Page 12 of Live Love Steal
“Will it be okay here?”
“It will be fine. I’ll pull it into the bay once I get my bike out.” He pointed to the street-facing garage. “I park here all the time. No one is going to mess with it. I promise.”
There were now seven vehicles in the lot, including Sketch’s SUV and my car. Some were nice, like the vintage muscle car parked near the back. Others were… I suppose… functional. But not pretty. It reminded me of Dad. His shop was the same way.
Sketch led me to the side door. “Brace yourself.”
I was prepared for grime and so many layers of spilled grease and oil, you couldn’t tell if you were walking on concrete or dirt. What I wasn’t prepared for was an eclectic blend of punk nirvana. As soon as I walked in, my eyes locked on the graffiti-covered pillars. They were about two feet square with slightly rounded corners and covered from floor to ceiling with bright words, art, cartoons, and most prominently, Destroyers’ skulls. The black, white, and red colors peeked out of the jumble.
Straight ahead was a half-finished spiral staircase. There was a hole in the ceiling above it that was covered with plastic tarps. Under it were no fewer than four buckets scattered around the construction to catch water. To the right was a long open space with a large bar. One you’d expect in a tavern, not a car shop.
Nor would you expect the tastefully designed industrial-themed kitchen with black appliances, exposed brick, and artistic lighting. The island was distressed on purpose. I wandered farther in. The layout was fairly simple. The shell was a large rectangle. Inside, it divided in half with those graffiti-covered support columns running down the center. The array formed the spine of the layout. If you came in from the street side, you’d enter a living room instead of the bar-dining-kitchen area I’d walked into.
That room was even more insane than the larger space.
Gobbling up half of the front wall was a mural of a woman. Under her left eye, the artist let the paint drip, making it appear that she was crying. There was a triptych of women in hats on the long wall. And against the interior wall, the aged leather sofa was covered in spray paint. I wondered if it was ever used. I chose the mismatched, longer leather sofa to sit on and leaned back. My goodness, graffiti even covered part of the ceiling. No matter where your eye traveled, there was something to look at. “Who painted all this?”
“I did. Got bored.”
My mouth fell open. “Bored?” It had to be years of boredom.
Sketch shrugged. “I’ve been living here since I crashed here one night after boosting a car. The cops were chasing me, and I stashed the car in the back of the lot and crawled in through a hole in the roof. Five years later, I bought the place.”
I knew he was a bad boy.
“How old were you?”
“When I found this place?” He laughed. “About fourteen.”
“You bought this building when you were nineteen?”
Sketch looked away.
“Seriously. Did you?”
“Kind of. Found out there was a tax lien on it. Boosted five cars and sold them for the scratch to pay it off. Once I did, I owned it.” He walked to a wall and tapped the bright neon numbers painted there. “This was my first tag. And, funnily enough, it was the only wall that didn’t need to be replaced or repaired. I decided to make it a theme.”
“I like it.” It was seriously cool. I don’t know how long it took him, but I’d bet it was still a work in progress. Amidst the street art were sculptural pieces, too. Welded shapes, odd furnishings cobbled together from junk, and some refined pieces that seemed like they didn’t belong, but when you took a step back and took everything in as a whole, it all fit perfectly. Everything had a function, but it also had personality. In comparison with my blah apartment white, it won my heart, hands down.
“Make yourself at home. There’s food in the fridge, booze at the bar, whatever you need.”
He slipped out, grabbing my keys from me as he left. Within a few moments, I heard the rattle of the overhead door and peeked into the bay to witness him pulling my car in. The garage was more in line with what I was expecting. Lots of tool boxes, rolled up plastic tarps for keeping paint off things… but I admired his setup. Dad would go gaga over this. Sketch’s overall focus was body work. It showed in the multiple air filtration units and spray hoses. “You paint cars, too?”
“I think I mentioned that.”
I searched my memory. I guess he had.
He bent down and fiddled with my bumper first. “Do me a favor, turn on the hot water over there.” Sketch pointed at the sink. I did, and pulled down a pour bucket from the shelf. My dad taught me this trick, but I never quite got around to trying it. Funny how having all the tools in one place and none of the inconveniences of trying to DIY in a parking lot made a difference.
He drilled a small hole in the bumper. “Doing this dirty, but it will be much less noticeable.”
I tested the water; it was almost too hot to touch. Then filled the bucket and brought it over.
“Pour that for me, and be careful not to splash.” He braced his foot against the car and motioned for me to start. I heated the plastic with the water, being very careful not to hit his legs. And with a soft pop, Sketch pulled the fender back into shape.
As he cleaned up and prepared for the next repair, he commented, “You’ve done that before?”
“Not really. My dad showed me a video once and talked me through it, but he did the work. I didn’t.”
