3rd Avenue Garage

“Expect an hour maybe an hour and a half,” the guy with the grease stained shirt labeled ‘Brad’ tells me. “Do you need a ride somewhere?”
With really no where to go and the thought of lugging Sam’s car seat in and out twice, I politely say “No, thank you,” and place my insurance card back in the slats of my wallet.
Harnessing my son on my hip, I manage to slip my wallet back into my purse. As I plop down on the vinyl chair, my son manages to break free from my grasp, miss tripping over a magazine discarded near his feet and dart to the provided block table. He picks up a yellow block in his hand and looks back at me, holding it to his matching shiny hair. His excitement grieves me as he plays with the grease-smeared blocks erasing the effects of his bath this morning. I reach into my purse and realize I have a few wipes and sanitizing gel. Grateful for their presence, I sit back against the ripped vinyl cushion and watch him snap a red block on top of the yellow one he is holding.
The guy to my left keeps on peeking over his brass-framed glasses and National Geographic. He has detected strangers in his world. He’s not mad that I am here, just concerned. I might as well enter the Microbiology class my husband’s at right now, I am way out of my league, I’m sure he thinks. What if they charge me twenty dollars too much or don’t fix the alternator belt. How would I know? I haven’t taken auto shop or changed my oil, and that worries him. I don’t know enough about the nuts and bolts of Third Ave. Body Repair. His peering eyes state his purposes precisely. He thinks that Sam and I don’t belong here and that I don’t know the difference between the function of the timing belt and all the other belts the allow our ’96 Mitsubishi to drive me to the grocery store or to run my husband to class. I wonder why he just doesn’t march right up to the mechanics and tell them how to fix it if he knows so much. Yet at this moment, I’m more worried about the appetizing look Sam gives a white turned gray block in his hand. I slide over a seat closer to the block table and acknowledge my presence with a little tap on his shoulder. He scrunches his face as he looks at me, to let me know I have no idea how scrumptious grease and dirt are.
I glance up at the Budweiser clock to realize that the second hand is pulsing in place. Mr. National Geographic pulls down his magazine and announces, “It isn’t working.” He pulls up his jacket and tells me its 11:05…. a.m. and goes back to the Amazon Jungle. I smile tight-mouthed and say thanks.
At exactly 11:06, a pair of red pumps walk in accompanied by skin-tight turquoise capris and a black sleeveless turtleneck. I zip up my wool coat in sympathy. She hits the call bell and turns around to lean on the counter. Her black roots lead to blond hair that is frizzed-out and molded just above her bare shoulders. She looks as if she encountered a southwestern sandstorm on her way over and it left residue on her face. With bugging ebony outlined eyes and her cotton candy lips pursed, she waits for her impatient beckon to be heard.
‘Brad’ comes seemingly more interested in her engine than the one that is in her car. She leans her orange-sanded face over the counter to discuss her car trouble.
“It makes a sound like this when I start it,” she taps her pink acrylic nails on the counter, “but you’d know more about that wouldn’t you.” She gives him her discount wink and hands over her keys.
Suddenly I hear a block hit the wall. Apparently the rest of the spectators did too, as their eyes burned the back of my neck; I bend down to my son.
“The blocks belong at the table Sam.”
“Get yellow block”
Sam rushes to the dust-infested corner where the block fell in and brings it to me. It now has dust-drenched hairs stuck to the grease stains. The block makes me wonder if the mechanics play with the blocks on their breaks. I smirk at Mr. National Geographic who is hiding his gaping jaw behind the magazine that does not conceal the shake of his head he gives to my smirk.
Cotton Candy seems to have communicated her car problem efficiently with “Brad” and is perched near the door leading to the garage. She watches and poses for ‘Brad’ but after a minute of no luck, her back slumps and she glances toward Sam.
“Cute kid,” she tells me across Mr. Geographic, “I was that blond once, now it’s from a bottle.” She pumps her artificial locks and chuckles.
“He gets it from my husband.” I quickly respond and turn my eyes back to Sam.
“I hate the mechanic,” she continues, “a bunch of uneducated men tweaking my car. But, what’s a gal to do?”
Mr. Geographic shifts in his seat and pulls his magazine closer to his face. I stiffly smile and concentrate on Sam whose tower now includes most of the gray-stained blocks in the bin. He swings around and makes eye contact as a hint for praise.
“Good job, Sam.” I readily give it to him. He quickly swirls around and knocks the tower over. Blocks skate across the ground, under the vinyl chairs and in the greasy corners. I quickly get on my knees to gather them. Reaching under chairs and in corners the floor puts more grease stains on my newly washed jeans.
“See Sam, the blocks stay in the table.” I say, as my armful of blocks tumble in the bin.
“Sam?”
I search the ten-foot square room. Cotton Candy’s left her perch only leaving a breath of fruity perfume.
I finally notice the welcome bell echoing its last ring and I stumble to my feet and thrust the door open. I scan the sidewalk, search the street, and realize they couldn’t get too far, she has no car. As I glance right, there in her pumps and capris is Cotton Candy, a foot deep in the snow helping Sam make a snowball.
“Sam,” I let out breathlessly and quickly scoop his little blue snow-suited body.
“Did I scare you, Honey?” She says, “I thought you saw the whole thing. Little boys need fresh air.”
All I can do is look at Sam, my heart pressing against my breastplate. Sam slaps my shoulders with his wet hands and giggles. I kiss his cheek.
“Thank you,” I mutter, climbing out of the snow, sucking the tears back into my eyes.

As Sam and I enter into the garage waiting room, “Brad” is chatting with Mr. Geographic. Mr. Geographic looks down through his glasses resting on the tip of his nose, his mouth pencil straight. “Brad’s” mouth stops moving and Mr. Geographic nods to accept his diagnosis of his car and hands him over three hundred dollars in cash. He slowly turns my way.
“Is he O.K.?” He says, not waiting for my response, “It’s a scary world out there.”
He turns back to get his seventeen cents change, waves to Sam, and pushes out the door.
Sam loosens my grasp, slides down my legs, and runs back to the block table. I plop back in my designated chair and realize I left my purse beside it through the whole thing. Sam begins reconstruction on his tower. My breathing becomes synchronized with the buzzing heater as I continue to wait.