“Another Day, Another Mess”

Morning starts like it always does — with the sound of some beat-up Chevy coughing to death in my shop. Guy swears it just “started making that noise yesterday.” Sure, buddy. That rattle’s been screaming louder than your marriage for months. Still, I nod, smile, tell him I’ll take care of it. Grease doesn’t lie. People do.

By noon, my hands are black with oil, my stomach’s running on burnt coffee and a stale breakfast burrito, and I’m halfway convinced the wrench in my pocket has more personality than half my customers. But it’s honest work. You fix cars, they pay you, they leave. No blood, no bullets, no drama. If only it stayed that simple.

Phone buzzes around 3 p.m. Different kind of customer. Doesn’t want an oil change — wants me to sit in on a drop. I wipe my hands, swap grease for gunmetal, and suddenly the day shifts gears. The cartel doesn’t care if your shirt still smells like transmission fluid. Business is business.

By nightfall, I’m sitting in some stranger’s living room, pretending I belong there, pretending I don’t notice the way everyone’s eyes dart like flies. Money changes hands. People talk too much. People don’t talk enough. I keep quiet, because that’s my specialty — listening, surviving.

When it’s all done, I drive home. Windows down, radio low, city lights blurring past. My shirt’s still stained with oil, but there’s something darker under it too. That’s the part soap never really gets out.

End of the day? Same as the start. Just another mess on my hands. The trick is knowing which ones you can wash off… and which ones follow you to bed.