Chapter 42
Car Grease & Coffee
Drugs by Philine Sonny
Igroan as the light from the sun on the snow reflects into the bedroom.
I rub my eyes softly and slowly blink them open.
It takes a few moments for me to adjust to the bright light.
I squint, taking in the tall window to the right of my bed, and inwardly curse myself for not shutting the curtains last night when I went to bed.
I must’ve gotten so high after that last hit, I don’t even remember climbing into bed.
I slowly sit up and swallow, noticing how dry my throat is as well.
Damn, how much did I smoke? Leaning over to the bedside table, I grab my water bottle from last night and take a sip, immediately spitting it out as the burn of vodka hits my tongue.
I cough out the remaining liquid and put the cap back on the bottle, throwing it across the room.
I slam my body backward on the bed and groan as the hangover from the alcohol and weed radiates through my body.
Such an idiot. I went a little overboard with everything once again, but who am I kidding?
I’m losing my mind here, and I don’t want to think about going home.
Being trapped here in a snowstorm is the best-case yet worst-case scenario all at the same time.
I can hide a little longer from reality… and hide from what has been happening.
I said yes to this getaway with all my friends simply because it was exactly what I needed—a getaway.
It was perfect timing, honestly. A group of us gathered together to rent an Airbnb here in Maine, a rather boujee one at that.
Still crusty though. But, something about its…
presence… feels eerie. I shiver slightly.
I stare at the chipped white paint surrounding the dark oak beams across the ceiling.
It definitely needs some touch-ups, but it's still cute in an antique sort of way, I guess. The wallpaper is a very dated green with golden decals every few inches. Now that isn’t cute.
I chuckle to myself, but the ease fades from my body as I remember what my boss said to me.
I inwardly flinch, squeezing my eyes tightly as the rush of betrayal runs through my blood.
I had spent endless hours working overtime, ensuring that I went above and beyond for the garage.
I would even help balance the books when things weren’t adding up, for Christ’s sake.
And let me tell you, that was certainly not in my job description.
I made sure I was available for the Greco family, even if I was exhausted.
No matter what. I was never late for a shift, and I couldn’t even tell you the last time I called out.
I always showed up for them. The garage is… was… my home.
I fidget with the soft silk sheet between my fingers as I continue to lose myself to the memories.
All they’ve done is drown me in the endless what-ifs and whys.
How did this even happen? Why did this happen?
What if I had done that differently? I always thought the garage was the end goal, my final destination.
Everyone knew what that place meant to me.
It was the place I could escape to when the grief became too heavy.
A single tear tries to fall down my cheek, but I quickly wipe it away as more memories attempt to overwhelm my nervous system.
I distinctly remember the call when I was out with my friends at the beach, where it all started.
I was finishing up my senior year of high school when I lost both of my parents.
All my senses cringe as I am flooded with the reminder of the sweet taste of the pizza sauce, the sand burrowing into my jeans from lying on the blanket, and the cool breeze that brought my gentle blue curls to life.
The sensations rattle through my brain, bringing me back to that painful moment.
Their tragic death ruined things that I used to enjoy.
Ironically enough, they were killed by a drunk driver…
dying instantly. Now I can’t eat pizza without gagging, let alone set foot at the beach.
As for cars? I’m shocked that my passion for working on them didn’t evaporate instantly.
I shake my head to snap out of the past and open my eyes again to gaze at the chipped ceiling, getting lost in its peels and discoloration.
The Greco family was close to mine. I called the owner of the garage, Vinny Greco, Uncle Vinny.
He was the closest to my father, always shooting the shit.
They would talk about anything and everything, from serious matters like the Yankees beating the Red Sox to the simplest things in life, like whether lasagna was a pie or not.
Can you guess what most of the arguments ended up about?
I smile to myself, softly remembering their bickers about balks during different baseball games.
The heightened voices of love that never held aggression, just passion.
I would sit on the old SUV’s back seat, against the door, with my homework on my lap while their Italian accents radiated around the garage.
It was my version of classical music, my background noise. It was comfortable.
Before my dad passed away, he would spend all his free time in the Greco garage working on his Mustang with me.
It was a beautiful 1992 7 Up Edition with a convertible roof—one we were modifying to win at the local speedway.
We had big dreams of winning laps, but we never got to see the car hit the strip.
We never got to finish it together, but I spent every moment of grief fixing it up.
I suppressed all my emotions of pain and rage until I didn’t care, or at least enough that I gaslit myself into believing I healed.
I haven’t dared to take it out myself… which probably means there has been zero healing. But, whatever. Tomorrow’s problem.
During the day, my dad worked at the local bank only a few minutes from our house in Massachusetts.
He always had a passion for cars. I remember asking him why he wasn’t working with them for a job.
He would just smile, ruffle my hair, and insist that the career he had provided for our family the way he wanted it to.
My parents wanted to ensure my future didn’t have limits, and for that, I will forever be grateful.
But the moment they took their last breaths, my future changed dramatically.
I no longer had the motivation for pursuing my degree in neuroscience.
Who cared about learning how our brains worked when I felt like mine was stuck in a loop?
I chuckle to myself. Yeah, I’m healed all right.
I decided not to start college in the fall semester and instead remained where I knew I could remember my parents, and more specifically, my father.
I stayed at Greco’s Garage, hoping that their memory would remain in that building for years to come.
Unfortunately for me, I never once felt their presence.
They never gave me any signs, no appearances, nothing.
I was left with an emptiness that would never be filled and a grim realization that the afterlife was simply a finality.
As for my Uncle Vinny? Well, he turned into the biggest piece of shit I know.
I informed him that I wanted to be the overseeing manager of their new location, which was opening up in northern Massachusetts.
The weeks were flying by, and I didn’t hear any confirmation or acknowledgment of my request.
It was getting close to the grand opening, and there were only a handful of employees at the western Massachusetts location that he deemed eligible.
It came down to Scott Hardin, Paul Seymour, and me.
Scott Hardin had been working there for just under a year.
Paul had been working at the garage since they first opened, and I had been working there since I was 16.
Sure, it’s only been 6 years, but they couldn’t deny what I brought to the business.
If there was any competition, it was Paul, but he was on the older side and closer to retirement than he wanted to admit.
He couldn’t get under a car the way he wanted to without hurting his back for the following 72 hours.
They needed someone young, a long-time committed employee, and someone who knew the ropes and could bring in new clients.
I knew I was capable of the job, and I hoped and prayed it would be me.
Flash forward to when I came into work one morning, finding everyone popping champagne and celebrating.
I looked around, confused, wondering if someone was engaged or had a spouse at home pregnant, when I saw Scott in the middle of the crowd holding keys and a new polo with the words “Manager” embroidered on it.
I dropped my coffee in shock, causing everyone to swing their heads at the noise.
No one said anything. It was silent as I absorbed the truth.
I felt everyone’s pity, even Scott’s. Uncle Vinny slowly approached me and placed his hand on my shoulder as he said, “Bea, we appreciate all that you have done for Greco’s Top Garage.
You’re a reliable worker, you get everything fixed in time, and you’re creative with solutions.
But, we just needed to go in another direction-”
I remember walking away from him as he was still talking, sliding out of the soft grasp he had on my shoulder.
I held my head up as I ignored his many attempts to get me to turn around.
I unclipped my carabiner, releasing the keys to the building onto the floor, and walked out of the garage doors towards my uncertain future.