Tenley reached for a wrench in his tool cabinet, taking out a screwdriver instead. This morning, the cabinet had a mind of its own, presenting tools for a starter replacement instead of an oil change, bolts instead of nuts.
Ray slept only a few hours the night before, and his awareness wasn’t so keen. So he chalked it up to sleep deprivation and stepped over to the Ford pickup to fix an electrical issue, rather than doing the brake job on the Chevy.
“Why aren’t you working on the Plymouth brake job like the work order says?” shouted Ray, his boss and owner of the little garage in a small town in Michigan.
“Uh, I don’t know. It just seemed the thing to do.”
“Nobody’s paying you to think. Just do what you’re told!”
Tenley looked at the tire jack in his hand and wondered what he was supposed to do with that. He scanned the lot for a Plymouth, but there wasn’t one. A Chrysler, a couple of Ford pickup trucks, and a station wagon, besides the Chevy and Ford Escort he was working on.
“What was I…oh, yeah, the Chrysler. Wait. Wasn’t supposed to be a Chevy?”
Much to Ray’s consternation, Tenley began taking the wheel off the Chrysler.
“Now what the hell ya doin’!”
“The brake job.”
“The brake job is supposed to be on the Pontiac,” said Ray, shaking his head.
“You sure? I thought it was…”
“Of course I’m sure, you knucklehead. What is wrong with you today?” Ray questioned as he absent-mindedly set his coffee cup on top of a note that his other mechanic, Tom, had left him an hour ago. Phone call from the station wagon owner. Don’t replace the brake line. Gonna scrap ‘er instead. On the wall behind Ray are the keys to the cars in the lot.
“Where the heck are the keys to the…Tom put ’em in the wrong place again.”
Tom, whose tidy workspace and calm demeanor rubbed Ray the wrong way. He didn’t know why. Poor slob’s wife left him and took the four kids to Tennessee. Hell, he wasn’t even from the area. He moved there because of his wife. The kids had the choice of where they wanted to live. All chose a new life—a new dad. Christ, what do you say after that?
The owner of the Chevy calls, wondering when his brake job will be done. Ray argues with him that he doesn’t have a Chevy to do a brake job on today.
“I am picking my car up this afternoon and it damn well better be ready!” shouts the man into his phone before hanging up.
“What the hell is he talking about? We gotta…oh, shit. Hey Ten!” Ray shouts. “You gotta git yer ass to work on that Chevy brake job. You’ve been messin’ around all morning. Now get it together and get it done!”
Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this story here are a few other Kafkaesque stories:
Circle Road
Citation 4471B