
I'm far out west. A dusty town. Not even, just a roadside stop. My car is in the shop. The mechanic rolls out from underneath and it's not the burly cigar stubbed mechanic. Instead, it's this girl. The beautiful collaboration of the greasy leanedness of a hard working man with the wit and string curled smile of a woman. She's young but she's wearing the work of her years. Maybe born with a sticky wrench in her hand.
Tar between her teeth, oil under her finger nails. She's talking and talking. I don't even know who she's talking to cause she hasn't seen me yet. Cigarette in one hand, socket wrench in the other. She might be the mechanic that Wynona Ryder never was. And this is what she says:
"The way I see it is - you got ten fingers, you're gonna die with 'em. (at 'em she flashes a huge teethy grin that beams out from under her oil slick face.) Well ya got eight fingers, two opposable thumbs that is, ya get rid of those thumbs - you save a lotta money on nail polish. Ya figure, the average middle lower class woman paints her nails about fifteen hundred times till they're seventy-five. At least. Maybe more. You get rid of those thumbs. Save a lotta money. Still look pretty.
But ya see I'm supportin the proletariat. Those big men up there in the government, they know smokin's good for you. Makes you live longer. They all smoke. They tell all of you that it's bad. That it's gonna kill ya, printin up little messages on the boxes. It's all hoax damn it! Think I like smokin? (she spits) Pppppeh! It's nasty, but I do it to champion the proletariat. Somebody's gotta smoke. Be no one around to fix your car if I didn't."
That night I was sleeping in
Jockey sleepwear on
Hotel Collection Bedding.