It’s 4:30 on a Friday and Tom is going through the motions of closing up the shop: count the til, run a dust rag over the counter, check that the shelves and cupboards are neat and tidy, make sure the invoices and orders for the next week are stamped and ready to pop in the mail – it’s routine and it’s comfortable, and the little radio he keeps in the corner is playing something catchy that he doesn’t recognize, but can bob his head along with anyway.
He’s just about to go around and have a quick sweep when there’s a tinkling sound from the bell above the door, and a man steps into the shop. Tom has run this little operation for close to twenty years, and he’s seen some rough customers come through – all manner of people really, from the polished and posh who come in every 3 months for a tune up and oil change, to the teenagers who want him to install huge speakers into rusted out pickups, people down on their luck trying to keep up with 1980’s Civics that just don’t quit. This guy looks like he’s on the far end of the spectrum of vehicular misfortune: tall and slightly pinched looking around the face, shabby clothes and a faded Dodgers cap, a few days worth of scruff on pale skin.
Tom glances out into the parking lot, but there’s no vehicle there that he can see, and when he turns his attention back on the man hovering by the door, he picks up on the slightly skittish look on his face and softens a little.
“C’mon in, we’re not closed yet,” Tom calls, and the man shuffles over toward the counter. He’s limping a little, and holding his left arm tight against his chest, but before Tom can ask if he’s hurt and needs help, he’s gingerly peeling off his sweatshirt and rolling up the sleeve of the thin t-shirt he’s wearing underneath.
“Holy mother of god,” he breathes. “That’s quite the piece of equipment you got yourself there.”
“It’s broken,” his visitor says, voice very quiet, and rests the mechanical arm awkwardly down on the counter. The request is a nonverbal but plenty clear ‘help me please’, with a healthy undertone of ‘I don’t know where else to go’, but it wouldn’t be the first time someone’s asked Tom for help that didn’t know how to say it out loud. Tom peers at it, not sure yet if he should touch, mentally checking for exposed wire, a power source, servomechanism of some kind. It’s smooth though, no hatches that he can see right away, plates fitted close together except for on the hand where the fingers are contorted at odd angles. The whole thing is set strangely, like it was frozen while in the middle of an uncommon gesture.
“Who fixed you up with this?” Tom asks, and gestures at the arm, asking permission. He gets a nod but no other reply, and so gently reaches out and rotates the forearm, fingers slipping over the grooves, getting a feel for how it moves. Tom was always better with touch than sight anyway, so he keeps his eye on the other man’s face while he works. It’s only another couple of seconds before he feels the catch, and a firm press later a panel flips open on the inside of the arm, just above the elbow. The man – and he’s young, Tom realizes, younger than he originally thought, maybe not even 30 – hisses, but doesn’t pull away.
“That hurt you?”
Head shake.
“You sure? I don’t know how this thing is hooked up. You tell me if you feel anything, alright? And what’s your name?”
There’s a pause, and at first Tom wonders if he maybe should just keep his mouth shut. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s worked with someone who didn’t want to talk (‘how’d this dent get here, eh kid?’) but it is the first time he’s worked on someone, more than tinkering with a couple sets of busted hearing aids. Maybe he should have called his insurance agent before getting started…
“James.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s James. My name.”
Tom reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a pair of reading glasses. He grabs a miniature set of screwdrivers from a drawer, then after a second’s consideration, walks over to the door and flips the sign in the window from ‘Open’ to ‘Closed’. This is going to take a little while.
“Alright then James,” he says, sliding back onto the stool behind the counter and pushing his glasses up his nose. “Let’s have a look.”
Imagine Bucky trying to find a mechanic to fix his metal arm when it starts malfunctioning.
Published
Tumblr Exodus 