When Quittin’ Time Comes Early

It was Friday morning, the last one of the month, and that meant Ray and Val brought donuts for all of us.

Adam was outside smoking a cigarette, leaning up against the building, near the door when I parked my car and lifted up on the emergency brake. His brown eyes looked at me from under his hat as I walked toward him. “Hey, chief.” He exhaled. “Good to see you made it in today. I was getting worried, y’know. For Chrissake the day’s damn near half over.”

I adjusted my dirty old New York Jets hat and laughed. “Cheffffff.” I drew out the word thinking of something to say, or maybe just to fill the air before I got to the door. Mostly I didn’t know what to say because I didn’t have anything funny to say. Adam had a quick wit which often caught me off guard even though I knew it was there. Sometimes on my way into the dealership I’d practice what I was going to say to these guys, but like an exam in high school, what I studied for didn’t come to me when I needed to take the test.

As I got closer, I said, “It’s not even 8 o’clock, chef.” I called him chef. It was our thing. He took a long drag from a Marb Light and said, “Glad you didn’t put ‘er in the rhubarb this morning, chief.” “Me too,” I replied as I opened the door. The sound of impact wrenches echoed and the smell of motor oil, rubber and old grease hit me. I liked that smell.

Adam, or A-Dumb as Steve called him, mentioned the rhubarb to me every day that week. Why? Because the previous Sunday I drove my Mustang into a ditch…