An Average Day at Dev's Auto Repair Shop

There was nothing wrong with "normal." Erik had craved a "normal" day. Maybe he'd show up to the electromagnetism class in the morning. Maybe he'd eat the cardboard pizza at school. He wanted to do something normal, something that other college kids did. Whatever it took to make him forget how very abnormal he and his life had become.

Every day his power was growing. Today in his mechanical engineering class he didn't even have to seek the professor's thoughts as he penciled in his exam answers. They were there, swimming around, just for a moment. These thoughts were easy to find. Numbers came easily to him. Emotions sometimes came to him, but the complex meddling of a sea of words always dwelling in someone's thoughts - these were still hidden. Today those thoughts made his head ache. He craved the company of thoughtless robots, but more so, he craved normal.

He cut across the urban garden near the campus coffee shop and past the narrow student apartments. Past the little grocery store and bike shop, he jumped on the empty bus and rode to his father's mechanic store. The heavy rain storm had brought his father more jobs than anyone could handle, but his father took them all because he was the only trustworthy mechanic in town.

Eric set his backpack in the little office behind his father's desk and flipped through the papers in his father's trim inbox. The name "Mr. Devon Lane" were etched in gold letters on top of the polished wood beside a flipping daily calendar filled with supermodels on old sporty cars. Today, a blonde was sprawled over an old red Ford. He smiled.

"I can't wait three days. The guy across town can do it in six hours!" echoed as the assistant, Bill, popped through the side door. Bill's blue overalls were covered in oil and he didn't smell like a cigarette -- a sure sign that Bill needed a break, and soon. "You tell your boss that I'll write to the papers if he doesn't get my van fixed by tonight!"

"Dev, I think we've got a problem," Bill groaned.

Eric's father grumbled from behind the computer screen at the front desk. A long catalog of parts needing ordered blinked on the screen. "Eric, take care of this for me, would ya? I can't find the damned drums for that Chevy."

"Sure thing, Pops."

Eric plopped on the 50's plastic red barstool and scrolled up and down the auto catalog. He was curious. Bill was curious, too - he sensed the heightened awareness in the man's tired, nicotine-hungry brain. Bill was still new enough that he didn't know about Devon and his 'charisma' as the customers put it.

Devon set a hand on the raging man's shoulder. "Get your damned hand off me!" the man yelled, but before he could throw Devon's hand off, the red slowly drained from his face, and his eyebrows unknit.

Devon spoke lowly and gently, saying, "I'll get your van done as soon as I can. I'm a good mechanic. Trust me. We're a little backed up with all the accidents on the highway, but don't you worry. We're going to take good care of you. Why don't you get headed home? We'll take good care of you and your van."

"Yeah, thanks pal," the man said. He put his hand on Devon's shoulder, and the two walked into the shop like two old friends walking into a tavern. The man left and hopped into a little car, and then he was gone.

"I wish I could do that," Bill groaned.

"Why don't you grab us a pizza from Len 'n Jo's?" Eric asked. "I'll pick up where you left off."

"Yeah, I'd appreciate that," Bill said. He slipped a cigarette between his lips, popped open the community cash box left for emergency pizza runs, and slipped out.

Devon returned to the catalog and worked on finding an alternator for the Mustang that kept coming back with new electrical failures. Eric could sense the tiredness in his father's head. His father was an easy, handsome man. They shared the same dark hair and tallness, the same intense expressions in their face, the same grace and agility. His father had never stressed about work. About the only thing that ever broke him - and really broke him - was when Eric's mother had died in his arms of lymphoma, and there was no power that could stop that from happening. Aside from that, Devon was the master of his castle, and no one could break the fortress screaming about their shitty little van.

Eric's power was genetic. He'd known this since he was six years old when he first could read people well. His father had given him the gene. His father had always been grateful, for he was no longer alone, and he had a lifelong friend with whom he could share the burden of being so abnormal. Their powers were different, but they were similar. Devon could manipulate people. Some people, especially angry people, could be pulled and plied like dough. Others, especially the wealthier and colder people, were like steel and could barely be budged. Eric could read people, and now he could hear the numbers in their heads and sometimes the rare word or two. Together, they were mean salesmen and mechanics.

Eric started working on the drums and then rotated the tires on another car. By the time he'd finished, Bill was back with pizza and beer. More customers came. They made good money. They finished more orders, replacing brake lines and popping more bumpers than they had popped in the month before together. It was late when they finished. By the time Eric replaced the last headlight, he had forgotten about the exam and was relieved. He washed the oil off his hands and found his keys.

"I'm headed home," he said.

"All right. I'll be there soon," Devon said. He had his glasses on and was figuring bills on the computer. "Be easy on those tires, kid."

Eric grinned. He snatched the garbage bag on his way out, dunked it in the dumpster, and rounded the corner to his baby - his 2010 California Edition black Mustang. He sat in the seat, hit the "play" on the dash, and peeled into the side street.