Car Repair

Rebecca knew that red light on the dashboard was trouble. She swore softly as the car began to sputter and choke. Her old Plymouth was a piece of shit, but she’d hoped it would last until she got to Chicago, where her new job and apartment awaited her. No such luck, it looked like. Goddamned alternator was probably leaking fluid again. Fortunately, she was just outside of some little burg called Delmar. With any luck, there might be a garage still open.
There was a garage—one garage and not much else on the main street. The place wasn’t one of those shiny 7-11s with huge gas pumps out front and a brightly-lit, squeaky clean store with everything from hot dogs to panty hose. This ramshackle dump of a building looked like it had been there since the Great Depression. There were probably condoms in the men’s room and pictures of naked women from Hustler pinned on the walls, Rebecca thought. But the “OPEN” sign was lit; that was all that mattered. Rebecca managed to pull up to the curb just as her car gave one last shudder and died.
Rebecca opened the car door and climbed out of the car. She stood there in her new navy business suit and heels, looking around.
“Help you?”
The voice came from behind Rebecca. Startled, she turned and almost twisted her ankle; she wasn’t used to these new heels yet. The speaker, a dark-haired guy about forty or so, thin and wiry-looking, with a five o’clock shadow on his jaw, was dressed in a grease-stained pair of overalls and wiping his hands on a rag. The name patch on his overalls said, “Tony.”
“Careful, now.” The guy reached out to grab Rebecca’s elbow, but she righted herself with a jerk and gave him a cool look.
“Thank you, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t stain my new outfit with grease.”