The Human Stain: Chapter 2
"Going to church does not make you a Christian anymore than going to the garage makes you a car." Dr. Laurence J. Peter
Claire dressed slowly for work, enjoying the fact that she finally had time to get ready. She ambled over to the adjoining bathroom from her bedroom, and flicked on the overhead lights. The small interior was immediately illuminated, causing her to squint as her dilated pupils readjusted themselves to the greater intensity of light.
The bathroom was a simple affair, a contrast of white-on-beige. Porcelain tiles ringed the room, ending midway up the walls. There was a single sink, toilet, and tub with a showerhead rigged just above it. The wallpaper above the tile encasing the walls was a flat, monotonous tan broken only by artificial stippling. The only splash of color was a blue bath mat next to the shower, which remained at odds with the room's color scheme.
Sighing, the woman leaned over the sink and peered into the small mirror that also served as a medicine cabinet. Surprisingly, she had aged little in the years since the accident. Her nasal-labial lines were a bit more shadowed, true, and the beginnings of crow's feet were starting to have their say at the corners of her gray eyes. She had somewhat of a baby face. Her nose was small on her features, and slightly upturned. Her lips were still full, but they too were beginning to thin with the fading of her youth. For all she had tanned in the past, she had survived aging relatively unscathed. She was paler now, and owned only the requisite browning natural to all those who lived in environs such as hers. It ended at her collarbones and upper arms – a farmer's tan, of all things.
She had stopped wearing shorts, skirts and bathing suits out in public the day she lost her leg. She no longer cut up perfectly good jeans to create shorts, nor did she feel the need.
To show her legs, well, that would just be embarrassing. No one needed to see her prosthesis, least of all her. She was used to it as a daily part of her life, but it didn't mean she was proud of it.
No one thinks a peg leg is attractive, and this is about equal to it, she mused bitterly to herself.
Flinging her image and morose thoughts aside with a deft movement of her hand, Claire opened the medicine cabinet and extracted her toothbrush. It was going to be another hot July day in Nevada, she could already feel the heat creeping upwards as she rummaged for a tube of toothpaste towards the back of the cabinet. Once both toothpaste and toothbrush were in both hands, the woman began to squeeze a dab on the brush's bristles. The tube gave wheeze, and then flung a cord of toothpaste over the hand gripping the toothbrush. Too much at once.
Sighing again, Claire turned on the faucet, set down the toothpaste and proceeded to wash her hands.
The day was turning into a real winner, she could tell.
"Oh, no you don't!" Claire gritted her teeth and swatted the steering wheel like one would the rump of a misbehaving child. She was behind the wheel of her 2004 Eclipse, something she had bought for the affordability and sporty appearance when it was new. It had been a reliable vehicle for all of two years, but lately it had been giving her grief. She was still sitting in her driveway, staring at the detached garage to the right of her ranch house.
"I cannot believe you, this is no way to behave," Claire chided, turning the key in the ignition once more. The engine revved as if trying, but refused to turn over. Disgusted, Claire smacked the center column of the steering wheel with the butt of her palm and was rewarded when the car gave a broken honk.
"Fuck it all," the woman cursed, grabbing the door handle and pushing outwards. The door swung open, and she slid out of the driver's seat. With her hands on her hips, she stared disapprovingly down at the Eclipse's moon roof. The vehicle beeped at her, letting her know that the car door was open. At least some things worked. Her predicament swam through her mind, scavenging for solutions. She couldn't risk turning the key anymore; she was likely to flood the engine if she hadn't already. The car had been like this the past month, toying with her mind and hopes. Sometimes it would fire right up for a few days, leaving her to wonder if it ever had a problem at all. Other times were exactly like this – the car just refused to budge. She was beginning to believe the Eclipse was not a morning person. It made sense, given that she was not either.
"Like attracts like," came a rogue thought that somehow manifested itself through her vocal chords. Shaking her head as if to clear it, Claire shut the door of the car with her nearest hip and leaned against it. The car stopped emitting its infernal digital blips, and all was quiet. Throwing up her hands, Claire marched back into her house. "You win, I'm calling a tow truck."
Claire rode high in a yellow tow truck that had just begun to show its age. Next to her, in the driver's seat, was John Boyd. John was a man in his early thirties, and a grubby one at that. His face was clean-shaven, but his blue uniform was stained with grease, oil and other indistinguishable fluids. He had a heavy-set brow that made his small blue eyes appear even smaller. Currently, his deep brow was furrowed in concentration as the two pulled into an asphalt lot that was crumbling away into the desert below it. Behind them, Claire's Eclipse followed. It was hooked to the back of the truck, matching the larger vehicle's speed.
The blonde woman's eyes were drawn to the pitted and faded sign on top of a concrete building at the center of the lot.
In scrawling, cursive letters reminiscent of the 50's, it read: BOYD & SONS AUTO REPAIR.
John Boyd was one of those named sons. He was the oldest of the duo, and had a younger brother named Max. Their father, Boyd Senior, was named Mick. All Boyds shared a similar, stocky build that seemed to run in their family. John was the tallest of the three, Max was just a mite shorter, and the eldest Boyd was the shortest of all.
John cranked open the driver's side door to the old tow truck, and it groaned in protest. The summer heat hit them both like a furnace, and even John flinched. "Hot one today," he remarked simply.
"You could say that again," Claire agreed as she similarly opened her own door. Whatever meager air conditioning the tow truck had offered on the ride there fled the cab, leaving her sitting in the morning sun. It was a cloudless day, and she had to blink several times before shielding her eyes with the flat of her hand. She rounded the front of the truck and glanced over at John, who gave her a two-fingered flick of his hand. Following him, he led her over to the auto garage.
A sleepy dog chained to an old park bench raised his head from the shade of the building as they approached, but then whined and resettled. Claire had a quick flashback at the sight of the dog, and she remembered being in a hospital bed as she asked her parents about the fate of the canine she had attempted to save. Her parents had exchanged worried glances, but fortunately for them she had passed out again before she could retrieve an answer. She found out weeks later that the dog had not in fact made it – the surf had crushed him against the crags.
Forcing the memory away, Claire gave the dog a wide berth while John gave it an appraising look. "Lazy Red," was all he offered. The dog gave a whimper, but did not attempt to raise his head. There was a bowl of dirty water nearby, presumably for the dog, but it was nearly gone. It seemed the humans weren't the only ones suffering from the heat.
John opened the door to the office, and an old bell jangled overhead to announce their arrival. Sweat had begun to prick its way across Claire's forehead, so it was nearly a shock to step from 100-degree temperatures into 71-degree air-conditioning. The cool wave tensed her shoulders, but relief soon followed. The interior of the auto garage was dusty, and sunlight filtered through two dirty shop windows where they had entered. Motes of dust danced in the sunbeams, floating idly before swirling in complex movements. There was a grimy cash register sitting atop an equally grimy counter, and behind it sat Mick Boyd.
Mick Boyd was in his late fifties, a man who emitted a sense of strength and resolve despite his short stature. He stood eye level with Claire, perhaps shorter, but seemed undeterred by this fact. His salt-and-pepper hair matched his mustache, and like his son he had the same deep-set blue eyes. Claire noticed he was wearing a new John Deere baseball cap, set crooked on his head where his usual 'Boyd & Sons Auto Repair' cap would be. It clashed with his dark gray uniform, but he seemed proud to wear it.
"Hey, Mick," Claire held up a hand and gave him a wave.
"Claire!" Mick exclaimed, seemingly delighted to see her. "What brings ya down to see this old man?"
Claire smiled for the first time that day. Mick was well known around Boulder City – he had been in business with his own father since as far back as anyone could remember. He was a homegrown member of Boulder City, as were his sons. There was scarcely anyone that had grown up in town who would not recognize him. Claire had been initially recommended to him when she first moved to Nevada three years ago, and she had stayed with him since buying her Eclipse. He knew that car better than she did. He was always the one to change the oil on it, or to fix a radiator leak. He treated all his customers well, and to Claire there was no exception. She would even admit that he treated her as well as he would treat his own daughter.
"Heard yer havin' trouble," Mick said.
"You could say that."
"What can I do ya fer?" came his curious reply.
"I tried to start the car this morning for work, and it made a sound like it was starting, but the car wouldn't completely start."
"How many times were ya turnin' the key over?"
"I tried about eleven times," she stated meekly.
He winced, and so did she. "Ya might of flooded 'er."
"It's a possibility. I'm sorry."
The older man came from around the desk, passed his son and clapped her on the shoulder in a kindly fashion. "It's okay, Clair-ee," he crooned, "we'll take a look at 'er. You need ta be getting' ta work?"
Claire smiled fondly at him. "Yeah, about that… do you have a loaner I could borrow for now? Possibly?" Her last question lilted upwards, sounding hopeful.
"Best we take a look-see, Clair-ee." Mick chuffed at his rhyme, a fact that was not lost on John and Claire. John rolled his eyes, and Claire giggled. Turning to his son, Mick raised his eyes and addressed him in a more somber tone. "Johnny-boy, run back and see if we have anything out in the lot for Claire here."
Seems like no one escapes Mick's horrible names, Claire laughed inwardly.
John gave his father a questioning look before nodding. He seemed unphased by the rather unbecoming nickname – that or just used to it. "Gimme a sec," he murmured before exiting through a door to the rear of the office. John, Claire noticed, was never one for many words.
Dimly, she realized that time was growing short and she needed to be in to work soon.
Silence persisted between Mick and Claire as Mick readjusted the cap on his head.
Taking note of it once more, Claire motioned to it. "New hat?"
"Yup," the old man replied, puffing his chest out in pride.
"Looks good!"
"Thanks be, Clair-ee." He winked, Claire laughed, and somewhere outside a car's engine sputtered.
"Max is out in the garage workin' on a Beamer. Don't see many of those round these 'parts."
"Really?" Claire raised an eyebrow, and was about to ask a question concerning BMW's when John returned. The man was sweating profusely, leading Claire to believe that the temperature outside had climbed even higher.
"Couldn't find nothin'," groused John, "'cept this old Datsun out there."
Claire glanced up at the clock over the door. She was going to be late.
"A Datsun?" Mick turned, his eyes widening with surprise. Bumbling over to the counter, the old mechanic began to sift through the pages of a dog-eared notebook covered in dust. "I don't think we have a Datsun down as a loaner. You sure, boy?"
"Yeah, here." John threw something shiny and metallic towards his father, and the older Boyd caught it without missing a beat. Shiny keys jangled from between Mick's thumb and forefinger, and he appeared confused.
"Did some guy just leave his car here? Says here all our loaners are out for the day."
Claire watched the proceedings keenly, not quite sure what it was all about. The one thing she did know was that she needed to be getting to work. She had already called in telling them she would be late due to car problems, but the musty clock on the wall with the iron hands told her it was nearing noon.
"We can't just hand over the keys ta some random car in our lot. Call the county, get rid of it."
It was then that Claire interjected anxiously, "It doesn't matter, I'll take anything at this point. I just need to get to work. I'll bring it back this afternoon, unscathed. I just need something to get to work in."
Both sets of male eyes turned to her, regarding her evenly. Her gaze flickered frantically between them, pleading them.
It was Mick who spoke first, of course. "We could get in big trouble for letting you use a car we do not own, Claire." He had ceased to use his nickname for her, which let her know he was being gravely serious.
"Please, Mick? Just for today."
More moments slipped by as he digested her words. Finally, he scuffed the toe of his work boot against the wood floor and spun around with a speed surprising for one his age. "Let's take a look-see at this car."
Leading the way with the keys fisted in a white-knuckled grip, Mick Boyd departed through the rear service door and glanced over his shoulder with an expectant look. Like petulant children following their commandeering father, John and Claire exchanged looks and then followed behind him.
Once again, there was a rush of heat that flared against her skin while the sun threatened to blind her. The back lot was a mess of oil drums, oil rags and other debris. It was nothing but a dirt parking space, and held no special relevance except for the car parked on the far end of the lot. From where she stood, she could not discern the color. It was gray, or a light blue, or some combination of the two. The sun bounced off the dull finish, causing fluctuations in visibility that made it difficult to ascertain much from her vantage point.
In front of her, she heard Mick hitch a quick breath. He sauntered across the parking lot, nearly breaking into a run from anticipation. Despite the fact that the metal might burn his fingertips, he reached out upon reaching the car and moved his hand across the hood in appreciation.
"Boy!" he barked, "do'you have any idea what this is? It's a classic!"
Classic was right – the car was old. Older than the dirt it sat upon, that was for sure. It was no model she could recognize, although logically she knew it had a name. She had just heard that name not too long ago, after all. A Datsun. What on earth was a Datsun?
"I found the keys on the dash. The door was unlocked," John cut in, disrupting her thoughts.
"Who in the nine hells would leave this out in the middle of our lot! It's a… looks like a 1979. 1979 Fairlady Z."
"Thought it was a Datsun?" questioned Mick's son.
"Have I taught you nothing, boy!?" growled the older mechanic, gesticulating wildly all the while. "This… this car… Nissan was Datsun in the good 'ol U.S. of A." Mick's features were the most animated Claire had ever seen them.
And, all the while, she had stood there. She had stood there watching a man salivate over an old heap of junk that had rolled out of the assembly line before she was even born.
I cannot believe this… her mind trailed.
What she couldn't further believe is that she was willing to drive that thing to work. She was desperate, and desperate times called for desperate measures.
Putting herself bodily between father and son, Claire forced their attention on her. "Is it alright with you, then? May I drive it just for today?"
Mick lifted a wizened brow. "You know how to drive a stick, girl?"
She almost told him the truth – she honestly didn't know much. She had had a few joy rides with her friend Jen's Land Rover, and that was the extent of her knowledge. The basics she understood, it was the finesse of shifting she did not.
"I used to drive stick," was all she managed.
Mick Boyd sighed, appearing torn. "I've never seen this car in my life. I know it ain't mine. But…" he hedged, glancing rapidly between his son and Claire, "I suppose it won't hurt nothin' to let you for a day. I won't tell no one." He smacked his son on the back, and John nearly went flying from the force. "That means you too, boy."
Grumbling to himself, John righted his stance and arched his back as if to stretch. "Fine by me."
Mick turned to Claire, his face completely serious. "Just be sure to bring 'er back in one piece. We should have yer Eclipse ready to roll out later this afternoon after we figger out the problem. We should call the car in then. Could be stolen."
Stolen!? Claire turned incredulous eyes to the metal deathtrap before them. Who would steal this piece of crap? It's lucky I even want to borrow it!
Despite everything, Claire was extremely grateful for Mick's act of generosity towards her. She felt like she could even hug him for all he did for her, but he might not appreciate that. She had never hugged the man before and it might be an unwelcome action – people did have bubbles, after all.
"Oh, thank you Mick, thank you!" she clapped her hands together once, and then scanned the car appraisingly. "Does it even run?"
"Only one way to know, Clair-ee."
A soft, metallic chime trilled through the smoldering airwaves as the Fairlady Z's keys were tossed in her direction. Unlike Mick, she caught like a girl and fumbled before dropping them entirely. Scrambling to pick them out of the desert dirt, she stood upright and held them before her with a skeptical eye.
Mick let out a great belly laugh. "Work on that catch, girl!"
A memory, unbidden, touched upon her mind. In her mind's eye, an old high school friend threw her a frisbee. She caught it, and held it high over her head triumphantly while the phantom friend told her to toss it back.
'Jeez, Jen. Give me a sec here. I rarely catch this thing,' she called.
'That's why we're here,' Jen had replied.
Holding the keys before her in the noonday Nevada sun, Claire stopped reminiscing and instead forced a small smile to her lips. Cryptically she whispered, "That's why I'm here."
Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All original characters are mine.
A/N: Hope you liked chapter two! Thanks for the reviews, I really appreciate it. I'm kind of used to reading fanfics where reality is deus ex machina and things are just given to the main character. I am trying to make this fanfic as real as possible, and that means the main character has to deal with some pretty mean realities, just like in real life. So, yeah… in that vein, I hope you are not disappointed. I'm keepin' it real!