A Mechanic Checked My Engine Real Good

Jim knew his way around every part.

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Original illustration by Eduardo

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My “check engine” light had been flashing for nearly a year, and big surprise—I hadn’t gotten my engine checked. So when my Volvo, Ophelia, started making sounds on the highway that should never come from a car, somehow both clanky and scratchy, I pulled over to the side of the road.

I popped the hood, and out flew smoke.

Fabulous, fucking fabulous. I was sure this would cost me an arm and a leg, and I didn’t get paid until the end of the month. Luckily, Triple A would at least get me to the mechanic for free.

I had done everything in my power to avoid bringing Ophelia to the shop. I checked the oil and tire pressure, just like my grandpa taught me. (Okay, I guess that’s all I had done, but still, that’s more than most folks.)

The thing is, I fucking hate mechanics. They’re always unethical, manipulating the asymmetry of knowledge, knowing that I need my car to get around in LA, and so I would pay any amount to get her fixed. And I just feel screwed every single time I have to see one, hence my avoidance.

I’m not sure how AAA decides where to send a broken-down car, probably a bunch of factors, but they dropped Ophelia and me off at a small shop off Ventura Blvd, this little hole in the wall I must have driven past hundreds of times, but never noticed. The garage was open, and there were oil stains on the floor that looked like they’d been there for decades.

I didn’t see him at first. He was underneath a truck on one of those skateboard devices. (I think they’re called creepers.) When he wheeled out, I finally got a good look at him.

He wore stained suspenders with just one strap hanging over his shoulder. A tank top underneath. His pockets bulged with wrenches and rags. His salt-and-pepper hair was firmly slicked back, complemented by a matching beard that shimmered—not gray, more like platinum. The crow's feet around his eyes were endearing, hinting at a man who had lived a full life—someone who had basked in the sun without a care. And on his chest, he wore a nametag: Jim.

“What can I do you for?” he said with a thick southern drawl. Jim seemed out of place in LA, among the glitz and glamour, the bleached blonde and the Botox.

I stepped into his shop, ready to be a raging asshole, determined to set a no-nonsense tone that made it clear I wouldn’t be taken for a chum. But something about his honky-tonk accent caught me off guard, disarming my defenses.

“Um…I think you’re going to have to tell me.”

“Where is she?” Jim asked, somehow aware that my car was a she. I pointed over to where AAA dropped her off. We both walked over to Ophelia, and Jim popped the hood. There was no smoke this time, but the inside didn’t look pretty.

He then turned on the car. “How long has the check engine light been on?”

“About a week,” I said. I didn’t want to give him any ammunition to upcharge me. Saying a year could do just that.

“You sure about that?” he asked, though it wasn’t accusatory. There was a playful quality to his voice.

“Well, maybe a little longer than a week,” I said, smiling involuntarily. Jim wasn’t a man you could lie to easily—something about his folksy charisma made you wanna spill the beans.

“I’ll be honest,” Jim started. Fuck me, here it comes. I must have made a face because Jim said, “Woah, nothing that bad. Just a failed gasket that mixed with some leaky coolant.”

“How much will that run me to fix?”

“Five hundred.”

“Fuck.” I hadn’t realized I had said the words out loud. Jim stood there, watching me do mental math—seeing how much Ramen I’d need to eat for the next two weeks to pay this off.

“I may not be able to pay you until the end of the month.”

Jim stood quietly, considering. “You seem like a nice boy,” he said. Only a man his age could call me, a 31-year-old man, a boy, without it being condescending. “What about I only charge you for the parts? So two hundred.”

Two hundred seemed very reasonable for an old car smoking on the highway.

“You’re not charging me for labor?”

“No, sir.”

“What’s the catch?”

“No catch, other than you seemed like someone who needed to catch a break. And I’m privileged enough to throw you one.”

I wanted to hug this stranger. “Thank you, yes! Holy shit, yes, and I can pay you today then.”

“Great! Wanna come back in four hours? I’ll have her fixed up for you by then.”

“Ophelia,” I said.

“I’m sorry?”

“My car…her name is Ophelia.”

“That’s a beautiful name for her,” he said, smiling.

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Four hours later, I returned to the shop. The California sun was high in the sky, doing what it does best: heating up The Valley. It must have gone from 75 degrees that morning to 95 degrees in a matter of hours. His garage kept all the heat in. It was like a goddamn sauna in there.

Jim was lying underneath a red Chevy Suburban. “Jim!” I called out. He rolled out from under the SUV, his overalls unhooked, the straps dangling at his sides. He was shirtless, sweat glistening in his chest hair. His nipples were big and puffy—manly nipples on a manly chest. I couldn’t help but stare.

“Oh yeah,” he said. “It just gets too hot here to keep on the extra layers.”

I cleared my throat. “Yeah, it’s definitely heating up.”

“Ophelia’s good as new,” he said, throwing me my keys. “Let’s just head to the backroom, and I’ll get you all squared away.”

I followed him into the backroom, which felt more like a closet. A small desk housed a cash register and card reader; there wasn’t even enough space for a chair.

“I know it’s a little snug in here,” he said. Our bodies were so close to each other that I could feel the heat from his skin.

“Yeah, so that’ll be two hundred.”

In maneuvering to grab my wallet, I accidentally hit my elbow against the wall. “Ow!” I said, grabbing my arm. I didn’t mean for our bodies to touch. But with such little room and the reflex to recoil, I found my chest against his—my junk pressed against his.

And he was definitely not wearing underwear underneath those overalls…We locked eyes. “Oh,” I said. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…” but my words trailed off. Clearly, I wasn’t sorry because I wasn’t moving. Neither was he. I felt him grow bigger and bigger by the second.

“You’re a very handsome boy,” he said, sustaining eye contact.

“You’re a very handsome man,” I replied.

He smiled, the wrinkles around his lips inviting me to kiss him. But I couldn’t, no matter how much I wanted to. I was frozen stiff from nerves and arousal. But then he lifted my chin with his index finger and leaned in. Our mouths touched, and I could swear he hummed while kissing me. There was a vibration, an electricity to his kiss that felt intimate.

He wrapped his arms around me, grabbing my shoulders, and I melted into him. I felt safe in his arms. His physique may have been hard, but there was a softness, a gentleness to him. Slowly, he lowered his hands, his fingertips grazing my back—sending shivers down my spine—until he reached to my ass and squeezed my cheeks.

He had finally reached full mast, and that man was packing a thick Andouille. As our tongues swirled in each other’s mouths, I shimmied out of my jeans, never happier to be wearing a jockstrap. He dropped the rest of his overalls.

His body, now fully nude, pressed against mine. I grabbed his cock, and felt his manliness flex in my hand. He had girth—a man of his stature always does—and taking him would be a challenge. But when did a challenge ever stop me from getting what I wanted?