Grease-monkey Central

The battered radio in the corner blared loud dance-rock, and someone somewhere hummed tunelessly to the beat. In counterpoint to the music someone was drilling, or using a high-powered screwdriver, or something, because there was a repetitive, high-pitched power-tool shriek, occasionally punctuated by curses as something went wrong. The scent of gasoline and oil was overwhelming, and both substances were smeared across the floor in casual splashes, as if Jackson Pollock had come through drunk. Cold air blew in a steady draft beneath the bottom of the garage door, which needed new weather-stripping. Someone hit his head on something he shouldn’t have, which set off a round of cursing and a series of metallic thuds as car parts landed on the ground. Three tall red tool-boxes stood free and proud in the middle of the cement floor like misplaced modern art sculptures and were scrupulously organized, if grease-stained. Someone - perhaps the chief mechanic’s wife - had nailed a coat rack to the back wall, and from it hung several grey, oil-stained overalls, each paired with a different-colored bandanna; there was one for each mechanic. The microwave in the opposite corner from the radio let out a ping and emitted smoke and the scent of too-cooked instant burrito, and the punch-clock on top of it rattled dangerously. In ten minutes, the corpse-like cars up on blocks would be swarmed with boys in overalls, and lunch break would begin.

(248 words)