing.

"Couple of babies, you are. Let go of me. I wasn't gonna hurt him."

I released his arm and stepped back.

"So whaddya think there is to discuss? I just want you two outta here."

"I don't think you should have fired Eli if he's in desperate need. That'll only make him turn to selling drugs even more."

"You think I care what happens to that twerp after he would have gotten me arrested? If I lost this job, I'd be out scrapping on the streets again like a dog."

"So you're throwing him to the dogs? How about giving him the second chance you got when Race King hired you?"

Jason's brow furrowed. We turned to Eli.

"I—I'm really sorry,” he mumbled. “I've let everyone down… my Mom will be so disappointed in me."

"You need to stop," I said. "It's evil. There are other ways to make money—look, you could even be a mechanic."

"If you don't stop dope dealing, you'll either kill or be killed," Jason added. "Where there are drugs, there's violence. You should know that already." He gestured to the faded scar on his face.

Eli shuddered. He met Jason's stern, dark eyes pleadingly.

"If I promise I'll stop and never do it again, will you hire me back? I really need this job."

"Well, for crying out loud, so do I! I'ma have a hard time moving past what you did. But if it'll get this girl off my back…" Jason extended a hand. Eli reached out and shook it cautiously.

I moved sideways and almost tripped again on my tire, leaning against the bumper.

"Hey, don't put Eli back on the time clock just yet. I still need my water pump installed."

They looked down at the mess of tools and bolts on the pavement and shared a laugh.

"I was watching you bungling that serpentine belt, kid. Here, I'll help you get it over with."

As they bent over the side of my van together, I knew I would be keeping in touch with Eli. Who knows, maybe Jason was right about social work. A fascinating career option. But first, I had to get back to Tennessee.