The Mechanic

There was nothing I loved more than cars than the purr of a good engine and the feeling of a day of meaningful work that leaves you covered in grease but satisfied. The problem wasn’t that I wasn’t driven. I had my certifications, every single one I could get my hands on. The problem was finding a shop where I could work and not have problems. Then I found this shop. How I’d never noticed it sitting in the center of town, I will never know. Not when there was a line of gorgeous muscle cars from the heyday of such things. Dodge and Cadillac and Ford and Corvette all in a neat row.
The mechanic was a broad man with a fondness of sleeveless shirts and an old Nascar hat. When I first saw him working in the open garage bay, it was like watching a painter or a sculptor at work, his large hands deft and capable. It was watching his hands that I didn’t notice at first that he wore braces on both his legs to help him stand.
I don’t know how long I stood in the door, in the open garage bay and watched him work. I was enraptured. That was when he turned to me.
“Well, girl? Are you going to just stand there or will you pick up a wrench and get started?”

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