Painter Taco Gnome and Other Tales

1. Auflage 2011
ISBN: 978-1-61842-302-3
Verlag: BookBaby
Format: EPUB
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 101 Seiten

Sixteen stories of the amusing and the arcane, all set on the same city block. *For (mostly) mature readers.*

Autoren/Hrsg.

Painter, Christopher

Leseproben

POUND AUTOMOTIVE “Well, Mrs. Mandabausch, you had a couple fuel valves that were gunked up.  You might wanna try a cleaner burning gasoline.” “Uh-huh, what else?” Bruce shot a nervous glance at Pound, his boss, who was nearby wiping a piston with a greasy rag.  The piston did not need wiping.  “Gave you a new air filter,” Bruce continued, returning to Mrs. Mandabausch’s watery gaze.  Her crow’s feet shuffled anxiously.  “The old one was . . . you know, had some dirt in it.  Grit.” “And?” Bruce dropped his voice very low and leaned in.  Pound stopped wiping the piston. “And I . . . uh . . . ,” Bruce scratched the side of his neck to shield his voice, “. . . changed the, uh . . . changed the oil.” “And?” Mrs. Mandabausch hissed. Bruce bent over, right into her face, so close he could smell her powdery lipstick, and whispered. “You’re going to be killed if you go to Aspen, Mrs. Mandabausch.  Torn apart by a pack of akitas.  Your son causes it.  He wants the insurance money so he can buy his quarterback boyfriend a new hip.” Mrs. Mandabausch began to weep.  Bruce shot a look at Pound, who was now walking toward them.  The piston gleamed heavy in his hand. “But if you don’t go to Aspen, your son’s plans will fall through, and you’ll be fine,” Bruce amended, hopefully.  “For now, anyway.” “Thank you, Bruce.  I owe you my life.”  She grabbed his hand, pressed a piece of paper into it, and closed it tight.  “Thank you.” Pound sidled up alongside them. “Everything all right here?”  His frosty English accent registered no concern. With a tormented wail, Mrs. Mandabausch fled to her vehicle.  Pound watched her go, then slowly turned to Bruce’s clenched fist.  Under Pound’s stare, the paper in Bruce’s hand would have caught fire if it wasn’t already soaked with sweat.  Bruce looked at his fist, then at Pound.  His boss was not going to stop until he opened it, so with actual physical effort, Bruce forced his fingers to unclench. In his palm lay a damp, crumpled one hundred dollar bill.  Bruce gaped, as if he were a sleepwalker who had just awoken to find himself holding a wedge of cheese over the body of a man that had just died a cheese-related death. “I, um . . . I told her her valves have . . . gunk.” “Bruce, did you divine her future by reading her oil?” “Oh,” Bruce laughed weakly. “Mister Pound, you said never to do that again.” “That is true, Bruce, and I have never known you to lie.  But your statement is evasive, a recounting of past fact, not an answer to my question.  Did you read her oil?” Bruce looked out into the parking lot as Mrs. Mandabausch revved up her vermilion ’84 Ford Taurus and threw it into reverse with a furious grinding of gears, a habit that ran her fifteen hundred dollars a year.  There was not much space to back up in front of Pound Automotive, as the white art deco building hogged most of the land on the corner lot.  As such, she came within an inch of the divot she’d made last time in the corner of the garage bays. “Bruce, are you still with me, lad?  I asked you a question.” “Mrs. Mandabausch’s oil.” “Ah, you have been listening!  I’m so glad, because I hate when I have to repeat myself.” Bruce fudged and hawed, his swayed back and sunken chest seeming to curl in on itself more than usual.  The Taurus roared out of the driveway onto Central Avenue, bouncing with a mighty screech, narrowly avoiding two young female pedestrians wearing ski masks and bulky parkas.  Another car honked its displeasure. “She was going to be torn apart by akitas, Mister Pound,” Bruce said. Pound inhaled sharply through his nostrils, his lips mashed together so tight you could not have slid a service order form between them. “Bruce, I specifically told you to never, ever read another customer’s oil again.  I said never, then I said ever.  Never, ever.  I thought I was remarkably clear.” “You were, but . . .” “And I don’t mean, ‘Stop or I’ll fire you,’ I mean, ‘Stop.  Period.’  Whether the glittering paths of opportunity that stretch vast before you offer passage from automotive maintenance to the far-off lands of the food service industry or retail sales, you are to never, ever toy with people in such a despicable manner.  It’s cruel, it’s witch-crafty claptrap that preys on their manifold insecurities, and it does more harm than good, so don’t try and sell me that whatever-helps-them-cope-with-their-problems twaddle.  I may fire you, I may not.  But regardless, if I catch you doing it again, I will beat every ounce of brain out of your head with this piston.” Pound brandished the piston like a medieval mace, then turned, snatched the hundred dollar bill from Bruce’s hand, and walked away. “And if you don’t believe me, read your oil.” That was a useless suggestion.  He could only read the oil of a car’s owner, and Bruce didn’t own a car. * * * “Pound is mad at you,” said Phyllis, Pound Automotive’s other mechanic, as they sat in what their boss termed the “drawing room” and ate their lunch, which today, like yesterday, was from the Taco Gnome down the street. “I know,” Bruce said, glumly balancing a flavorless tostada on his knee. “Why?” “’Cause I read this lady’s oil.  Mrs. Mandabausch.” “Pound told you to never, ever do that again.” “I know.” “Is that why Pound is mad at you?” “Yeah.” “’Cause you read somebody’s oil?” “Yep.” “Why’d you do that?” Bruce sighed. “Well, the way I figured, it was Mrs. Mandabausch, with the orange Taurus, she asked me real desperate, and I knew I wasn’t supposed to on account of Mister Pound hates it, so I figured what I’d do is I’d read her oil, and if there wasn’t anything, you know, earth-altering, I didn’t have to tell her.  But she was gonna be murdered, Phyllis, by her own son!  I saw his whole terrible plan.  She’s walking out of a grocery store in Aspen when a van pulls up in front of her, the door slides open, and a pack of akitas jumps out and mauls her.” “What kind of van?” “’92 Voyager.” “Wow, that’s awful.  She’d probably have her hands full of groceries and couldn’t ward ’em off, huh?  An’ they’d go for her neck, I’ll bet.  That’s what I’d do if I was an akita.” “I dunno.  I usually just get the where and the when and the how, but not the how-how.  If that makes sense.” “Sure.  Well, I think you did the right thing, Bruce.” “Thanks, Phyllis.” Bruce took a troubled sip from his soft drink while Phyllis fussed absently at a nacho. “Bruce?” “Hmm?” “Will you read my oil?” “I think the ban on reading extends to employees.” “I won’t tell.  I promise.” Bruce chewed on a stale tortilla chip and looked away, over at a calendar on the wall by the front desk.  It was February, but it seemed like the dates did not stop at twenty-nine.  It appeared as though today might be, somehow, February thirtieth.  He turned back to Phyllis, who was eyeing him with anticipation.  She surpassed Bruce by ten in both years and weight, but right now, she looked like a schoolgirl waiting to hear her father’s decision about the pony. “Do you got somethin’ you really need to know?” “Yeah,” said Phyllis.  “I do.” Bruce took a deep, refreshing pull on his soda.  If there was something Phyllis had to know, then by gosh, that’s what his Gift was for. * * * Naturally, they had to wait until Pound was gone, and this evening he was especially slow to leave, filling out supply order forms for September, rearranging the fan belts by manufacturer, and personally overseeing a switchfitter who stopped by to inspect a light switch in the front office.  Bruce and Phyllis kept busy with a series of unnecessary chores until they hit on the brilliant idea of assembling a muffler display, which would take the better part of an hour once they began at seven thirty.  Eventually, Pound packed his briefcase and headed for the door. “You two are staying awfully late this evening,” he said testily.  “Aren’t you in danger of missing a hilarious installment of your favorite situation comedy?” “We’re building the muffler display,” Phyllis explained, pointing at it with a socket wrench. “The one that came a month ago that we said we’d get around to one day?” Bruce added, his knees on a...