2. Jedd
JEDD
Heavy metal blasts from the speakers in the shop while I finish a timing belt change. The shop is busy today with Clancy working on a Toyota’s brakes and James changing the oil on a Chevy in the corner. Rhett is in the back somewhere pilfering from my stash of parts.
This is my happy place. The clang of tools hitting metal. The smell of engine oil and grease in the air. The whirl of an air compressor for our tire check station. We’re slammed today with the influx of residents bringing in their vehicles to be serviced before winter hits.
I’m dragging ass after the late night with Andy. And she got me good with her latest prank. I’ll have to devise something equally evil to pay her back.
Maybe I’ll ambush her with my paintball gun.
It’s hard to top turning your best friend pink for two straight weeks, so some brainstorming is in order.
A ding sounds from the front office, and I turn toward the bay window. Samson, the county inspector, is at the front desk. His hands are in his pockets as he surveys the garage.
Wiping my hands on a rag, I shove it into the back pocket of my coveralls before pushing through the door between the shop and the lobby.
I’ve been meaning to get someone in here to deal with customers, but since I’m also saving to buy the lot next to me, I haven’t wanted to add to my expenses.
“Hey, Samson. How’s it going?” I jiggle the mouse next to the computer to wake it up and pull up our invoicing system.
“Jedd. Going good. You?”
“Oh, busier than a peg-legged pirate on ass-kicking day. You know how it is.”
Samson faces the wide bay windows that let customers see into the shop. His critical eyes study the space and sends my stomach into my throat.
The very crammed space.
A land next door went up for sale a couple of years ago. I’m close to having the money saved for it, to expand the shop and bring in more help, but not close enough yet.
Samson’s keen gaze on the work area of my business puts a jump in my belly that says I need to get closer.
I know safety specs. I know how my shop is supposed to operate while being safe for my employees. But we’re adding clients every day, without the added space for the work to be done.
“I didn’t tell you this. But you might want to clean things up around the twentieth of the month.” He eyes me, and I fight the urge to hunch my shoulders.
Samson and I went to high school together. Because we’ve been friendly for years, he usually gives me a heads up when I can expect to be inspected, and I give him a break on the cost of his automotive services.
“Anything specific you’re seeing?”
He nods at the chemical disposal area I have pieced together with hopes and dreams. He won’t say more—legally he can’t, and I know that the containers for disposal shouldn’t be that close to each other, but I don’t have the fucking room to move them somewhere else.
They can’t sit outside the shop because even though we’re a safe small town, we have our fair share of troublemakers that would love to get their hands on the discarded oil and other engine fluids.
“There have been some changes to the regulations for safety. You should have gotten an update.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t see anything.”
“Look again.” Samson’s voice is more stern than normal, and my head lifts from where I’m generating his invoice.
“Is everything okay?”
“New boss is cracking down. Check your email, and if you can’t find it, shoot me a message.”
A pit forms in my gut. New management for inspectors come around occasionally, and there’s a shift in what’s allowed and what’s not. About five years ago, we had a stickler who would shut you down at the slightest infraction.
That was a not so fun time for a lot of the businesses around here, and it sounds like we’re heading back to a similar set up.
“Will do,” I say as I print the invoice. I need to clean up the shop and get it back in an order that won’t result in me being fined—again—or worse, shut down completely.
What I really need is the industrial lot to the right of this place so I can have more room for bays. More tools. More employees. More safety.
Samson hands over his credit card and signs his receipt. I tuck it in the bottom of the register with the other receipts as he grabs his keys to leave, my brain chewing on how I can rearrange the shop.
First, I need to dig into my email and see where the update with the changes went, and then it’ll be easier for me to plan.
I glance at the service schedule for the day’s appointments. The best thing I did for my business was automating scheduling a couple of years back because it lets me see the whole day at a glance.
Occasionally, we have people come in with emergencies or last-minute fixes that we try to squeeze in, but those have been light with the mid-season tourist surge slowing down before the winter one picks up.
Other than lunch, there’s only an hour break in the day where I don’t have a service slated. I set a reminder alarm on my phone to look through the black pit of my email inbox, and then lock the computer before heading back to the garage to get back to work.
“This is bullshit,” I rumble around a mouthful of a meatball sub courtesy of Ma’s Diner.
I skipped lunch when Mae Whitfield brought her car in because it was overheating on her way to work.
After popping the hood and replacing the missing radiator cap—how the hell someone loses that without knowing, I’ll never know—I spent another twenty minutes explaining some basics to the sixteen-year-old to set her mind at ease when car issues come up.
I also loaded some emergency supplies into the trunk should she find herself in a bind because I remember the shit I used to get up to at her age.
“What?” Duke asks as he eats his sandwich.
I swipe a finger across my screen to scroll through the email I unearthed from my junk folder that outlines all of the changes that need to be made to bring my shop back up to the—finicky—code that’s been set out for us.
“There are space suggestions . They’re not even classified as new requirements. But the way Samson made it sound, it’s implied that we follow the suggestions.”
Duke snags a fry. “So do it.”
I scrub a hand through my beard. “Yeah, easy for you to say, you have that big ass shop up on the mountain. The rest of us don’t have unlimited space on a plot of land that we own outright.”
As a self-employed carpenter of bespoke furniture and decor, he bought a massive piece of property up the mountain and plopped a tiny house on top of it, putting all of his money into building his dream workshop.
And considering what he charges for a fucking table, he can afford to expand any time he wants.
“I told you I’d help.”
I shake my head before he can finish his sentence. “You did. And thank you, but I want to do this on my own.”
None of my brothers had help when they started their various businesses and careers.
Harlan didn’t need help to land his position as the town sheriff.
Same with Rhett for his place in the fire department.
Finch didn’t need any help getting his handyman and pest control business off the ground.
Boone was practically a shoe in with the ranger station both here and in Felt, where he lived for a few years.
Not one of my brothers needed a leg up, and though I know that they would be the first to offer their help, financial and otherwise, I can’t bring myself to take money from them.
Call it pride. Call it ego. I just can’t.
“I’m going to work on getting the shop up to the new specs, and then go from there.”
He glares at me, probably exasperated that I won’t take him up on his offer of help.
“Will you at least let us help with the heavy lifting there?” he asks as he swirls a fry through ketchup before popping it into his mouth.
“Yeah. Probably.” Far be it from me to turn down manual labor. Some of those machines are fucking heavy. “I need to figure out how to arrange everything first, and then I’ll call in the troops.”
When I first opened the shop, there were many late nights that my brothers helped with the organization and the arranging of materials, tools, and equipment.
They know my shop almost as well as I do at this point.
There are stationary things that I can’t move like the car lifts, and some of the heavier machinery, but I’m hoping with a little bit of luck that I won’t have to change too many things before inspection comes around.
The more I think about rearranging the shop, the more I yearn for the extra space of the lot next door.
The last time I met with the bank for a loan on the property, I was just shy of the income requirements needed to qualify for the commercial business loan.
With the steady influx of new customers, and the repeated busy tourist seasons, could I qualify now?
Maybe it’s time for another meeting with the bank.
Maybe I’ve got enough saved that they’ll approve my application.
The worst they can say is no, right?