Max was about halfway through the meal when the door chime sounded again, followed by an enthusiastic bellow that made him wince just a little. Hadn't this person heard of an indoor voice?
"'Lo? Anybody here? Lyle? Maaarlaa?" The voice called, and Max twisted on his stool to look over his shoulder at the culprit. It was a young man maybe a few years younger than Max's own 26, and a couple of inches shorter than Max's 6'4. That said, he was half-again as broad, with biceps nearly the size of basketballs and a back so broad it could probably be used as a dinner table. His wheat-blonde hair was slicked back with entirely too much gel like an 1950s greaser, and he had a guileless grin on his square-jawed face as he again bellowed for the owners. Despite his sheer size, the worn mechanic's jumpsuit he wore hung loose on his hulking frame, clearly too large for him.
"Picasso! Turn it down a little will ya?!" Lyle said as he emerged from the back, throwing a dishtowel over his shoulder. "Marla and I can hear you just fine; you're gonna blast this poor man deaf!"
"Oh, sorry!" The behemoth said, scratching the back of his neck and grinning bashfully. "Just don't seem right ta come inta someone's house all sneaky-like!"
"That's what the bell is for, Picasso," Lyle said with a long-suffering smile. He turned towards Max. "Mr. Tyrone, meet Picasso. He's the local mechanic."
"Nah, that's Pa," Picasso said, still grinning. "He's the town mechanic. I'm just the app rent us," he said proudly, and Max had to blink for a moment before he realized what was wrong with that sentence.
"You mean 'apprentice?'" He asked. Picasso blinked, and out of the corner of his eye Max spotted Lyle making a slashing motion across his throat with one hand while frantically making a 'stop' motion with the other.
"Noooo," Picasso said slowly, drawing the word out. "App rent us. Cause I'm like an app he rents out ta fix stuff for people. That's why it's 'app rent us' and not just 'app rent.'" The young man beamed. "Didn't even need no one to tell me what that meant; I figured it out all on my own!" He declared proudly.
Max felt...he wasn't sure what he was feeling at that. It sort of felt like gravity had briefly shifted 30 degrees left before realigning itself. "I...see," he said slowly. In his peripheral he saw Lyle burying his hands in his face, shoulders shaking with restrained laughter.
"Mr. Tyrone," Lyle said once he'd managed to regain control of himself, like I said, this is Picasso: the town's 'app rent us' mechanic."
"My real name's Eddie," Picasso beamed, thrusting a hand the size of a shovel spade towards Max for him to shake. "Edward Prince, Jr.," he proclaimed. "But ever'one calls me Picasso! Dunno why, but Pa says it fits so it fits!"
"Maxwell Tyrone," Max said, shaking the proffered hand and marveling at the strength he could feel in that grip, even controlled as it was. "So, Eddie Prince Jr. Like Freddie Prinze Jr.?" He asked, unable to resist the joke. Picasso's eyebrows scrunched in confusion.
"No, I'm Eddie, not Freddie. And ever'one calls me Picasso. Didn't I say so?" He stared guilelessly at Max with wide green eyes.
"...Yes. Yes you did," Max said finally, and Picasso beamed again.
"Good! Ma says it's bad manners ta not introduce yourself, and Pa'll tan me good if I go around rude to people!"
"Picasso," Lyle broke in, moving to stop Max from falling further down the rabbit hole of how, exactly, one went about 'tanning' someone the size of the dim-witted mechanic. "You were here about the car?"
"Oh, yeah!" Picasso grinned and folded his hands across his chest. "That your car out there? Sure is a pretty little thing. Can't wait to look under the hood! Anyhow, iffen you'll gimme the keys I'll get her back ta the garage, and we'll see what's what! Fixin' the windshield ain't gonna be no problem, but iffen somethin's broke on the inside that could take a jiffy. Pa ain't got no parts for nothin' that fancy. But it probably ain't nothin', I'm sure it's all as good as Marla's pie." He turned towards Lyle, expression hopeful. "Hey, Lyle," he began, but before he could answer Marla emerged from the back carrying to pastry boxes from which a delicious smell wafted.
"Say no more, Picasso. As if I'd ever let you leave without apple pie." The mechanic held out his hands eagerly to take the boxes and clutched them to his shelf-sized chest possessively.
"Oh, boy! This those salted car melts again?" Distantly, Max realized the man must mean 'salted caramel,' even as he heard Marla verify the same, but he wasn't really paying attention; he couldn't help frowning at the sight of Marla giving away two whole pies for apparently no cost. It went against the grain.
"Pa's gonna love this!" Picasso said with a grateful smile. "He says you gotta stop givin us free pie or he'll bust right outta his new jumpsuit. Says he already couldn't zip this un up over his gut." The mechanic moved his elbow to indicate the jumpsuit he himself was wearing, and Max's eyebrows rose at the thought of anyone having a stomach big enough to make wearing it troublesome given how loose it was on Picasso, who was built like a small barn. He was distracted from his musings by Picasso leaning in, expression pleading. "Please don't listen ta Pa, Miss Marla. I really like your pie. Pa says they're gonna make me fat as him one day, but so what? Right?"
"Right," Marla agreed with a smile, and Picasso straightened up, smiling again.
"Thank you, Miss Marla!" He said before turning to Max and holding out a hand. Realizing he was waiting for the keys, Max quickly dug them out of his pants pocket and dropped them in the man's palm, the thick fingers quickly closing over them. "Alrigh', then, see ya'll later! Mr. Max, come see us at the garage tomorrow afternoon and we'll tell ya what's what!" With one last wide grin the young hulk spun around and left the restaurant, bell chiming behind him.
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