Safe in His Arms (22 page)

would make definitive changes in his life. The bump on his head had shrunk to pebble

size, and the bruising on his face faded from dark purple to yellow. He still looked a

little beat up, but the headaches had subsided.

In fact, he had more energy than he had in weeks. He hadn‘t had a drink since the

accident, and, though there were times, especially at night, when he longed for the

numbing balm of a good stiff vodka, he resisted.

He‘d followed Reese‘s advice and started attending a local AA meeting, though he

didn‘t think of himself as an alcoholic. Still, he found the support there helpful, after he

got past the initial shame of admitting he had a problem. He wasn‘t entirely

comfortable sharing his own experiences yet, but no one pressured him. It helped to

know there were lots of other folks in the same boat—people who had hit rock bottom

but hadn‘t given up. Or, if they had, were ready to try again.

He wanted to swim, his favorite form of exercise, but the pool had gotten scummy

without the regular care from the pool boy he‘d had to let go. Instead he worked out in

his home gym, obliterating all thought as he pushed himself on the treadmill and with

the free weights.

As soon as he earned a little cash, he vowed to himself he would get the pool

cleaned. Then he‘d put the place on the market for rent. Even if Russell didn‘t want him

back, he would move into some place he could afford. Yes, he was really going to do it.

He was going to do everything he had to do to prove to Russell he was worth the

trouble. More importantly, he wanted to prove it to himself.

He scanned the form, the fifth one he‘d filled out that day. He‘d been at it all week,

and so far had heard nothing back. Each time the person on duty had taken his

application, barely glancing at him, telling him they‘d get back to him. It was going on

five o‘clock in the evening, and he‘d been at it since eight, figuring out the bus routes to

get him from place to place, the want ads clutched in his hand, the meager job

opportunities circled and highlighted.

He was getting better at filling out the applications. He‘d been stymied at first

about what to put for work experience, until he figured out he should just fake a

position that meshed with whatever the job in question was. He really had no choice,

not if he wanted to get hired. He‘d held a few informal jobs within his father‘s

construction companies, but had never been on a formal salary, or expected to keep

regular hours.

He completed the
Snappy Lube
application for lube technician level 1 and handed it

to the manager, a grizzled man in his sixties with a tan, leathery face and a nametag that

read
Foster Dickson - Manager
.

―You‘re in luck. I just had a guy quit on me and I need a replacement, pronto.‖ The

man scanned the form. ―You got some experience, huh? That‘s a plus, though we do

provide training.‖

Hank nodded. He‘d fudged the application, claiming he had actual work

experience in a car garage. It wasn‘t entirely a lie, at least not the experience aspect. One

of his few skills was in tinkering with cars, something he‘d always enjoyed. It had been

a while, but he knew how to change oil.

He waited for the manager to say he would get back to him. Instead he said, ―Let‘s

run you through the computer.‖ The manager turned away, typing with two fingers on

a keyboard. While he was waiting for results, he turned back to face Hank across the

small, cluttered desk in his tiny office off the customer waiting room.

―If you check out clean, I can start you at eight dollars an hour. Opportunity for

more, up to eleven in this position, depending how you do. You might even move up to

pit manager some day, if you play your cards right.‖

Oh goodie,
Hank thought scathingly. Then he heard Russell‘s voice in his head,

gently admonishing him that all work is good, none better than the other. It was how

you handled yourself in the situation that mattered, not the size of the paycheck or the

fancy titles you were given. Hank swallowed his pride. If he was given the chance, he

would see this through.

The manager fixed Hank with a sudden keen gaze. ―Most important thing to

remember if you want to get ahead in this place is you aren‘t being paid to think. The

pit manager will handle the customers and make recommendations as to what services

they need. You just change the oil and whatever else is required, do as you‘re told and

keep your mouth shut. We provide training and your uniform. You‘re responsible for

keeping it clean. I can give you thirty hours a week, no benefits, no overtime. The place

is open seven days a week, from seven to seven on weekdays, eight to five on Saturdays

and ten to five on Sundays. You‘ll get your schedule at the beginning of each week.‖

The manager swiveled behind himself to look at his calendar. ―Let‘s see. Today‘s

Wednesday. If I can get you in for training tomorrow, then you could start Friday. We

open at seven a.m. You report for work at six-thirty and get your pit ready. Sound

good?‖

―Yes.‖ Hank experienced a kind of incredulous disbelief and excitement, like he‘d

won some kind of contest. Was he actually going to get a job? A real job that would earn

real money, though granted, not very much.

But it was a start. He‘d get his place rented and catch up on the mortgage

payments, hopefully. The main thing was to get off his ass and try to take back some

kind of control over his life. A lot of this mess, he realized with a small, painful shock,

was of his own making. Well, that was going to change. He was sick of drowning his

sorrows in a bottle of booze, whining about what he‘d lost instead of doing something

about it.

He realized with sudden pleased surprise that he hadn‘t thought of Russell once

during the past few minutes. This wasn‘t just to please Russell, it was to make himself

whole again. To put things right.

The manager turned back to the screen, stared at it a moment and then turned to

Hank with a smile. He extended his hand. ―Welcome aboard, Hank.‖

~*~

―Damn it!‖ Hank stuck his finger in his mouth by instinct to stop the burn, but was

greeted by the horrible taste of motor oil, which seemed to cling to him these days, even

after the hottest shower and the most thorough of scrubbings.

Instead of placing the oil filter logically within easy access, the idiots who‘d

designed this particular car had placed it right next to the engine block, half concealed

by the radiator hose, inches away from the white-hot muffler assembly on which Hank

had just burned his finger.

After a day of training in both the mechanics of the job and safety procedures, Hank

had been thrust into the pit. The manager had neglected to mention there were no

formal breaks. As long as there were cars lined up for servicing, you kept at it. You took

what down time you could, but you‘d better be ready when the next car drove in, no

matter if you were in mid-bite of the lousy sandwich you‘d packed yourself that

morning at five a.m.

It was Hank‘s third day on the job, a Sunday, and he was amazed at how many

folks were lined up before the place even opened to get their damn oil changed. His

back was aching and his neck was killing him from working at an odd angle, but he

couldn‘t seem to get comfortable. The tools he‘d been provided with were old and

difficult to use, especially the strap wrench that was used to remove the oil filter. He

found himself spending far too much time battling with the damn thing, but when he

asked if there were newer tools available, he was told he‘d have to bring his own if he

wasn‘t happy with what they provided.

At least he didn‘t have to interact with the customers, telling them their engine

needed flushing, or their transmission needed servicing, especially when it didn‘t. That

was left to the pit manager, whose name tag read
Steve Sullivan.

He was a diminutive man easily five years younger than Hank, who didn‘t bother

to disguise his contempt for Hank and the other pit workers. The guy was on his case

from the second he started the job, cutting him zero slack for being new.

He didn‘t hesitate to reprimand Hank for any perceived infractions, or exhort him

to ―…hurry it up already. Billy and Frank are twice as fast as you are. If you want to

make the grade, you need to speed it up. Fast turnover, that‘s the name of the game,

pal.‖

Hank very nearly spat out that Steve fucking Sullivan was no pal of his, and once

he got access to his accounts back, he could buy this whole lousy joint and the first

thing he‘d do was fire little Stevie‘s ass.

No, he kept his mouth shut and worked as hard as he could, trying to keep the oil

from splashing him each time he opened the drain plug and praying the oil gasket

wouldn‘t be falling apart at the seams or worse, dried up and bonded to the engine

block.

As annoying as it was to report directly to that Sullivan jerk, Hank couldn‘t help the

rising pride as he learned his job. He had stopped himself a dozen times from calling

Russell to tell him what he was doing. No, he wanted to show him. He would take over

his first pay check and let it speak for itself.

What if it’s too late?

He couldn‘t stop that niggling fear from worming its way into his head. What if

Russell had changed his mind, and it wasn‘t enough for Hank to get a job and clean up

his act? What if he had already met someone new, someone who wasn‘t such a pain in

the ass? What if Hank had ruined everything beyond repair, and there was no going

back?

The thought made something shrink inside Russell and he pushed it away. He had

to let it go. He tried to tell himself he would be okay, even without Russell in his life. He

wanted to believe that too, but in his heart of hearts, he didn‘t. Maybe he‘d act ―as if‖, as

the guys in AA had tried to explain to him. Even if you felt like shit inside, you had to

act as if you were in control. You had to show the world, and most importantly,

yourself, that you could do it. And, if you were lucky, after a while, you found you

really could.

Hank worked with the idea of living one day at a time, trying not to focus on what

might or might not happen next week or next month. He vowed to work hard at his job

and on cleaning up the huge mess he‘d made of his life. That was plenty to handle for

the time being.

He was exhausted and soaked with sweat by the end each shift, but so far at least,

he‘d managed to keep the job. Not used to getting up before five, which was necessary

in order to catch the bus that took nearly an hour to drive across town, he went to bed

early each night, though often it took a while for sleep to come. He would lay bathed in

the milky light of the moon, allowing himself for that brief time to think about Russell,

though sometimes the longing smashed him like a sucker punch in the gut.

Things always seemed better in the morning. And as he rode home on the bus each

day, he thought about how proud Russell would be of him. He was proud of himself,

even if the work sucked and his boss was a prick. He‘d found this job himself, and was

making a go of it.

That Monday Hank was pulled out of a really good dream that involved Russell

and himself naked on a beach, by the insistent ringing of his cell phone. ―Yeah,‖ he said

sleepily.

―Hank, it‘s Mr. Sullivan. One of the crew just called in sick. How soon can you get

your ass in here?‖

Shit. Hank had a rapid silent debate with himself. He had the day off and had been

planning to stop at the pool supply store he‘d noticed on his way to work. He was

going find out what he needed to get the pool clean, and do it himself. Also, he‘d

planned to call a real estate agent today to see about getting the house listed for rent.

Hank sighed inwardly, cursing himself for having answered his phone. He couldn‘t

risk alienating the boss, and so he said, ―About an hour.‖

―An hour!‖ Sullivan sounded annoyed and disbelieving. ―Where the heck do you

live? Timbuktu?‖

Hank didn‘t feel like admitting his upscale address to this bonehead, certain he

wouldn‘t be believed anyway. Instead he offered, ―I take the bus. I don‘t have a car

right now.‖

―You take the bus?‖ Sullivan repeated, his tone incredulous. What the fuck was this

asshole‘s problem? ―Working in a car shop but no car of your own. How pathetic is

that?‖

Hank clenched his jaw to keep from saying something he‘d regret. Sullivan

continued, ―Well, I need someone in fifteen minutes, so you‘re shit out of luck if you

were counting on the extra hours. I‘ll find someone who
owns a car
to fill in. Thanks for