Preventive Maintenance by Richard Lehan

Nancy Ottevaere

 
Preventive Maintenance

Anita’s 2019 Honda Civic was overdue for an oil change.  The SpeeDee outlet her husband, Artie, patronized was two blocks from their nineteen eighties-era subdivision.  SpeeDee’s combination garage-reception area was wedged between a Volkswagen dealership and a newly opened Urgent Pet Care facility. A banner advertising its services flapped in the wind outside.   Newly retired, Artie now had the flexibility to bring the car in on a weekday afternoon when the shop was less crowded.  The protocol is to drive around to the open bay door at the back of the facility and wait in the car until a service technician emerged from a side door to engage the customer.  

Artie heard a light tap on the driver’s side window as he rifled through the glove compartment looking for the registration.  A rail-thin man with a patchy beard saluted him with the clipboard.  The oval name tag sewn into his gray, stained shirt read: Caleb.

“What can we do for you today, Boss?”  

Artie powered down the window and handed him the registration.

“An oil change for my wife’s car.  You have all the particulars on file.” 

“That’s easy.”  Caleb pointed with his clipboard.  “Leave the vehicle running and proceed directly to the reception area; do not pass go.”  Artie grabbed his newspaper from the passenger side seat and exited the car.

Inside SpeeDee’s, the “Judge Judy” show was playing on a TV mounted on the wall.

When the accident occurred, did you or did you not have a valid driver’s license?

I had a learner’s permit, Your Honor.

A learner’s permit?!   You were driving by yourself - correct?

Correct, Your Honor.  

And what made you think that it was ok to drive with just a learner’s permit?  Wait! – Is that a smile on your face, young man?  Am I amusing you?

I’m nervous, Your Honor.

The newspaper sat on his lap unopened as Artie took note of the two other customers in the reception area.  Three seats down from him sat an elderly man wearing an olive-green scally cap pulled low over his dome head.  He had a cane wedged between his knees and looked delighted to be out, turning to nod at Artie.  Sitting on the old man’s right was a middle-aged woman, already graying; his daughter, Artie surmised.  After a few minutes, the daughter rose wearily and walked over to the glass bowl at the end of the counter.  “Me and my sweet tooth,” she announced ruefully to no one in particular. “Dad, you want any?”

“Any peppermint?”

“Yup.”  

“Two for me, please.”

She fished in the bowl and returned to her seat with a fistful of cellophane-wrapped candies.

For the next half hour or so, Artie perused his newspaper, tuning out Judge Judy’s performative show of authority on the TV before the door to the garage opened a crack; it was Caleb beckoning Artie with his clipboard.  

“Come on down, sir!  Time to brief you on my 17-point inspection of the missus’ vehicle.”  

But I only came in for an oil change, Artie thought to himself. He folded the newspaper under his arm and followed Caleb out to the nearest service bay. The Honda Civic's hood was upright.  Waiting until Artie was standing in front of the engine block, Caleb pointed to the lower right-hand corner.  Artie glanced over: a finely constructed nest of dried-out pine needles was cradled in a gap of the metal framing. Caleb smiled at him knowingly. 

“Is the vehicle typically parked under some trees?” he asked.

“Well, there’s a line of scrub pines that overlooks the driveway.” 

 “And let me guess: the car sits idle for stretches of time?”  

“Yes…well, lately.” Artie clarified.

“Thought so,” Caleb answered.  “See, squirrels take advantage of these conditions all the time to build nests under the hood.  It’s warm and comfy, and it provides them with easy access to their food stores.  What’s not to like?”

Artie shifted his gaze back to the nest. 

“I’ll clean it out for you today,” Caleb continued, “but check under the hood now and then to make sure there’s no new nest in progress.  Think of it as preventive maintenance.” 

Artie looked over his shoulder at Caleb. “Appreciate it.” 

“Of course.”  Caleb reached over for the visibly dirty air filter parked on the opposite corner of the engine block.  “You can see this is filthy, right?  Replace it too?”

“Sure.”

 “Ok.  I’ve already changed the oil, so it won’t take me but another ten minutes to finish up here.”

“Alright.”

Artie walked back into the waiting room and sat down in the same chair; the newspaper stayed folded in his lap. Judge Judy was castigating a new set of litigants on TV.  Artie decided to rest his eyes.  First, he pictured Anita’s car in their driveway, the roof and front hood matted with wet pine needles.  Abruptly, a memory muscled aside that static image: Artie was seated across from Anita at the hospital, propped up by pillows at the head of her bed.  She anxiously met his gaze.  Earlier that afternoon, the doctor had briefed them on the next steps.     

“All we can do is wait for the biopsy results,” Artie told her matter-of-factly. Anita sighed and turned away from him.

Artie’s chest tightened at the recollection of his less-than-supportive response.  His restless mind searched for something else to distract him.  Nothing stayed still long enough to adhere.

Artie heard himself say under his breath, Help her.  Then: Both of us, because I won’t know what to do or how to cope in the aftermath.  

He blinked open his eyes, surprised at himself.  

The old man had nodded off with his daughter safeguarding his cane.  The receptionist, who looked no older than a high schooler, was hunched over her phone behind the front counter, her thumbs in a flurry.  

Artie was due back at the hospital by five and promised to bring Anita take-out from that Thai place she liked.  

A bell dinged.  Artie watched as Caleb slid the clipboard with a summary of the charges through a slot in a plexiglass divider behind the receptionist’s desk.  The receptionist finished whatever text she was working on and reached behind her for the clipboard.

“Arthur?” she called out. 

© Richard Lehan 

Enjoy other posts by Richard Lehan HERE.

Richard Lehan

Richard Lehan is a fiction writer living in Massachusetts. Most recently, his one-act play "Conflagration" appeared in the Autumn 2024 edition of Rushing Thru the Dark magazine. Previously, his short story "Ambulatory" appeared in the Spring 2024 edition of Coneflower Cafe magazine. Another story, "Ambulatory," appeared in Story Sanctum in December 2023 and was included in their year-end anthology Tales from the Vault.  His flash fiction "State Forest" also appeared in the 2024 edition of Stolen Shoes Literary & Art Magazine.

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Lost Language of Trains by Ian C. Smith

 

Pixabay

Lost Language of Trains

An early scene from My Beautiful Laundrette.  South London, where my father grew up.  Daniel Day-Lewis, a gay bovver boy, no way of knowing he would one day be the U.S. President, still young then, as was I.  Trains rattle along the line below a young Pakistani Englishman whose mother suicided by jumping onto it, where he pegs laundry that will fleck with soot, take forever to dry, as it does in rain-streaked districts of stained bricks.

I became familiar with laundrettes in Thatcherite London, and constant trains, their echoes wails of suffering as if from ancient bones buried beneath the lines in that centuries-old city of conflict.  Like a pardoned convict’s return, mine took years from when my parents whisked me to the other end of the Earth, if that verb applies to a crude six-week voyage by ex-troopship after we seemed to leave as hurriedly as the squatters scrambling out the window in another early scene.

One woeful Wednesday, sent home from school because the King died, I skipped home joyous at this unexpected half-holiday only to disturb my mother, a chilblained war-damaged woman, hands fixed in washing-up water, staring at something nobody else saw, face damp with sorrow.  Soon we were off to the Australian jungle, I thought.  Well, school was savage, which suited me, London days disappearing dreamlike.

Back Down Under where laundry dries quicker than yesterday dies, a squatter myself wherever I lived, years worn to the bone now, the evening train comes on down the line, earworming me, a train in an Elvis song, lights semaphoring my walls, hauling me back to when everybody seemed on the dole, another line from that film, when I needed little more sustenance than the energy, the wan thrill of returning emigres you could call underground love, memory and landscape alike in attrition. 

© Ian C. Smith

Enjoy other posts by Ian Smith HERE.

Ian C. Smith

Ian C Smith’s work has been published in BBC Radio 4 Sounds, Cable Street, Griffith Review, Honest Ulsterman, North of Oxford, Rundelania, Stand, & Westerly.  His seventh book is wonder sadness madness joy, Ginninderra (Port Adelaide).  He writes in the Gippsland Lakes area of Victoria and on Flinders Island.

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