Blacktop Wasteland(6)

He got out and headed for the office. A pale blue light flashed overhead from a flickering fluorescent fixture. He went to a mini-fridge behind his desk and grabbed two beers. He dropped the wrench on the desk. The sound of metal against metal clanged against his ears. Kelvin came in and sat down in a folding chair in front of the desk. Beauregard tossed him a beer. They opened them in unison and raised their bottles. Beauregard killed most of his beer in one loud gulp. Kelvin sipped his twice before putting it on the desk.

“Guess I’m gonna have to cuss Jerome the fuck out,” Kelvin said. Beauregard finished his beer.

“Nah. It ain’t his fault. Them boys probably go up and down the East Coast doing this shit,” he said.

“It’s still fucked up, though. I can ask around again. Maybe down in Raleigh? Or Charlotte?” Kelvin asked.

Beauregard shook his head. He finished his beer and tossed it in the trash can. “You know I can’t go that far out. Not for some maybe money. Anyway, the rent is due by the twenty-third. I didn’t really want to ask Phil for another extension. Not getting that contract with Davidson’s construction company really put us in a bad spot,” Beauregard said.

Kelvin sipped his beer. “You thought about talking to Boonie?” he asked.

Beauregard fell into his swivel chair. He put his boots up on the desk. “I’ve thought about it,” he said.

Kelvin finished his beer. “All I’m saying is we been open three years and then Precision comes along and it’s like people forgot we was here. Maybe Red Hill ain’t big enough for two mechanic shops. Or at least not a black one,” he said.

“I don’t know. We was in the running for that Davidson’s contract. Twenty years ago, we wouldn’t even have been in the goddamn conversation. I just couldn’t go as low as Precision,” Beauregard said.

“That’s why I’m saying you might want to talk to Boonie. Nothing too big. Just something to keep us afloat until … I don’t know, until more people move to Red Hill who don’t know how to change their oil,” Kelvin said.

Beauregard picked up the wrench. He grabbed a rag from the pile sitting in a plastic bin next to his desk and began wiping the blood off it.

“I said I’m thinking about it.”

“Alright, well, I’m gonna get up the road. Christy is off tonight and since Sasha is working I’m gonna go by and say heyyyyy,” he said, singing the word “hey” until he hit a falsetto.

Beauregard smirked. “One of them girls is gonna cut your thing off and mail it to you,” he said.

“Man, whatever. They gonna dip it in bronze and put that thing on a pedestal,” Kelvin said as he rose from his chair. “Catch you in the morning?”

“Yeah,” Beauregard said. He set the wrench down again. Kelvin gave him a two-finger salute and left through the office door. Beauregard swung around and planted his feet on the floor. 750. That was worse than having a grand. That’s not even considering the gas it took to get out to Shepherd’s Corner. Phil Dormer had told him last month that he wouldn’t be able to give him another extension.

“Beau, I know times are tight right now. I get it. But my boss has told me we can’t extend you any more credit or time on this loan. Look, maybe we can refinance it—”

“I’m only one year away from paying it off,” Beauregard said. Phil frowned.

“Well, that’s true but you’re also technically three months behind. And per your loan agreement once you’re 120 days behind the loan becomes delinquent. I don’t want that to happen, Beau. Refinance and you’ll have more years, but you won’t lose the building,” Phil had said. Beauregard heard what he was saying. He saw the pained look on his face. And in a perfect world, he would have believed that Phil really was concerned about his livelihood. The world was far from perfect. Beauregard knew that Phil was saying all the right words. He also knew that the lot he sat on was right next to a development. They were building Red Hill’s first fast food restaurant. The old Tastee Freez didn’t count. They had closed ten years ago. They were never fast but they had made one hell of a milkshake.

Beauregard got up and put the keys to the Duster on the hook in the corkboard and grabbed the keys to his truck. He locked up the garage and headed home.

The sun was just peeking over the horizon as he backed into the street. Beauregard drove past the municipal offices of Red Hill County out to the wide-open fields. He always thought it was funny a county with “hill” in its name had a terrible paucity of actual hills. He passed Grove Lane. His daughter lived down there. The sky was streaked with gold and red as he turned down Market Drive. Two more turns down two more side roads and he was pulling down the dirt lane to his double-wide.

Beauregard parked next to Kia’s little blue two-door Honda. He never drove the thing, he just kept it running. He was an American Muscle kind of guy. The house was quiet as he stepped up onto the porch. He made his way through the rectangular house, passing the room where his sons slept. The sun spilled through the blinds as rays of light filled the double-wide. His and Kia’s room was at the end of the trailer. Beauregard slipped into the room and sat down on the foot of their bed. Kia was sprawled across it like a piece of origami art. Beauregard touched her soft, exposed thigh. Her caramel-colored leg twitched. She didn’t turn over but spoke to him with her face still buried in her pillow.