Page 17 of Burn It Down

My dad and Cass wouldn’t care if I had someone over, but I don’t have a single ex they like and it just doesn’t seem worth the hassle for one night. So, once again, I’m left with nothing to satisfy myself except my hand.

“Fuck. Not again.”

I pull my Challenger into the shop’s lot and sigh when I see the orange paint on the doors I just scrubbed clean. I open the camera system’s app, but all I see is a silver sedan with blacked out windows. It never even comes to a complete stop as it lobs a paint grenade out the window and speeds away.

I take pictures of the mess — although I don’t know why since we stopped filing police reports when they failed to do anything after the third attack —and text my dad to let him know.He starts work two hours after I do, but I could use his help scrubbing this shit off before customers arrive.

He pulls into the lot thirty minutes later and once the doors are clean, I wash up and grab my keys.

“I’m going to visit some of the other shops on the street and see if anyone else is having similar problems.”

“Just be careful, son.”

“Always am.”

After the first attack, we’d checked with some other businesses to see if they’d suffered any damage too. Three of us were hit that night, but since then, we’ve all been so busy trying to keep our businesses from going under that we haven’t followed up with each other.

Our shop probably has the most business in the area, but even with working twelve-to-fifteen-hour days, seven days a week, my dad and I can only move so fast. Diagnosing car problems, ordering parts, and of course actually fixing them, is a process. A slow one made even slower when insurance claims get denied for repairs or won’t accept what products we use, etc…

We used to have more employees, but everyone left when the vandalism became a regular thing and because we can’t accept as many jobs, we’ve lost a decent amount of our income as well. Some days it feels like we’re beating our heads against a brick wall with no end in sight.

I drive down the street to the little mom and pop antique store. The owners, Carl and Betty Rogers, knew my mom and loved her sopaipilla cheesecake bars.

Didn’t we all.

I smile at the familiar tinkling bell that sounds when I enter the old two-story building. Built around the same time our shop was, theirs has a rustic, yet industrial, feel to it. Carl and Betty have owned it since the beginning and it’s been everything froma barbershop to a bakery. Now they sell antiques with help from their kids.

“Why hello, Dylan! What brings you by today?” Betty chirps, coming toward me with outstretched arms.

“Hey, Mrs. Betty.” I give her a hug and notice how frail she seems. I don’t like it. “I was wondering if you guys have had any other property damage recently? We got hit last week and again last night.”

“Oh my, are your dad and sister okay?”

“They are, just angry and a little shaken up.”

“Thankfully, we only got hit the once a few months back.” As soon as she finishes her sentence, the front bell chimes again, causing me to turn around. Carl walks through the doorway with a lamp in each hand. “Well, aren’t those gorgeous!” Betty claps her hands together. “Those would look good in our living room.”

Carl scowls, but I can tell it’s to cover his smile. “Hell no, woman. We’re supposed tosellthe stuff we find so thatother peoplebuy it so we can afford to turn on the lights we already have.”

She playfully bats his shoulder and takes the lamps from him before scurrying to the back of the store. I have a sneaking suspicion Carl will be seeing those lamps again when he gets home tonight.

“Did I hear you talking about the vandalism attacks?”

“Yeah. We got hit again.”

“You may want to talk to Terrell and Glynda Waters. It wasn’t last night, but I know they’ve had some trouble recently.”

Terrell and Glynda would add a tally in the racial profiling column. He’s black, she’s white, and maybe whoever is behind this isn’t keen on mixing races.

It would’ve potentially helped nail down the perpetrator if that theory were true, however, two days after that conversation, Betty and Carl showed up to their store to find a giant cock and balls painted on their door and the F-bomb on their windows.

When my sister comes out to relay the news to my father and I, I slide out from the Porsche’s undercarriage, wrench still in my hand.

“Whatcha thinking, Dyl?” My dad asks, taking a swig of Sprite.

“That I wish I knew what was going on. Cass said two customers have called to cancel their service with us because they’re concerned about leaving their cars in our lot.”

“Yeah, it certainly isn’t going to help business, that’s for sure.” He still sounds so calm. Just like always. I get a lot of that from him, but this is really starting to piss me off and I’m also getting pissed that he’s so nonchalant about it. He’s sitting in the driver’s seat of an old Camaro with the door open and I don’t like the look in his eyes when he stills his movements. “Look, I was thinking—”

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