It’s mid-morning and I’m deep under an old Cadillac, checking every hose for a sneaky leak that keeps setting off the Check Engine light on Ms. Barnes’s car. She doesn’t drive it much, mostly just back and forth to tennis at the club, so it should be all right, but about every two months, she brings it in with a little noise or a check she wants done after reading some shit on the Internet.

But this Caddy is older than I am, which means it’s got more than a few demons of its own lurking under the hood. Thankfully, these old Caddies also have some elbow room in their frames and I’m not having to disentangle a damn Gordian knot in order to change an oil filter like I do with some of the newer Japanese and Korean cars.

Whatever, it’s money in my pocket, and I really don’t want the woman stranded, even if I’m beginning to suspect she’s doing something to the car herself to set the light off. Is there such a thing as Munchausen by proxy to a car? Like, is she pouring sugar in the gas tank at night or chucking sand into the fan belts before she brings it in?

I’m elbow deep, following a hose that I suspect has picked up a crack somewhere, when there’s a knock on the hood, scaring the shit outta me and making me jerk, damn near busting my forehead against the drive shaft.

Dropping back to the creeper beneath me, I roll out from under the car, already pissed. “What the fuck? Could have busted my damn head since I’m working here, dumbass . . .”

I stop as I realize it’s not TJ giving me shit but Old Earl from down the street, who’s already smiling at me, barely containing his laughter as he shoves his hands in the pockets of the overalls that are stretched across his big beer belly. Earl’s sort of the shop’s edition of the grapevine. He’s always good for a little bit of rumor, and he’s usually more reliable than the local news. Years ago, he used to be into cars too, but now he runs the family agricultural supply business . . . or at least pretends to. “Ooh, that was a good ‘un. Gotcha good, Mr. Evan.”

I slide out from under the Caddy and get to my feet, resisting the urge to rub his shiny bald head. “Earl, we’ve talked about this. Evan, just Evan. You’re forty years older than me. You don’t need to call me mister.”

He shakes his head in that country boy way of his, like what I said was half in a foreign language or just total silliness. “Ain’t nothing but a thing, son. I call everyone Mister or Missus or Miss—just how my momma raised me—and you ain’t gonna change it now. Whatcha doing?”

I look at him like he’s crazy, because according to most folks, he really might be half-crazy. Then again, considering he took his father’s two-bit feed and grain and somehow turned it into the biggest agricultural supply dealer in the northern half of the state, maybe crazy like a fox would be a better description. I gesture back to the car, patting the curved fender like it’s an old friend. “Working on this Caddy for Ms. Barnes.”

“Oh, that old bat?” he asks, and I’m not sure if he’s talking about the Caddy or Ms. Barnes. “She always seems to be leaking from both ends. What’s wrong this time?”

I shrug and play it safe to assume he’s talking about the car. “Think she’s got a seal or hose that’s got a crack in it. Hey, shouldn’t you be at the store? It’s Monday morning, Earl . . . don’t you have shit to do?”

Earl grins that same grin that used to adorn all the ads for his store, the one that kind of makes him look like a cross between a Gerber baby and a naughty garden gnome. “Best Monday ever, Mr. Evan. My youngest son opened today for the first time, and I’ve got the whole day off till I go in this afternoon for the closing shift.”

Huh, that’s new. Earl’s the third generation of his family to run the store, but all three of his kids have reaped the benefits of having a multimillion-dollar company in the family without being at all interested in keeping it going. Then again, if half my job were selling seed and feed, I’d enjoy a different job too. Not that I’d choose an office job. That’s not me, but some of Earl’s supply just . . . smells. “So Bennie is working for you now? Well, congrats and all, but I’ve gotta get back to it here.”

I’m hoping he hears the dismissal and leaves me to it. I don’t need to hear about Bennie. I’ve met the man when Earl brought him around to show him off like a prized pony. I think Earl thought I’d connect with Bennie because he did a couple of tours in the early years of Iraq so we have some shared ghosts. Earl does too, but his are older echoes from Vietnam, and he made peace with them long ago, enough to try to swap war stories a time or two, but I wasn’t interested.

I just don’t want to go back there, not physically and definitely not mentally. Let the ghosts lie dormant and quiet as much as I can is my motto. Not that they stay quiet all the time.

Earl doesn’t seem ready to leave, though. “I didn’t stop by for my health, boy. It’s shitty enough as it is. I stopped by to ask you a question.”

I tilt my head at him and sigh. You never know what he’s going to come up with, so I try to wait patiently and see where he’s going, but I fail. “What’d you wanna ask? Because no, I don’t want to go to a meeting at the Elk Lodge for the fucking hundredth time.”

Earl smiles again, somewhat sadly. “But one day, I’ll ask and you’ll say yes. So I’ll keep asking, Son. They helped Bennie too. There’s men there from my generation who saw service in ‘Nam, but also a new generation, your generation, who’ve seen other things. There’s men there that can help you, help with those demons you wear like shields to keep everyone and everything out.”

He pauses meaningfully, staring into my eyes, then visibly lightens. “But that ain’t what I’m talking about right now. I came to ask you about the new folks across the street. You met ‘em yet? I heard it’s a man and a woman, but not a couple, judging by the gossip I hear.”

The gossip he hears is everything—like I said, he’s our neighborhood’s own ‘Ms. Kravitz’ that keeps an eye on everyone and everything. Nothing happens around here without Earl knowing about it, so I know he’s well aware I already had a run-in with the salon owners.

“Cut the crap, Earl,” I reply, grabbing a rag and wiping the mess off my hands. It’s one of those little things I picked up in the service. I have no problem getting dirty, but once that’s over, I’m a freak about clean hands. “You know I already met them, blew up, and ran her off too. Princess Pink Hair messed with my bike and then flipped me off like it was my fault.”

Earl’s smile changes, like he’s just gotten a tasty morsel. Considering the size of his gut, he’s had his fair share. “Ahh, now see? That I didn’t know. I heard about the commotion but not what started it. So now I know . . . she touched your bike and you went nuclear. Seems like an overreaction, but what do I know? I never had no bike before.”

I can feel the immediate tightness in my chest when he says I overreacted. I didn’t. My anger was totally justified, and even though she apologized, she expected it to just magically be okay like she didn’t just mess with the one thing keeping me sane right now.

I silently fume, and Earl stares at me, appraising me like he often has before, and I know he can see the darkness that surrounds me like smoke.

Smoke—that’s what I need. Goddammit, I hate this habit, but I can’t help it. When the caffeine doesn’t work, nicotine often will.

I walk past him to the open bay door, grabbing a pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter off the work table as I go. I lean against the door frame, covering the tip as I light the cigarette that is both killing me slowly and making some moments more manageable.

Earl walks over, and I offer him one out of the pack, holding the lighter up as he inhales. He looks at me with a cocked eyebrow for a moment before speaking. “You know, Son, I’m not one to judge. My generation, we grew up thinking these things were actually good for you. You ain’t hooked, I can tell that. What gives?”

After a few puffs, I give in. “I need them. They help me focus, the routine of breathe in, hold it, breathe out. Like it’s fucking meditative or some shit. When a cig isn’t enough, I ride. It’s the only way I can outrun what’s inside sometimes. And I figure it’s a lot better than hard drinking or getting into fights.”

Earl nods sagely. “For Bennie, he goes down to the community college area three times a week to some gym where he rolls around in pajamas and chokes people or something. A man needs a way to be free from the demons. Sometimes, it’s best to run. But eventually, you gotta turn around and fight them, beat them into submission. That’s what Bennie says, and I’ll gladly take credit for teaching him that one.”

Earl’s probably got a point. He may have never had a motorcycle, but he’s got his demons and he’s battled and fought them for a lot of days. There are reasons all of his children except Bennie don’t want to go into the family business and why he’s been divorced three times. So I grunt an acknowledgement, and he takes that as progress for the day.

I swear Earl thinks I’m his pet project or something, but he hasn’t recognized that I’m broken far worse than he knows and I’m not fixable. Each man who comes back broken is broken differently, and I’m not Bennie. This Humpty-Dumpty is shattered from the inside out, and nobody's gonna put me back together again. Best thing I can hope for is to keep going day by day, and when I do explode or go over the edge, I do it in a way that doesn’t hurt anyone else.

Earl is willing to let it go for now. “So, back to the original topic at hand. The new salon folks? Seems after their ribbon cutting ceremony, Jaxson took them down to the diner and showed them off like prize-winning hogs, introducing them around.”

The fact that he doesn’t use ‘mister’ for Jaxson isn’t lost on me, as Earl has repeatedly said that Jaxson sets his Spidey senses on alert. I’ve met the man too, the last time when he brought his car in for some work on the air conditioner, and he just seems like a political huckster type, a little too polished to be legitimate. His smile, his laugh, and his handshake all seem just a little too practiced, like he works at it in the mirror at home until it’s just right.

“Yeah, so?” I grunt. Personal qualms about Jaxson aside, his taking them around and introducing them is just his sort of schtick.

Earl looks like he’s about to give me a Christmas morning puppy. He’s so excited for some reason. “Word is, he asked Miss McKayla for just the two of them . . . almost like he was trying for a date, and she accepted, but for her and Mr. Brad. Whoo-boy, I like her already.”

The thought of her side-stepping a date with that slick welcome wagon suit gives me a little jolt of happiness, although I’m not quite sure if it’s because I’m happy he didn’t get his way or because she didn’t go out with some douchebag. Sure, she was a spoiled bitchy Princess, but a damn hot one too. Something about the way her clothes, her body, and most of all, that hair . . . they all seemed to work together. She’s too much woman for a schmuck like Jaxson to handle, although the thought of the smackdown she’d give him if he tried makes me laugh inside a bit.

I look toward the salon. My mind’s all sorts of fucked up, but my eyes are perfect. The big plate glass windows let me see inside where she is standing behind a brunette, eyes laser focused on the section of hair she’s cutting. She’s talking as she works, her bright red lips forming shapes, and I wish I could hear what she’s saying.

My gaze moves around, and I realize Brad is standing at the front desk, phone cradled to his ear with his shoulder, and his eyes are locked on me. He raises one eyebrow and gently shakes his head at me.

I exhale the breath I didn’t know I was holding and look back to Earl. “Thanks for the gossip, Earl. But I gotta get back to work.”

He drops his cig, grinding it under his heel. “Sure thing, Son. You let me know if you need a ride to the meeting on Wednesday at the lodge.”

I give him a death-stare, but inside, I kinda grin. Man, that guy is like a dog with a bone . . . won’t give it up for anything.

Earl leaves, sort of waddling down the sidewalk at a deceptive speed. You don’t think the man’s moving, but next thing you know, he’s half a block away. After watching him go, I look back across the street. Brad’s still playing guard dog at the front desk as I get myself another eyeful of McKayla, but when I see him again, he grins and gives me a wink.

Sorry, buddy, that’s not my game, but you’re also not going to throw me off mine. Besides, I’ve got a leaky Caddy to chase down.

If only I were as easy to fix as this old thing.