Page 4 of Nuts

After a few seconds of hearing the wrench clanking back and forth he raised an oily piece of steel. “Nasty fucker, huh?”

I nodded. “Pretty greasy.”

He set it aside, pulled off his rubber gloves, and then opened the box that was sitting beside him. As I watched him, I wished I had the courage to tell him how I felt.

“There’s only two colors a bike should be.” He raised a chrome cylinder from inside the box. “Black and chrome.”

With my hands resting lightly on the handlebars, my mind had drifted to thoughts of riding on the glorious machine. I’d imagined it countless times, but was afraid to ask for a ride. In the seven years that I’d known P-Nut, I’d never seen anyone on the back of his bike.

“It’s pretty,” I said, immediately regretting the remark.

I sounded like a typical girl. I didn’t want to sound like a girl, let alone a typical girl. I wanted to be perceived as different, because I was different.

“What?” He raised the chrome cylinder. “This?”

“No.” I shook my head. “Chrome in general,” I said, hoping to redeem myself a little.

“Chrome’s good shit,” he said. “As long as it’s not Chinese.”

“Is the Chinese stuff bad?”

“Terrible. Shit flakes off in a few weeks. Stuff made in the USA lasts forever. Different standards over there.”

“In China?”

He wiped the fingerprints off the chrome with a rag, and then studied it. “Yep. Not much over there for regulatory standards. They just slap a thin coat of chrome on a piece of steel and they’re done. Shit, they probably do it in their fucking kitchens. Over here, we’ve got to have our shops inspected to make sure they meet code requirements.”

“We don’t keep the Chinese stuff in stock at the dealer. If people want it, we’ll order it for them, though. The price is a lot cheaper.”

He stretched a new set of rubber gloves over his tattooed hands. “Cheaper because it’s shitty.”

I gave a quick nod. “I’ll remember that.”

He positioned the part underneath the motorcycle and reached for the wrench. While I admired what appeared to be a new tattoo on his forearm, he looked up, catching me in the act. I diverted my gaze to the cardboard box, but was sure that he realized what I was doing.

Still looking up and me, he leaned over and began to tighten the bolts. “Get your hair done?”

Holy cow.

It was a subtle change. I couldn’t believe he’d noticed. I added highlights myself, and in the two weeks since I’d done it, neither my stepfather nor any of my coworkers had mentioned it.

I fought against the cheesy grin that my mouth tried to curl into. “I did. Highlights.”

“Looks good.”

Receiving any kind of compliment was something that I cherished. Since my mother passed away it rarely happened, though. In fact, everything changed after she passed away.

A smile came despite my attempt to deter it. “Thank you.”

He grinned and then stood. “All done.”

Already?

He extended his clenched fist. “Thanks for the help, Smudge.”

I pressed my fist into his. “No problem.”

“Let’s take it for a ride.”