Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113047 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113047 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
“Fuck, cat!”
It’s left bloody scratches down my arm. Jesus, I hope it’s not rabid. Probably there are animal control people or something that I could call…. I find a can of tuna in the back of the cupboard and dump it onto a plate a few feet away from the chair, trying to draw the kitten out, then go to clean the scratches it left on my arm. Within a minute, there’s a tug at my ankle, the kitten trying to crawl up my leg.
It’s filthy. I cuff my jeans and hoist the kitten into the cuff, where it grabs at the fabric, pricking my calf with its needle claws. In the time it takes to squeeze soap into a big pot and fill it with warm water, the kitten has fallen asleep, but the second it hits the water, it hisses and scrambles to get out. I hold it still with a towel and rub it clean, making sure to keep the soap out of its eyes and mouth the way my mom always did when I was little. Tilt your head back, close your eyes, and hold your nose, love.
It tires itself out pretty quickly, and I wrap it in a towel and put it on my bed. I’m flipping through an old issue of Rolling Stone when the cat wakes up and pushes up out of its towel. It stretches obscenely and pads over to me, suspicious at first, then pushes into my stomach with its paws. I lie back, and as I stop paying attention to it, the kitten jumps onto my stomach and curls into a tiny ball, tucking its head beneath its tail.
After a few minutes of rumbling, it flips over onto its stomach with all four paws spread out and its tail tickling my belly button. It’s pretty fucking cute. White with a black tail and a grayish stripe running from the top of its head all the way down its back, it reminds me of the original 1965 Shelby Mustangs, which were white with a dark blue stripe, so I name it Shelby in my head.
Not that I’m keeping it or anything.
When I run a finger over its head, though, it wakes up and takes a swipe at me. Which is good. The cat may be tiny, but it sure as shit isn’t going to let me hurt it.
SATURDAY MORNING, as soon as the first hood’s open, I lose myself in the guts of the car. Here, at least, are problems I can solve. If it’s bouncing excessively going over bumps, check for a worn shock or strut. If heat’s coming from the floor, then the catalytic converter is probably clogged. It’s a system, predictable and logical, and anything I break, anything I mess up, I can fix or replace.
Hell, given enough time and materials, I can take a car that seems beyond help and rebuild it, piece by piece. Give it a new life.
Not only does Rafael not have an oil leak, but nothing seems to be wrong with the car. It’s old, sure, but the 3 Series have great engines, some power, and good acceleration for an E-class. I drive it around the block just to be sure, and the only issues I can see are that I don’t know how such a big guy fits in such a small car and that all he has is a tape deck but no tapes. In fact, there’s nothing personal in the car at all: no change of clothes, no junk mail, no toolbox, no soccer cleats or gym bag. It’s clean inside, but not pristine. There are some cigarette burns on the passenger-side interior door and the backseats are a bit shabby. The lighter is missing from the console and there’s a ding in the windshield that hasn’t spiderwebbed. But nothing whatsoever that gives me a clue about who this guy is.
As I dial the number on my clipboard, my heart starts to race and my palms sweat.
“Yeah?” he answers, and there are voices in the background, like he’s in a park or something.
“Um, is this Rafael Guerrera?”
“Hello, Colin.”
“Hey, uh, just wanted to let you know your car’s all set. No leak. Just needed an oil change. We’re open till two if you want to come get it.”
The sound on Rafael’s side of the phone gets a little muted, like he covered it, and I hear sharp words in Spanish.
“Two, huh? I don’t think I’ll be able to get there before you close. Are you open tomorrow?”
“Nope. Monday, eight thirty to six.”
“Monday, then. Thank you, Colin.” The noise on his end crescendos to a crash that cuts off the call, and I’m surprised to find that I’m a little… disappointed?
Sam, my older brother, spends Saturdays in the office getting us caught up on paperwork, but Pop and Brian come out of the house around ten, when the usual Saturday stream of quick fixes begins. Oil changes, tire rotations, flats, busted windshields. Saturdays are dull but they always move fast. Hell, even Brian can hold his own with most Saturday issues.