Pawford, Ch 3: CJ's Garage
Pawford Ch 3: CJ's Garage copyright 2011 comidacomida
Despite what a poor job I did of preparing for our first camping trip, I considered it exceedingly kind of CJ to invite me out on a second one that same summer. Being a small business owner it wasn't like he could up and take off any time he wanted to... being away from the shop would be exceedingly costly for him if he didn't have coverage and considering the fact that he only had two part time employees, that didn't really give him much time for vacation.
It was the beginning of August when we scheduled our second outing-- just about four weeks after my first misadventure in the mountains of Montana. CJ and I agreed to meet at his shop at noon; one of his workers said he would see to the garage for the next few days but wasn't able to open it on the day we planned on leaving. In the scheme of things it really wasn't that much of a setback... a few hours at most, and it gave me a better chance to get ready.
I spent the morning packing all of my gear. After I put everything together I stopped by Green-Field's Sporting Goods. Fielder was a member of the city's chamber of commerce, and so CJ had introduced me to him during my first two weeks in Pawford; the blue heeler was a pleasant, middle-aged dog who loved to talk about anything and everything. Overjoyed that I finally had a chance to stop by his shop, he walked me around showing me displays, discussing the pros and cons of each of the different kinds of fishing poles and lines; I'll give him this: I've never met a sporting goods store owner that knew more about what he sold than Fielder.
Determined to give me an exceptional deal, Green-Field threw in an extra piece of camping gear for every three I bought. He had a strange knack for helping me figure out what it was I needed and I left there with a lot more than I'd originally planned. Unfortunately, his outgoing and talkative nature meant that I forgot one of the most important reasons I went there in the first place: a heavier sleeping bag. When it came down to it, however, he DID have the insight to have added a sleeping pad in with everything I'd been given. Not wanting to seem ungrateful by needing to turn around and make a second visit, and mindful of the time (all that talking had put me a little behind schedule), I figured that it would have to do.
I pulled up to CJ's Garage with about 15 minutes to spare, which I considered reasonable since I hate being late. Driving around to the side of the building I parked it out of the way of the general use lot because I didn't want to make things inconvenient for any of CJ's customers while we were gone. I grabbed as much of the gear as I thought I'd make use of, and walked back around to the front of the store to where CJ's pickup was parked; I saw that all of his gear was already loaded in the back so I took the liberty of adding mine to it. Once everything was situated, I headed inside.
A chocolate lab was standing behind the counter, waiting patiently while he was yelled at by a well-dressed man who was leaning toward him, face red, palm flat on a sheet of paper which looked to have been half-crumpled... probably in a fit of rage if his current behavior was any indication.
"--and I have to get my daughter to Billings by tonight." the man noted, motioning behind himself to a little girl seated on one of the waiting room chairs. She, like her father, looked like she was dressed more appropriately for high-class city life, but she, unlike her father, was well behaved and quiet... a rarity among the upper-class 'princesses' I'd seen in Chicago.
"Yessir, Mr. Parker," the lab noted with a peaceful calm that caught my attention right away, "Yer insurance don't cover a rental, but--"
"Well you had better call them again! I have a complete insurance package, and that should include a free car rental!" the man objected loudly.
The Dog nodded sympathetically, "Yea... I know what'cha mean... those policies 'r'a real pain to un'rstand..." and the brown dog proceeded to pull out a small stack of papers, pausing only long enough to lick his pink nose, "Yer agent sent over a copy of yer riders, and it shows here that yer policy don't--"
"Look..." the man interrupted, "I don't care what you have to do, but my ex-wife is going to make my life a living hell if I don't get Millie back to Billings TONIGHT... do you understand me..." he peered down at the sewn in name tag on the dog's coveralls, "...Hoss?"
"Tell ya what, Mr. Parker... since ya got a real need, lemme see if I can get Locker t'let ya borrow one a his spares t'get yer daughter down t'Billings..."
"Spares?" the human questioned.
"Sure... tow truck companies sometimes get stuck with cars... 's'th' nature a th' business." the lab grinned.
"I can live with a Lexus, Acura, or BMW... and, for god's sake, try to find something in a recent year." the man noted with a sigh, "I'll settle for an Avalon... just make it fast." He rubbed the bridge of his nose with a thumb and index finger, letting out another sigh as he looked up, and glanced over to me for the first time, "Passing through?" he asked me in a not entirely friendly manner.
"I moved to town about a month ago." I smiled in as friendly a manner as I could manage; to be honest, the self-righteous upper class have always intimidated me. I offered him a hand, "Derek Sommers."
"Carl Parker." he responded, taking my hand in a firm, business-man's handshake, "Pawford can be a nice place for the right kind of person... but it takes some getting used to." I could feel him appraising me with his not-so-casual glance, "I haven't seen you around town... are you staying in those new condos up on the hill?"
"Oh... no, sir." I noted, "I live in the Stevenson Place... I didn't even know there were condos."
He chuckled at that, "Well you chose the wrong part of town, Mr. Sommers," and he motioned to the left, "Most of us who come here during the summer choose homes on the north side of town... it's nicer there... not like..." he made a face, "this area." (Incidentally, he did motion to the west and not north).
"Ah..." I noted, not exactly what to make of his comment, "Well... I'm not staying here just for the summer... I moved here." and I offered as pleasant a smile as I could; it was not pleasant enough for Carl.
"Are you SERIOUS?" he asked, his voice getting almost as loud as when he was speaking with the lab, "Pawford is a fine place to relax for a few weeks, but living here? My GOD, boy... it's hill-billy hell." I figured he wasn't more than five or six years older than me, so to call me 'boy'... well... I guess that does give a pretty good image of how Carl Parker acts.
I shrugged in response, not sure what to say, "Everyone here seems nice."
"Of course they are! They all want a piece of your money! Anyone can be nice when they're holding out a paw for a few bucks." I didn't miss the fact that he said 'paw' and not 'hand'... I learned later that Carl Parker was a relatively well-known attorney from Billings who made a living on defending unpopular corporate practices... he was also quite a bigot.
"Does your daughter come here often with you, Mr. Parker?" I asked, praying silently that he would take the bait and let me change the topic.
"Not if I can help it." he answered, "Her mother was adamant about her getting out of town so she could get some alone time... which means I got stuck with her during my vacation." he scowled. The man pulled out a cigarette and began searching the pockets of his sports coat, "...do you have a--" he began. I tried not to look too smug when I pointed at the "No Smoking" sign.
Carl was about to launch into another fit when Hoss returned, "Yer in luck, Mr Parker... got a Camry fer ya." and he held up a key in one paw, "Just gotta have ya sign here..."
"Camry... fucking shit car made for the middle-class nobodies who want to be somebody..." he mumbled to himself, snatching the key out of the dog's paw and making a scribble on the indicated line. He dropped the pen on the clipboard and turned around, "Millie... let's go." he stated, and went over to grab the girl by her wrist, "We're already late." On the way out the door, I could have sworn I heard him complain about the car being more than four years old.
"Hey!" the lab noted when he saw me, "Come on up... you must be Derrek." his hips shook as his tail wagged vigorously.
"That's me." I offered with a hesitant smile, "Did you want a minute to... uh... take a break or something?" I offered, "He sounded like a pretty difficult customer."
"Nah." the Dog continued wagging, waving the suggestion away with a paw, "Some folk just get like that when their car don't wanna work right fer em... 'specially when it's one o those luxury ones."
"Yea... I guess that makes sense." I acknowledged, the unease of the interaction slowly starting to leave me, "I thought luxury cars usually have pretty good reliability..."
"They do... when ya service em..." Hoss smirked, "If ya don't change the oil in a year an' a half an' put on a few dozen thousand... well... bad things happen." I couldn't help but laugh at that statement, and he joined me with a chuckle of his own.
"I just can't get over how well you handled that." I admitted.
He shrugged in response, "I just have a way with people."
"Are you sure you're not a proctologist, Hoss?" I heard a voice from the back room, "I'm pretty sure you just got finished seeing an asshole."
"Funny, Locker... ain'cha got yer girl around here?" the lab called into the back, "Sure ya should be usin those kinda words?"
"Eh." came the indifferent reply, "Her mom says lots worse." and a short, broad-shouldered, stocky pit bull emerged from the doorway, a cigar sticking out of the corner of his muzzle. The pit had a pair of dark blue coveralls on, complete with a sewn in name tag identifying him as 'Locker', and his same-colored cap had the 'Thumb-Lock Towing' logo on it that I'd seen here-and-there around the garage. He leaned against the wall, letting out a big puff of bluish smoke, and gave me a glance, "You're Derek..."
"Yea." I acknowledged as I glanced at the 'No Smoking' sign, then at the pitbull.
He didn't miss the movement of my eyes, "Sign shows a cigarette." and his wide muzzle split into a grin, "I don't smoke cigarettes." I noticed that one of his teeth had been gold plated. The pit bull didn't bother giving me a second glance as he looked to the lab, "Hey, Hoss... you get that ass-hat's sig or what?"
As Locker continued talking I couldn't help but realize that he had one of those melting-pot accents... like a combination of New York, New Jersey, and Italian... something almost right out of the Sopranos. I was content to not bring it up seeing as his attention was on the chocolate lab and not me.
"Right here." Hoss held the clipboard up, "...ain't dated though."
"Fugedaboudit." the pitbull waved the oversight away, "Just keep an ear to the phone... gotta go find Dot and take her back to the old lady..."
"No problem... but, to remind ya, I'm watchin' th' garage for CJ too." Hoss noted, but Locker was already gone, wandering off to the back room. I was about to say something, but the lab spoke up first, "Ain't never met Locker afore, have ya?"
"Yea... that was a first." I answered, still looking toward the doorway where the pit bull disappeared.
"Good guy... bit high-strung." the lab licked his nose and looked back toward me, "Eats-Like-a-Horse." he noted, holding a paw out, "Ya can call me 'Hoss'."
"Derek Sommers." I answered, accepting the shake.
"Yea... th' boss said ta keep an eye out fer ya... he thought ya might be early." I took my hand back, pausing as I saw several black smudges all over the palm. "Oops... sorry 'bout that bud." he chuckled, reaching under the desk to pull out a fresh rag, "Here ya go." His attentive golden eyes watched me like a hawk as I wiped my hand off, and he accepted the cloth back with a smile and a wag once I was done with it.
"Thanks, Hoss." I acknowledged. Looking him up and down, I had to wonder at his name. He looked to be in relatively good physical shape, and not at all the girth I'd expect from someone who lived up to his name, "So... you'll have to forgive me, but I tend to be full of rude questions..."
Hoss laughed and smiled, the speed of his wag increasing, "Ya just saw how good I am handlin' rude, bud... go for it." and he leaned forward, elbows on the counter, all his attention focused on me.
"Your name... Eats-Like-a-Horse..."
I didn't have to say another word, "Yep!" he confirmed, "When I was a pup I was aaallllways hungry... from what I heard, Mama told mah Daddy on more'n one occasion that I was gonna suck her dry." the lab grinned, "...and here I am today wearin' mah 'Hoss' name tag." he thumbed the cloth name tag sewn into his coveralls.
"The rest his history, huh?" I couldn't help but smile; his attitude was infectious.
"Well... 'cept for the appetite." he winked, "You tried the Monster Burger over at Roy's?" he paused only long enough for me to nod; those things are incredible... but the sheer size and everything they throw onto them makes them almost impossible to finish in one sitting, "Well..." he continued, "I have two for lunch every day I work."
"You're kidding." I asked, astounded.
"With fries... and a shake." he added.
"You'd explode!" I countered. Although he was of average build, Hoss just didn't look like the kind of person who could manage such a supernatural feat.
"If I'm lyin then may god use me as a lightnin' rod." he announced, holding his right paw to his chest, "Honest-'t-goodness, bud... still stayin' true to mah name." he grinned.
"If you really eat TWO Monster Burgers every day you work then you'd... be..." I paused, trying to find a politically correct way to say.
"Fat?" he offered for me.
"Well... you don't LOOK like you eat two Monster Burgers, in any case." I noted.
"It's the tail." Locker noted, coming back through the doorway, half leaning over as he held the pure-white paw of a little girl pit bull pup, "Tail never stops... he burns more calories with that thing in an hour than a marathon runner does during a whole race." He led the pup around the counter.
"Ain't lyin neither." Hoss grinned, "CJ keeps telling me t' look inta windmills... he swears that I can power th' whole garage every day I work."
"No exaggeration either." Locker added, heading to the door, "He lives by that bumper sticker philosophy, 'Wag more, bark less.'... NEVER heard Hoss bark... not once."
"Daddy... a human!" the little pup pointed at me.
"Yea he is, Meatball... now no pointing... that's rude." Locker stated, "And his name's Derek... not 'human'."
"Hi, Derek!" the pup waved at me.
"Hi." I responded with a smile, waving back.
"I'm Dot!" she announced proudly.
"Nice to meet you, Dot." I answered.
"Let's go, Meatball... gotta get you back home to Mama." Locker noted, giving her paw a light tug.
"Bye, Derek!" she waved again.
I couldn't help it; I had to answer, "Bye, Dot!"
Once the two stopped out, Hoss leaned over the counter toward me, "Cutest lil critter you'll ever see... sweet pup... definitely don't get it from her papa." he wagged more.
"Meatball?" I had to ask. Hoss laughed immediately.
"Just a nickname." the lab explained, "Made me kinda stop first time I heard it too."
"Oh..." I nodded thoughtfully with a grin, "I was trying to figure out how 'Dot' and 'Meatball' went together."
"Dot is short for 'Darn Awesome Treasure'." Hoss offered, "Locker named her."
"Wouldn't that be 'Dat'?" I asked, oblivious to the truth that the lab was about to bestow upon me.
"Yea... he really sucks at spelling." We shared a laugh at that.
"Anyway... CJ's 'round here somewhere... feel free t'go int' th'back an' look for him if ya want... just don't get anywhere near the lifts." Hoss pulled open the waist-high door between the counter and the wall.
"The lifts?" I asked, heading into the garage.
"Yea... got some cars on em right now an' th' boss'd kill me ya got squashed." from the way Hoss' tail was wagging, I was sure he was kidding... I hoped, "So stick t'b'tween th' yellow lines." he called over his shoulder as I walked into the work bay. My eyes went straight to the pathway created by two parallel pieces of yellow tape and I wandered around while staying between them.
It took me awhile to find CJ, and it's not that his garage was that big a place, but there was a LOT to see. I suppose I could have called for him. but after the prolonged exposure to many different personalities in the office it seemed a lot quieter to just spend a little time searching. It wasn't until I reached the back door, in fact, that I found the rottweiler, seated on the steps leading outside.
CJ was gazing out into the field behind his garage. He had a beer bottle in one paw, and a set of military id tags in the other. Even though they were almost always under his shirt I'd managed to see them often enough, but I had never recalled him taking them off, or staring at them in the way he was doing just then. I waited just inside the door as CJ let out a sigh, bringing both of his paws together to cup the beer bottle.
Respectfully, I took several steps back into the garage and, raising my voice, called, "CJ! You around?"
He was quiet for a moment, and I heard the sound of him clearing his throat before speaking up, "Yea... out here!"
Feeling like I'd been given permission to join him, I walked out onto the concrete patio and took a seat beside him just as he was putting the tags back around his neck, "Decided to let your fur breathe a little?" I asked, hoping it didn't sound like too much of a forced conversation starter.
"Just doing a little zoning." he noted, then downed the rest of his beer, "and some thinking."
"Isn't that what camping is for?" I offered, bumping him with my shoulder, "Starting before me, huh?"
CJ offered a calm smile in return, and slowly stood. The movement seemed to jar something into (or out of) him, and the casual, carefree rottweiler I knew returned, "Well... we're late getting started, but I think we still have plenty of daylight ahead of us." and he motioned around the side of the building toward the parking lot, "You ready?"
"You want me to drive?" I offered.
"Hell no, monkey... it's my truck!" he objected with a laugh.
"I just figured that maybe I should take over as driver since you've been drinking." considering the fact that I'd seen him pound down a six-pack without even getting bleary was more than enough proof to me that he'd be fine, but I couldn't resist getting on his case.
"Says the guy who falls over after one shot of jack." he laughed, dusting off his paws on his jeans as he made his way to his truck.
"In my defense," I noted, "I'd like to point out that you only SAW me take one shot."
"Ha... whatever you need to tell yourself to protect your masculinity." he countered, and unlocked the truck. He walked ahead of me and, despite the good-natured abuse we served one another, I could tell that whatever was on his mind back at the garage was still there; regardless of the lightheartedness in his voice, CJ's tail nub did not have its normal wag. I made a resolution to find out what was bothering him and help... if I could; I had no idea how much of a difference that would make.