Hey, Somebody's Got To Clean That Up

Once in Chicago I worked as a temp in a college office. My supervisor was a middle-aged retired fashion designer who always reminded me of an old house cat, her feline grace impeded by decades of easy living: climate-controlled rooms and mochas with whipped cream. One slow afternoon at Speed-Eaze Car Wash, as my coworker Travis recounted how he'd stabbed his sister's rapist to death (we had previously been talking about how hilly Ohio is), I couldn't help but think that I'd strayed into another genus entirely.

Travis struck me as a precarious man who'd had his ears boxed all his life and learned to give as well as he got. Generally a friendly fella, unless you're black. He conjured in my mind the image of a bulldog, the big powerful old kind that are tired of fighting but not so tired they wouldn't rip you apart given motivation.

This morning was a milestone; I've been working for Speed-Eaze long enough that I was given my own uniform jacket. Navy blue with a patch on each breast: the right says "Speed-Eaze Car Wash," the left "Tim." I envision it being worn five years down the line by a 20-something not named Tim who will pick it up at the Athens Goodwill.

I didn't work; sullen fuck-off-I'm-not-getting-out-of-bed clouds pissed lukewarm rain on us all day. Still I stopped by the garage to pick up my jacket so I could wash it before I work tomorrow, since they starch the shit out of it and it's itchy as shit, or so my boss told me. As I was shooting the shit with her, Travis strolled in with shit on his shirt.

Jeff, the boss' brother, was curled over his boat, working silently and skillfully as he usually is whenever I see him. Travis was muttering something offensive, as he usually is whenever I see him. Something about Somali gangs, who live right up there (he nodded in no distinct direction) and some money being owed. Then a snippet of an anecdote: When he walked in, they had a gun right to his head, so he grabbed it and wrestled with him (Travis pantomimed the struggle, the hem of his gray shirt momentarily riding up to reveal a heroic beer gut), and that's when shots started going off. I stood awkwardly in the corner of the room, clutching my bike helmet. I had planned to nod goodbye, tell everyone to stay dry and ride merrily along, but suddenly it was too quiet. There was some more mumbling about the gangs I didn't understand, then: They're going to find that boy and kill him eventually. They're going to kill his whole family. It's sad, but that's just the way it is.

"What the fuck," Jeff rasped. I couldn't tell if he was talking about the boy or the battery he was working on. Thankfully, Harry, another bulldog, walked into the garage and Travis told him about how he got the shit on his shirt (a nacho mishap). They both laughed and I was able to go.