Full Service

My mother was acting strangely. She had been for the last month or so, though not in any overt manner, no specific ways that stuck out, but in much more subtle ways that anybody who didn't know her as well as I do after eighteen years would ever notice. Other than bitching at me about little things, (growing up, learning the meaning of 'responsibility', getting a job, how I'm so impossible) it was as though something had been on her mind, distracting her and, while we didn't dislike each other, our relationship wasn't close enough for a mother-daughter talk about it. That early evening, however, her behaviour was even more irregular than it had been. It was in the way she carried herself, how she stood, moved and in her facial expressions. Most of all, it was in her attire.

Again, the differences were subtle, but obvious to one who knew Vanessa Griffin and her staunch routine of years. An off-white, short sleeved blouse that I hadn't seen outside her closet in a few years was chosen as that evening's top. It was just a little small on what had become her pleasantly curvy figure, the reason she'd left it hiding away, but it only showed in how its buttons strained slightly around those proud D cups. She even left the top two undone rather than fasten the thin garment up so far as to practically choke herself to death as usual. Looking close, I could even just barely make out the lace pattern of her white bra underneath and, from what I could tell, it didn't look like a granny bra.

She'd left the blouse untucked, the short tails resting nicely just above her rounded hips in a manner that accentuated them as much as the black business skirt, one I'd never seen her wear to her job as receptionist at the Audi dealership. It's not that the skirt was indecent in any way, no more than her blouse, but its hem rode a few inches above her knees rather than just below. A six inch slit up the back added to its understated sexy appeal, and the open toed, black, three inch heels that added to her natural five-seven height finished the ensemble in a way that they never spoke for her usual outfits.

Her long, auburn hair, usually worn up, was now down and flowing over her shoulders, straight but somehow not lacking body. Green eyes complimented a face that was attractive despite how it's shapely mouth and full lips almost never smiled since she and my father divorced. Also, her makeup was applied differently, more vividly I might have said, and her whole look made it seem almost as though she was trying to attract attention, not that she needed to. I knew she was hot and I'd noticed plenty of guys checking her out on many an occasion.

Yes, something was definitely going on and, that evening, I was becoming more curious about it by the minute. Clickety-clicking on her laptop at the kitchen island, she performed a double take at me from the corner of her eye as I peered at her from the doorway.

"Darin, what are you doing?" she asked, irritated, but also vaguely paranoid at my attention. "I told you, I've got an appointment at eight that I can't miss. If you want a ride to the mall, you'd better be ready in fifteen minutes."

"What appointment?" I asked as her eyes returned to the screen.

(Clickety-clickety-click) "The garage." (Clickety-clickety-clickety)

"I thought the car was fixed," I casually challenged.

More irritated, she quickly replied, "They had to order parts, would you please get your ass in gear?"

"Al-right, jeez!"

I was mostly ready anyway, save for finishing up with my hair, black like my father's and a little shorter than hers where it rested at my shoulders, and the choice of an outfit suitable to cruising the mall with my friends. I chose a pair of black capris leggings with a pink T shirt that was long enough to just barely cover the bottom of my shapely, fit posterior. The V neck wasn't quite as low as I would have wanted, but I'd never get anything lower past Mom's critical inspection and it still looked great on me. A wide, black belt with a big, round, gold buckle accentuated my hips and a pair of zebra striped Mary-Jane heels finished my look perfectly.

Checking this ensemble in the mirror, I wished I'd inherited Mom's boob size along with the bright green eyes that looked back at me, but my perky Cs looked fabulous in that top and went with my athletic hips very well. I wasn't quite as tall or voluptuous as my mother, but I was happy and comfortable with my body and enjoyed showing it off.

I gave myself a little smile as I considered bringing another top in order to do an end-run around the fashion gestapo downstairs, but I didn't want to be weighed down with a pack. Grabbing my small, rectangular, black clutch instead, I left my room just as said gestapo yelled at me to hurry, or I'd be left behind.

As it was, she shook her head slightly, rolling her eyes in silent disapproval of my outfit, but I pretended not to notice, practically skipping past her, through the kitchen and to the adjoined garage. By the time she was beside me in the driver's seat of her red coupe, whatever it was that had her so distracted had removed my appearance from her mind and, by the time she turned out onto the street, I was back to wondering at that.

I surreptitiously watched her nervously tapping the steering wheel with her index finger as she drove, nibbling at the inside of her lower lip, and my curiosity finally got the better of me.

"So, what's eating you?" I asked with indifference in my tone.

"What?" she replied, a little startled at first, as though she'd forgotten I was even there.

"Something's on your mind."

"Why do you say that?" she asked, clearly defensive now.

"Because there is. I can tell."

"There's nothing on my mind," she lied.

"Sure," I sarcastically agreed, half interestedly checking out a cute guy walking down the sidewalk as we passed.

"I'm worried about the car and how much it'll cost," she lied again.

"Uh huh," I laughed. "If I didn't know better, I'd swear you were going out on a date or something."

She jerked her head around to look at me and I almost laughed again at expression on her face.

"Don't be ridiculous," she scoffed. "I told you, I'm nervous about the car."

"What's so ridiculous about you going on a date?"

"W- Nothing, It's just that that isn't the case."

I sighed, shaking my head and rolling my eyes, saying, "Whatever. Anyway, why don't you just get it fixed at work? Wouldn't they give you an employee discount or something?"

She snorted derisively and replied, "They don't work on Chevrolets and dealerships are the last place anybody should take their car for repairs, employee discount or no."

I laughed again at the irony of her statement, considering her occupation, but didn't follow her up on it. Flipping the visor down, I used the vanity mirror to check my makeup, asking, "So where are you taking it, then? And what kinda place is open at this hour?

"Wheeling Auto service," she replied. "It's a private business, so they work late."

"How'd you find out about them?"

"The internet."

"Hm. Well, I hope they're honest."

"I think he is," she toned.

"'He'?"

"Dave. He runs the place. (Ahem)"

This time I was the one to jerk my head around at her, a knowing grin spreading across my face at how she'd nervously cleared her throat just then.

"Is he cute?"

She glanced at me without meeting my eyes, the ghost of a guilty smile leaping to her features for an instant before she could squash it, and replied with a more severe expression, "Darin... He's just a mechanic, alright?"

"Geez, Mom, lighten up. We're just talking. ... "So, is he?"

She only shook her head, a dismissal to my question rather than an answer, but that smile returned and wasn't so easily gotten rid of this time. Neither was I.

"Mom?"

"You're way off base," she said, giving up on getting rid of that smile.

"Oh, I don't think so. I bet he's tall and dark with big muscular arms like those guys on the covers of your trash novels. Isn't he, Mom?"

We'd come to a halt at a stop sign, she being stubbornly silent on the matter at hand, and I was about to continue my teasing inquiry when the car sputtered and died.

"Oh, shit!" she swore. "Don't you do this to me, you...!"

Slapping the gear selector all the way ahead to the park position, she twisted the ignition, the only result being a 'rur, rur, rur, rur, rur' sound as the engine turned over, but absolutely refused to start.

"Please, please, please, not now?!" she desperately begged.

(Rur, rur, rur, rur, rur, rur, rur, rur, rur, rur, rur, rur, rur, rur-)

The car behind us hit the horn and Mum almost went nuclear.

"Oh, shut up! Can't you see I'm having trouble, you-?!"

And then it fired up. We both breathed a sigh of relief and she switched the transmission back to drive so we could get moving again, for however long.

Dammit, dammit, dammit!" she fumed. "Millions of dollars in bailouts from two countries and those blasted morons still can't build a decent car! Should have told them to go to hell! Should have let them go out of business! God damned, rotten, useless, good for nothing boneheads! Should have listened to your uncle Stanley and bought that used BMW, but no, I had to have this brand new, shiny red piece of shit!"

"Mom?"

"What, Darin?! What?!"

"Whatever this Dave guy looks like, you should totally go out with him because you really need to get laid."

I thought she was going to hit me. I mean, I really thought she was going to punch me right in my pretty little face. After totally flipping out and threatening dire consequences if I said another word between there and the mall, I wisely kept my mouth shut until we rolled up to The Pen Centre's main entrance.

By that time, however, I was no longer really interested in the mall. No, I wanted to see what was up with my tightly wound mother and this 'appointment' of hers, so I decided to worm my little way into her business.

"They're not here," I said with a frown, scanning the entrance for Kendra and Tiffany, this being no surprise to me as I was supposed to meet them inside at New York Fries.

"They're probably inside," she correctly ventured, that heavier stress beginning to creep back into her tone.

"No," I refuted, "we were supposed to meet up right here, but..."

"Darin, I can't wait, it's almost ten to eight and I have to-"

"Well, they're not here, what am I supposed to do?" I almost whined at her.

"They're probably running a little late; just wait for them and they'll be along," she impatiently advised.

"But, what if they don't show up? I can't hang out by myself! Like a loser!"

"Oh my god!" she grated in pure frustration, rubbing her forehead with the palm of her hand. "Call them, or text them, or whatever the hell because I have to go before the god damned car stalls again, this time maybe for good!"

I opened my little clutch to grab my phone, turning the ring volume off as I pretended to briefly rifle through its other contents.

"Oh no!" I lamented.

"Now what?"

"I forgot my phone!"

She stared at me as though I'd just told her that I was pregnant with Uncle Stanley's baby.

"What?!" she asked incredulously. "Look again!"

I held up the little black clutch, emphasizing its limited confines while I emphatically determined, "It's not here, Mom!"

"Darin, for chrissakes, they'll be along! Now, get out of the car so I can-"

"No! You don't know that! I'm not gonna sit around waiting like an idiot, without even my cellphone when they might not even-"

"I can't take you with me, would you please just get out so I can go?!"

"Why?!" I demanded, actually wanting to know why she couldn't take me along to what was supposed to be just an appointment at a garage. "Anyway, this is all your fault! If you weren't bugging me to hurry before we left, I wouldn't have forgotten-!

She stomped the gas pedal to the floor, slamming me into the seatback. I wouldn't have thought her car had enough power to screech the tires, but I guess I was wrong.

"Hey! Mom, what the hell are you-?!"

"Shut up, Darin!" she shouted at me, spittle flying from her livid mouth, "I mean it, just shut the hell up right now, or we're going to the river so I can drown you in it! God dammit, you are so impossible!"

My mission accomplished, I shut up, looking out the side window and pretending to pout so she wouldn't see me trying not to laugh.

Just over ten minutes later, we pulled off Welland Avenue and drove around the business fronting the street to the rear lot where another establishment, a moderately sized, gray industrial building stood. We came to a stop in front of its large garage door between a big, deep red pickup truck hitched to a long travel trailer on Mom's side and a shiny, black Harley Davidson on mine. A sign to the right of the garage door and in front of the bike stated that this was indeed Wheeling Auto Service and a man door to the right of that displayed another sign in its window that read 'closed'.

"I think they're closed," I offered in a small, carefully innocent voice.

She looked at me, her expression hinting that something bad might happen to me if they really were before tersely instructing, "Stay here."

Wisely leaving the engine running, she got out and slammed the door, walking around the front of it in the gathering gloom to the man door. The look of relief on her face was plain as day when she tried the knob and found it unlocked.

She went in, and after a moment I expelled a slightly bored sigh, turning on the radio to catch Adele in the first thirty seconds of Rolling in the Deep. Before she could finish the song, the big door in front of me began rolling up with a heavy, clattering roar to reveal a rather large man dressed in dirty jeans and a Harley Davidson T shirt.

When I say 'large', I don't mean fat, rather the undefined muscular type. He was easily over six feet tall with big hands. He looked to be in his late thirties, maybe early forties, with a face that was neither ugly, nor attractive under an intact hairline of dark brown. If this was Dave, he was nothing like the men that graced the cover of Mom's trash novels, but this isn't to say that he had no appeal.

I didn't realize I was staring until he looked directly at me, holding my eyes while he paused there, the door rolling the rest of the way up of its own volition. With the hint of a smile, he broke eye contact first and started forward, moving for the driver's side of Mom's shiny red piece of shit. For some reason, I wanted to quickly reach over and lock the door, somehow impressed with, but almost frightened of him at the same time. Of course, I didn't. Instead, I cleared my throat and wondered at Mom's choice of mechanic as he reached the side of the car, opened the door and got in beside me.

He filled the driver's portion of the small car, the vehicle shaking quite noticeably as his weight settled and, right away, the manly smell of sweat and unidentified automotive dirt filled its confines. I was still gawking, and when he looked at me, I couldn't help but smile with a curious mix of unguarded admiration and apprehension. For his part, he smiled as well, his brown eyes blatantly checking me out as I sat, so small beside him. He didn't leer like a pervert, but confidently, thoroughly appraised me without fear of my reaction to it. I could tell he liked what he saw and it had the surprising effect of turning me on a little. I had to stifle a nervous giggle as he stuck his hand out to introduce himself.

"I'm Dave," he stated in a strong, but friendly enough voice.

Giving him my hand, which was completely engulfed his strong, firm grip, I replied, "Darin."

"Hey, Darin," he said, checking out my boobs again before adding, "Cool name for a girl."

"Thank you", was all I could say to this.

"So, your mother's car is acting up, eh?" he asked, shutting the door.

"Yeah, it's, (ahem) ... acting up," I stupidly confirmed.

Ignoring my nervous idiocy, he put the car gear in and then began moving us forward, saying, "Well, we'll see what we can do before she decides to burn it."

I'd been so preoccupied with him that I never even looked beyond the opened door to the garage's interior. As the car's front, then rear wheels bumped over the threshold and inside, the engine becoming louder within the surrounding metal walls, I looked around, suddenly and acutely aware of my heart having increased its pace and force to where I could feel it beating in my chest.

Mom took me to her work at the Audi dealership once after school and on our way home. She was getting her schedule and, while I waited, I saw inside their service center. It was big, clean and professional looking with all the mechanics wearing the same smart uniforms, working on brand new, shiny Audis. In the outer waiting area, soft muzac played while salesmen strolled around with their gleaming teeth and pressed shirts and ties, smiling and trying to impress potential customers, Mom and the other receptionist. Big, bright Audi signs graced the walls, boasting of professional service, factory roadside assistance and the Le Mans Victory Sales Event.

This place wasn't like that.

Spanning the entire back wall was a long, wide workbench, covered with tools and greasy black car parts with two big red toolboxes standing at the right end of it. Towards the back of the right wall was a closed door that led to what must have been a small compartment, maybe a bathroom. A set of wooden stairs beside the door led to a chicken wired enclosure above that held tires and some other items, presumably spare car parts. Opposite this, lining the left wall, were several tall, wide, blue metal cabinets that ran more than halfway to the front of the garage. Beside them and to our immediate left, two big floor jacks were stored against the wall with some other unidentifiable equipment. To my right, a large window allowed a view to a moderately sized office/waiting area with a door beside the window to gain entry.

In the right rear corner, a bright, orangey red car was nosed, the wide tired rear end jacked a few feet in the air while, underneath, a guy was on his back, arms raised and working on the bottom of it. Beside it and in the left rear corner, a big van was raised six or seven feet into the air on one of those lift thingies and, as we rolled in, another guy was pushing a Harley ahead and between these two areas to make room for Mom's car.

She was standing a few feet from the door to the office/waiting area with her professional smile and demeanor not quite covering her own apprehension, looking at me with the subtle paranoia that I saw back at the house before glancing at the back of the guy pushing the Harley. That didn't have time to register, what with the state I was in, but also because that's when the car stalled.

"There she goes," Dave commented, putting the car in park after its forward momentum ran out to turn the ignition.

(Rur, rur, rur, rur, rur, rur, rur, rur, rur, rur-)

"Fuck it," he decided, giving up.

"Do you know what's wrong with it?" I asked, still intimidated and impressed, but now composed barely enough to try covering that up.

He smiled at me and replied, "Yeah, it's a Cobalt."

I couldn't help laughing a little at this diagnosis as he put the car in neutral, and then opened the door, letting in the sound of some rock and roll from my mother's era. A moment later, he was out and pushing it ahead by himself with one big paw on the windshield pillar, and without any real strain. When he was finished, he stooped over, reaching back inside to put the transmission in park and turn the ignition switch back, popping the hood afterward while taking an appreciative look at my legs.