The Convertible

Brock trudged along the alley, paying little mind to the worn, faded red bricks except on the frequent occasion that he stumbled over one on his oversized feet. Pink, black, and yellow graffiti was splattered across sooty, cracked concrete and fogged windows. Iron door frames and braces added trails of rust, which leached out of the tired warehouses like tears.

If he could help it, Brock ignored the bleak surroundings of the vacant lots and dilapidated buildings between his high school and his foster parents’ apartment. The first day of school was bleak enough without remembering where he lived, where he ate, or how he existed. Instead, he plunged all of his meager attention and mental effort into his phone. He scrolled through reel after reel on every social media he had an account on. Often, he let out a small exhalation of breath through his nose in place of a laugh if he saw something funny enough. Rarely did he invest the muscle capacity to upvote or downvote whatever he deemed worthy of the additional effort.

His stomach lurched as his right foot caught thin air, his left toes curling under him as he tripped. His whole body was flung forward with momentum, aided by the jerk in his knees when he realized he was no longer on level ground. Before he could catch himself, he tumbled into the driveway, just barely putting his hands out in front of his face before he planted them roughly onto the pavement of the alley with a smack.

Thin, red lines broke out across Brock’s fingers and knuckles on his left hand. His right hand clutched his phone, now with a seriously decimated screen. It resembled a haphazardly arranged spider web, and the facets that remained each showed small slivers of popular videos and curated ads.

“Aw, man,” he hissed as he looked over his other hand. Brock huffed and stood up, bewildered. Where’d this even come from?

It was a freshly paved driveway, not gum-spotted like the rest of the street. It must have been laid down over summer break. His eyes followed it up into the old wall of the warehouse, one he’d passed by twice every single day throughout high school. Where there had been cracked brick and acrylic tags, there was now a freshly fabricated garage bay door. The rolling chain-link barrier was down, but the gaps were wide enough to see through and allowed air to circulate.

Brock got up and, despite his aching knees and palms, half-stumbled up to the door to peer inside.

“Whoa, dude!”

The speckled gray concrete floor was swept clean and supported a herd of whitewall tires. Each set, in turn, supported a colorful antique automobile, each different from the last. There were reds, yellows, and blues, all the old-world subtle colors that nobody painted anything anymore because it wasn’t silver. Each car was curvy and heavily laden with thick chrome emblems, bumpers, and visors. Some had skirts on the rear, and a couple had their hoods up, exposing engine compartments that looked more like jewelry boxes full of silver and gold than dirty, mechanical necessities.

Brock continued gawking at the shimmering display of rolling Americana. The sound of a toilet flushing preceded the opening of a door in the back corner. A short, hunched man stepped out, wiping his hands on his denim coveralls. His dark skin was dotted with shiny grease spots and patches of dirt. His palms looked leathery and well-used. His face was serious, the wrinkles and dull eyes unforgiving yet determined. His block-shaped, graying mustache flared and twitched as he nervously puckered his lips, thinking. Above his peppered-gray eyebrows sat a thin straw hat boasting an even thinner brown feather sticking out of the ribbon.

He looked up, locking eyes with Brock for a brief moment before resuming his work. Brock pointed through the rails of the door at the nearest car and called out, “Yo, old man, what year’s that Chevy?”

The man spun his head around from under the teal-green hood of the furthest car, screwing his eyes into a mean and penetrating gaze.

“You git your finger out of that door befo’ I pull it off. Dat’s a Stude ya dumb-bass. Daym kids and dey big empty heads,” he trailed off into a string of discontented mutterings that filled only the cavernous engine bay.

Brock quietly retracted his hand but didn’t move from his vantage point. Instead, he shuffled to the side and stood on tiptoes for a better look at what the old man was doing.

His hands were busy fussing under the hood of that verdigris convertible. From his distant vantage point, Brock saw it was adorned with a regalia of fog lights, wire wheels, and a boatload of bright work trim. The white interior reflected the dim overhead lamps, giving off a soft glow that bounced back up onto the ceiling and provided more usable, soft light in the room. It gave the whole car a glowing, angelic effect. Between the wide white walls a small puddle of oil leeched across the concrete in search of new patches to set stains in.

“What’s that one you got there? Whachu doin’ to it?”

The engine bay emitted a grunt, and the man’s head emerged briefly to snap, “I’m fixin’ it what de hell does it look like I’m doin’ in here wid all dese tools ‘n’ shit?”

“Yeah, but what is it?”

The mechanic’s gaze softened, but only briefly, before he screwed his wrinkled face back up again.

“A Packard, dat’s an orphan car. Now you git before I call da po-lice to come grab ya and send ya back to your parents,” he said while gesticulating with a tightly-gripped monkey wrench.

Brock snickered at the hollow threat, but backed away from the door all the same. He had no interest in dealing with his foster parents tonight any more than he had to. Instead, he shouldered his backpack and finished the walk home from school, paying attention to the dotted bricks and uneven curbs as he did.

His mind whirred all night with still images: vignettes of hood scoops and split windshields. His thoughts always returned to the teal-green Packard.

As the school year progressed deeper into fall, Brock struggled harder and harder to concentrate in final period. He’d watch the electric clock up high at the front of the room in between long gazes out the leaky windows. Instead of focusing on lectures, he fantasized about the swoops and spokes of the old cars in that warehouse garage.

Each day when the bell rang, he hustled out of class and half-walked, half-ran his route home. He always passed by the garage to see what the old geezer was working on. Brock’s foggy breath would puff out while he warmed his hands by the exhaust hoses pumping sweet-smelling fumes out from the engine of the convertible.

Invariably, he’d get chased away by the old man after spending too much time lingering by the chain-link door. At the very least, they were now able to exchange a few phrases before the gentleman’s temper rose high enough to shoo Brock away.

Brock knew enough now to know the Packard convertible had a flathead that needed quite a bit of work (he also now knew that flathead meant the valves were in the cylinder block). It no longer leaked oil, but it didn’t run or drive either. Occasionally, Brock felt brave enough to shout out ideas or diagnoses, only to be shooed away even more fervently than the previous night for tempting involvement.

One particular fall afternoon, Brock swung by the shop, and the old convertible was up on jack stands. The old man lay beneath it, straining and swearing away. Brock sat down on his backpack as he watched. The sound of heavy breathing was truncated by the interjection of banging metal reverberating off the walls. Sockets clattered out from under the car, rolling away across the floor of the garage. One of them popped over the threshold and right up to Brock’s shoe. He surveyed it, noting the “1/2” markings and the patent stamp proudly declaring the tool was made in Toledo.

A slam and a clunking sound jolted his eyes back up to the mustached mechanic’s plight.

“You dumb-bass!” he cried out from under the car.

What looked like the transmission had slumped off the wood blocks supporting it and tumbled onto the floor. It made a nice chip in the concrete when it landed.

Brock was on his feet in an instant and shouted across the garage, “Dude! Watch out for that there.”

The mechanic shot out from under the Packard, clutching his wrist and wincing. He flexed his arm, testing his muscles. All fingers appeared to work.

With much effort, he got to his feet and forced his backbone to straighten out. Still rubbing his wrist, he noticed Brock, almost with a start as if he’d forgotten he’d been standing there. He eyed the socket Brock absent-mindedly turned over with his thumb and forefinger.

“You give me dat back,” he growled through gritted teeth.

He fixed his straw, feathered hat with one hand and reached for the socket through the steel links of the bay door with the other. Brock snatched it closer to his chest and took a step back.

“No way, dude, you’re gonna get killed like that. You want it back, then you let me in, and I help you. You open the door and let me bench that up into the car with you so you don’t smash your dome in.”

The old mechanic’s eyes lost that sheen of rage. For just a moment, Brock was sure he could see through them rather than right up against them.

He continued, “Look old creep, I can help. You can’t lift that up there by yourself. And besides, if it crushes me, then I won’t be bothering you anymore, will I? Now let’s get to work and get it done already.”

The mustached man turned up his sour lips again, curling his facial hair into his characteristic disappointed twist. He pointed his finger right at Brock’s chest through the door.

“Don’ touch the paint, don’ touch the chrome, don’ touch a daym thang ’cept what I tell you!”

He reached down to his cracked leather belt and jangled loose a massive keyring, cursing as he did. Brass, nickel, and other assorted keys all shook and shimmered as he flitted through them for the door. Brock’s heart leapt. He scrambled to shoulder his bag as the man heaved the door up, clanging away as it rolled toward the ceiling.

For the first time, Brock stepped over the threshold of the door that hadn’t existed last year. Just a few feet in it was already warmer than the curb. He had a better view of the cars now, too. He could see scalloped leather upholstery and massive steering wheels in black or white plastic. Shields and emblems adorned door cards, radios, and gauge clusters. He could smell them too: old lacquer paint, small drops of hot oil, and the kind of warm musty smell of aged rubber.

The old man stomped straight back toward the verdigris convertible. He turned his back to Brock and started slamming open drawers on a tall, fire engine red toolbox. The clicking of ratcheting wrenches trickled back to Brock’s ears before the drawers were slammed shut again with even more ferocity.

“Don’ just stand there gawkin’, come gimme a hand,” the mechanic admonished, his back still turned to the boy.

Dropping his bag, Brock hustled over to the driver’s side of the convertible. His eyes slipped over its interior. The two-tone teal-and-black upholstery was broken up by polished stainless steel stripes. Packard was scrawled across the glove box in flourishing, underlined script.

Outside, beneath the driver-side door was a jack handle and the bulky head of the transmission, which appeared at first to Brock to be bleeding sticky maroon blood out onto the concrete floor.

The old man whipped around from the toolbox and set his sights on the teen. He stretched out his hand, his leathery palm opened up. It was hardened with calluses and wrinkles. Brock placed the socket into it, and the mechanic quickly snapped it onto an extension.

He squinted his beady eyes at Brock, but his mustache relaxed slightly. “You ever worked on a car befo’?”

Brock shook his head but kept his lips shut tight.

“Alrigh’, then here’s what we gon’ do. You’re gon’ listen’ good and do everythin’ I tell you and nothin’ I don’. We’re gonna git dat tranny back up in there an’ bolt up the cross-member.”

“Cross-what?” Brock interrupted.

“Don’ interrupt me. Don’ interrupt me, daym didn’t your daddy ever teach you manners?”

Brock’s eyes trailed the red pool and then held fast to a black paint stain.

“I don’t know my dad. And my foster dad ain’t around much.”

The old man just blinked and pocketed the wrench. “Lie down there on the flo’.”

He did as instructed and stretched out under the convertible while the mechanic knelt and gave him a lesson. He pointed out all the braces, frame rails, and cross-member bolts. He walked Brock through hooking up the transmission to the flywheel and explained that they would need to stabilize the trans and move the jack into place. Then they set to work.

Brock helped the old man lower the jack and roll the transmission back onto the block of wood it had been precariously perched on. He kept it from rolling as his aging companion jacked it back up again, roughly into position. Then, with two hands, Brock helped jostle and jimmy it forward. Up a little, forward a little. Up a little, forward a little.

Once it was in place, he held it there while the old-timer rolled out from under the car and grabbed a squarish metal tube with boltholes in it. He quickly cinched down two bolts and slid the wrench over to Brock while he took a hold of the jack and transmission himself.

Brock fumbled with the socket, which slipped off twice and even reversed direction on him once. Eventually, he was able to confidently snug up the bolts. The old man lowered the jack and rolled it out from under the car with a rattle.

“Ah-hah, dat’s how you do it! Dat’s how you git dat dumb-bass in there!” His whiskers were turned up into a grin, old off-white teeth beaming out from under it. Brock met his grin, wiping his hands off on his shirt.

“You got a name boy?”

“Brock, sir.”

“You can call me Ray.”

Work on the Packard continued. For the first few weeks, Ray seemed to forget all about the transmission and Brock’s help. He would just stand outside and talk through the door until Ray ran into a job that was too frustrating to do alone. Then the old man would gripe and cuss and roll up the big door again.

After a month, the door was already rolled up when Brock arrived after school let out. Every night was a lesson in how the parts of the car went together, which tools did what, and how they were supposed to be used.

The hood stayed open on the Packard while Ray showed Brock how to tune up the old flathead, the sweet burning smell of the exhaust tingling their noses and eyes. The carb sucked in air, and the tailpipe burbled like nothing the teen had ever experienced. It had the soul of a boat in the skin of a car, the promise of crossing a sea of asphalt to fantastic, unexplored places.

For his part, Brock grew to enjoy the old mechanic’s company. He was still grumpy and stern-looking most of the time, but there was a clear wisdom. Years of knowledge had been carefully curated by experience and distilled into simple lessons that he couldn’t forget if he wanted to. What Ray thought of Brock never came up.

As winter waned and the first spots of spring began to warm up the city, Brock had to hustle through still-cold rain to get to the garage. Today was particularly stormy and, although the hours grew longer, the promise of later daylight was dashed by thunderheads and downpour. Every plod, plod of his footsteps dumped yet more water into his sneakers. Using his hoodie as an umbrella, he tried to keep at least his shirt dry. Ray would never let him near the car if he was soaking wet.

He rounded the last corner and skipped up the curb to the garage. The chain-link door was already rolled up, and the warm incandescent glow of the lamps kept the dim gray at bay. He ducked in and threw down his backpack and hoodie against the wall.

“Yo, Ray,” he called out, but got no answer.

The shop was quiet, and the old man was nowhere to be seen. Must be in the bathroom again, Brock figured. He strode over to the tall red toolbox to see what he could get started on.

Curiously, more than half of the drawers were cracked open or piled with a random assortment of tools such that they wouldn’t shut. Brock never knew a day when the meticulous and ornery Ray failed to slam shut every drawer or cabinet door with all the strength left in his arms.

Upon closer inspection, some key tools were missing completely. Ray’s good Snap-On set, which Brock was seldom allowed to use, was gone, along with torque wrenches, tachometers, and a battery tender.

“Ray, man where you at?” Brock called again.

No answer came, not even a crotchety admonishment from the bathroom stall. The hood was still open on the Packard. He stepped quietly over to the convertible, the glossy verdigris paint shimmering under the overhead lights.

Something crumpled under Brock’s sneaker. He stepped back and peered cautiously at the crushed straw hat, and what was left of its ruddy feather, the plumes mussed and destroyed.

Brock knelt to examine the straw shrapnel. On the other side of the car, past the white walls he saw a slumped pile of coveralls and a dark, leathery hand.

His throat went dry as he shrieked, “Ray! Dude!”

He wheeled around the bumper to find the mechanic collapsed, his face down on the hard floor and his fingers balled into fists. Brock rolled him over and saw a huge gash in his forehead.

“Oh, no. Oh, crap man.”

Brock reached into his back pocket, yanking out his phone. His face burned as his heart pounded out of control. His fingers swiped furiously across the cracked screen, catching on the spider-glassed edges. He punched in 9-1-1, tapping on Ray’s chest with his other hand. Ray’s chest rose and fell, but otherwise he didn’t move.

“9-1-1, what is your emergency?” the operator coolly answered.

“Yo, hey, you gotta get an ambulance here right now, I’m at the auto shop by Pier 14, 301 West Brooke. Please you gotta hurry Mr. Ray got hit or something, he won’t wake up!”

The responder stayed on with Brock while he tried to bring Ray around. The old man was still breathing but unconscious when the ambulance rolled over the driveway, and the EMTs unloaded their stretcher.

At the hospital, the teen sat alone in the waiting room, shivering. The place felt air-conditioned despite the weather outside, and he was still mostly soaked through. After waiting around for almost an hour, a couple of cops walked in and asked him to make a statement. Wanted to know how Brock found Ray, how he knew him, and all that.

Over and over he repeated, “Someone hit him, I just know it, there’s tools missing, and he usually locks the place up. You gotta find em!”

“Son, settle down. We got em, we just wanna know how you found him so he can press charges,” the taller deputy said, scanning his notebook in between glances at the worried teen.

“You mean you got em?”

“Yeah, pawn shop two blocks down got a big drop of tools, battery charging kit, couple of gauges. Owner said he recognized the Snap-Ons and called it in. Sounds like the guy went in there a lot looking for old tools.”

“Is he gonna be okay though? The old man, uh, Ray I mean.”

“He was out when we saw him, but you’ll have to wait to talk to the doctor, son.”

The electric clock up high at the front of the room seemed frozen, just ticking back and forth without making any progress. Another hour could have passed, maybe two, maybe none, before a woman with dark hair and tan skin approached Brock. She was wearing a white coat and blue scrubs and held a gray plastic clipboard in both hands.

“Are you Brock?” she asked softly.

Brock lifted his head up off his palm. He straightened up from his restless slouch.

“Yes’m I’m Brock. Is it Ray, is he gonna be okay?” Brock coughed to settle his voice.

“Yes, Mr. Perry is going to be just fine. And he’ll see you now if you’d like to visit.”

She led Brock back through the hall of clean white exam rooms and gave a soft knock on the last door. The stainless steel panel gave way to a pinkish room with a large electric hospital bed. The curtain was drawn open, and under a blanket sat the grumpy old mechanic, his back and head resting elevated on a pillow. The doctor gave a small wave and stepped back out of the room.

Ray rotated his head to look at the door and Brock. He had a large wad of clean cotton gauze taped across his forehead. A few wires ran from a finger clamp on his left hand. His eyes were as stern as ever, his mustache turned up in another one of his sour grimaces. Brock would have chuckled at the familiarity of the sight had the circumstances been less serious.

“Take a seat, boy.”

Brock did as he was instructed, drawing up a short rolling stool.

“You find me lyin’ there? You call dat amblance?”

His eyes were penetrating, and beady though they were, behind their usual intent and purpose, there was a gentle twinkle.

Brock shifted in his seat, and words started tumbling out unfiltered, “Yessir, I came by after school and found you lying there. Cops said they jumped you and got away with your tools, but they got ’em–”

“Don’t you hear good boy, I asked you one question and now you startin’ jabbin’ away like a daym fool again. Daym right they got dem dumb-basses, nobody stealin’ from me.”

He heaved himself up higher in the reclined bed, as if he couldn’t contain himself from leaping out of it and whooping the first person he got his hands on. Instead, he cleared his throat and dropped his sour look.

“Actually, you did good. You did real good, kid.”

Ray rustled his right hand under the cover and, with a jangle, produced his large keyring. He sifted through it, flipping old tarnished keys over and over until he found the one he was looking for. He held the ring up by it and outstretched his arm toward Brock.

“Now you take ‘em. And don’ go losin’ em or I’ll bust you up, you got dat?”

Puzzled, the teen took the key ring and studied it. The one brass key stood apart from the rest, tarnished as it was, there was a shiny wear mark where a thumb regularly polished it. The teeth gleamed like they were brand new. He looked back up at Ray, whose face was calmer and older somehow. Without their usual ferocity, the wrinkles didn’t make him look scrunched up, just wrinkly.

“Dat choke is stuck on da Packard. You go git dat fixed. And do a lube job on the Stude, den pick up parts at Waller’s. I’m gonna be in here ’nother day, so you git to work.”

Brock grinned and wiped the nearly-dry hair from his eyes while he stood up.

“Yessir, I will,” he nodded as he pocketed the key ring and made for the door.

“And Brock! Dem keys is borrowed, you got dat? You go make a copy o’ dat one cuz I ain’t leavin’ the door unlocked no mo’ like a daym fool.”

Brock could have sworn he saw a smile under the old man’s mustache.