The Mechanic's Shop

The four men in charcoal grey suits, with thin black ties and pork pie hats, walked into Jake's Car Works, each one carrying a briefcase. They approached the service desk counter where they were greeted by the owner himself, Jake Weatherbee, a tall, lean man with strong, callused hands and a face was all eyebrows and mustache.

"Let me guess," Jake said. "Boy band making a comeback?"

The men exchanged confused looks. 

Jake noted the men looked enough alike that they could've been brothers, cousins at the very least. Then he realized they bore a not quite on-point resemblance to TV actor Mark Harmon. The nose wasn't quite right. The nose isn't on the nose, Jake thought. He smiled.

"I think he was making a joke," the first man said. The other three nodded.

"Apparently, we look like a boy band," the second man said.

"We are not a boy band," the third man said.

"We understand you are a mechanic," the fourth man said.

"Best damn mechanic in Strafford County," Jake said. "One man's humble opinion, of course. What can I do for you, um, gentlemen?"

The first man said, "We have specifications for a gizmo."

"Widget," the second man said.

"Gadget," the third man said.

"Component," the fourth man said.

"Gizmo," the first man repeated. 

The other three men nodded and repeated in unison, "Gizmo."

"Provide the specifications," the first man said to the second, who placed his briefcase on the counter, opened it, retrieved a folder of papers a half inch thick, and handed it to Jake.

Jake opened the folder and looked over the diagrams and specifications for the so-called gizmo. "Interesting," he said. "I don't think I've ever seen anything like this before."

"You can engineer the gizmo exactly to the specifications provided?" the first man asked.

Jake considered the specifications. "Yes. I can. But I'll need to order the materials."

The first man nodded to the third man, who placed his briefcase on the counter with some difficulty, opened it and turned it to Jake.

"Pennies," Jake said. The briefcase was packed with pennies in 50 cent wrappers. 

"The smallest denomination of US currency is rich in copper and zinc," the third man said.

"Yes, but, if I read these specs correctly, I'll need to break them down and separate the two metals. I could just order them. Should only take a few days. A week tops."

"Time is essential," the fourth man said.

"We understand that you have a kiln that you use to create ceramic artifacts. I believe that should suffice for the task at hand," the first man said.

Jake shuffled the papers back into the folder and considered the four men in front of him. "You seem to know an awful lot about me."

"Your FaceBook page was very helpful to us in finding you; the singular person who could handle the specifications for our gizmo," the first man said.

"We saw nothing awful about you," the fourth man said.

"That's, um, that's good to hear," Jake said. He had, in fact, gotten back to his pottery hobby after leaving his wheel and kiln idle for almost a decade. And he had posted pictures of his work on his FaceBook page. Still, it seemed odd. Most new customers cited Yelp reviews. "Look. The project, uh, gizmo, thingy, it certainly looks interesting but I'm really backed up. As you can see." Jake looked back over his shoulder. "I've got two cars in the shop right now, two more right behind them. I'm basically a one-man shop. I've only got a couple of part-time employees and I promised I'd have that Camry done by Monday." 

"For your time commitment, we can make it quite profitable," the first man said, nodding to the fourth man.

"English isn't your first language, is it?" Jake asked.

The fourth man placed his briefcase on the counter, opened it, and turned it to Jake. This time it wasn't pennies; it was plastic-wrapped stacks of Benjamins. 

"If the funding is insufficient, we will make up the shortfall on the back end," the fourth man said.

"The back end," Jake repeated.

The four men nodded.

Jake looked at the cash. He had no idea how much it was. Half a million? More? He opened the folder again and pretended to reconsider the gizmo's specifications, playing for time while trying to figure out what to do. He had no idea what the boy band on the comeback trail was up to but with that much cash involved, there just had to be something illegal about it.

"Let me assure you there is no risk of entanglement with law enforcement," the first man said. 

He did not just read my mind, Jake thought. More likely he read the look of concern - if not downright abject fear - on my face.

"Timing is essential so we prepared the specifications, materials, and compensation prior to our arrival and proposal, to facilitate completion of the gizmo in the briefest possible future," the first man offered as an explanation.

"You have in recent years expressed a desire for a cottage on a Lake Sunapee with a boat to facilitate fishing and water skiing," the fourth man said. "As documented on your Instagram account."

As he heard the man describe it, Jake realized he'd given up on that dream. Or had he only forgotten it? He'd forgotten he even had an Instagram account. That post had to be at least ten years old. Ten years, Jake thought. He had been in love with Kate back then, but it hadn't worked out. Hadn't worked out in the sense that she dumped him, married his former best friend David, aka Mr. Dirt, leaving him to spend the last ten years pretending he didn't care, making awkwardly casual conversation during the chance encounters of small town life; the post office, the grocery store, the Inside Yolk restaurant. He had waited patiently for David to die tragically young and Kate to come to her senses but it didn't look like that was going to happen, not after David, Jr. was born. Hell is other people, Jake thought, who live in a small town. Returning to his pottery was an attempt - no doubt a vain attempt - to rediscover himself, to find the man he was ten years ago, maybe even do what he should've done all along. Move on. Start over. A place on Lake Sunapee? It was a dream that he always woke up too soon from. Maybe he'd be lucky in death, he thought. Maybe there is an afterlife and his name would be on the white-bearded God's guest list. Not killing his former best friend for stealing his girlfriend had to count for something. In Heaven, he'd fish in the morning and water ski in the afternoon with Sports Illustrated swimsuit models every day for all eternity and his boat would never run out of gas.

"It is a wonderful yet currently underfunded dream," the first man suggested.

"Most dreams are," Jake muttered. 

"Please say yes," the second man said. "Consequences are dire, if overdue our timing is."

"You know, I was going to guess Quebec," Jake said. "But now I'm thinking Dagobah?"

The four men laughed.

"Star Wars," the first man said. "Funny."

"Hilarious," the second man said.

"Hysterical," the third man said.

"Ridiculous," the fourth man said.

"Good one, Jake Weatherbee," the first man said. 

"Good one," the other three men agreed, in unison.

"Will you help us?" the first man asked.

"The alternatives are undesirable," the second man said.

"Regrettable," the third man said.

"Unfortunate," the fourth man said.

The four men awaited his response with hopeful smiles and puppy dog eyes. Jake couldn't decide what to make of them. Were they making a threat in their references to dire consequences, to undesirable, regrettable, unfortunate alternatives? Somehow, it didn't feel like it. If this was a criminal enterprise, it was the dopiest criminal enterprise in the history of criminal enterprises. What do they call it? On the spectrum? These four were the full spectrum, for sure. Still, it was a lot of money. Jake had never had a lot of money. 

"Okay," Jake said. "I'll do it."

"The best of all possible outcomes," the first man said. "Thank you."

"Thank you," the other three men said.

Jake nodded. "You can thank me tomorrow. I'll take care of it tonight." He looked back into the shop. He'd need to take care of the gizmo tonight if he was going to have the Camry ready by Monday. "Come by around 11:00am tomorrow."

"We will synchronize our watches," the first man said.

*****

Thanks largely to four Sudafed and two pots of coffee, Jake had completed the gizmo on time. He might not have a liver but he told himself he could buy a new one with a million bucks. He'd counted the money after the four men had left. 1.25 million dollars. 

After finishing his work, and picking up a takeout breakfast burrito from the Inside Yolk, he had taken the quarter mile hike up the hill behind his shop. There was a clearing there where he'd set up a stone fire pit and an adirondack chair. He knew he was no Clark Kent but still thought of it as his "fortress of solitude." It was part of an acre and a half where he'd planned to build a house but he hadn't gotten to it; he hadn't been able to manage the finances and the small apartment over the shop had more than enough room for a single man like himself. Another dream he'd left behind? Maybe that would change, now. There was a good view from the hilltop of the forested land that surrounded the town of Lee. It had been a dry summer and the leaves had begun to turn early, maples and oaks splashed with yellow and orange. Jake had spent many a night there with a six pack of Sam, thinking about Kate and what might've been, feeling sorry for himself, watching the stars wheel across the sky, slowly leaving him behind. 

On this crisp, first day of autumn morning, he had more immediate, existential matters to consider. Loneliness is better than being dead, Jake thought.

He felt a bit like the proverbial horse that had been ridden hard and put away wet. He couldn't decide what he needed more, a shower, sleep, or a stiff drink. And the questions the money begged remained unanswered, and continued to push adrenaline into his bloodstream. Who were these guys? What did they need the gizmo for? Once they had the gizmo, would they just kill him, anyway? He needed a plan. He checked his watch. He didn't have much time left. He began the walk back down the hill, hoping to get his blood flowing, to send oxygen and ideas to his brain

The four men arrived at 11:00am on the dot. 

Jake greeted them with what he hoped wasn't a too obviously enthusiastic "Good morning, gentlemen."

"Good morning," the four men said in unison.

"Are you sure you weren't a boy band?" Jake asked. "I thought I heard some sweet harmony in that good morning."

"We are sure," the first man said.

"Right," Jake said. "Well, I've got the, um, gizmo right here for you." He placed a small box on the counter. 

The second man took the box and tried to open it. "The box is locked," he said. He looked at Jake. "What is the combination?"

"Try his birthday," the third man said.

The second man spun the numbers in the dial. "That was not successful."

"Try all formats," the fourth man said.

After a moment the second man said, "All formats are unsuccessful."

The first man looked at Jake. "The lack of trust is a disappointment given our assumption regarding the compensation, which we believed to be substantial."

"Yeah," Jake said. "It is a lot of money. That's kind of the point. I mean, you all seem like nice guys, don't get me wrong, but when that much money is involved, in cash, the story usually doesn't end well." Not for the guy who delivers the dingus in Act I but who'll only be a loose end by Act II, Jake thought.

"If it is a matter of insufficient funds," the first man said, "I am sure we can fulfill your requirements."

"No, no," Jake said. "The money's good. More than good. Look. Why don't you keep the money until you've verified the gizmo is in good working order." Jake put the three briefcases the men had left with him on the counter. Then he held out his hand with a folded piece of paper. "This is my cell phone number. Take the gizmo, the cash, everything with you. Call or text me when you get wherever it is you're going and I'll give you the combination. If there's any problem with the gizmo, and let me assure you,  there isn't, then you keep your money. Okay?"

"Destroy the box and retrieve the gizmo," the fourth man said.

"I wouldn't do that," Jake said. "Tampering with the box will result in the dingus, I mean, gizmo being destroyed." He paused, hoping the bluff would work. There hadn't been enough time to engineer a booby trap. "I told you I was the best damn mechanic in Strafford County."

"He has trust issues," the third man said.

"Time is momentary," the second man said.

"Options are constrained," the fourth man said.

"Yes," the first man said. "Our leave we must take now. Keep the money, Jake Weatherbee. We have confidence the gizmo was machined to specifications."

"I'll wait for your call," Jake said. "Nice doing business with you."

After the four men left, Jake put the briefcases back under the counter. He'd thought about taking the cash but reasoned that if there were tracking devices in the briefcases there could just as easily be one hidden in one of the packaged stacks of $100s. He left the shop and took the short hike back up the hill to wait for the call.

It was a short wait, maybe five minutes, before his phone rang.

"Combination," the voice said.

"3. 1. 4. 1. 5. 9," Jake said. He heard inaudible voices in the background and then the beep-beep-beep of the call ending. Jake sat back and noticed that his hand holding the phone was shaking. Both of his hands were shaking. Exhaustion? Fear? He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Would they come back for him, anyway? 

It wasn't long before he had his answer. 

The roundish, silvery iridescent object approached from the east. Reflexively, Jake moved into a small stand of trees nearby for cover. As the object got closer, he could see it was not smooth, but paneled in triangles like a geodesic dome. It was big. Jake guessed it was at least 60 feet in diameter, maybe more. It was hard to tell as it moved silently across the cloudless sky. 

It stopped and hovered over his shop. A white light emanated from the craft, and in a blinding flash, reduced Jake's Car Works, with the briefcase of Benjamins and the Camry that absolutely had to be ready by Monday, to a pile of fine, black ash. 

"Well, I guess Dagobah wasn't such a bad guess, after all," Jake said.

Jake watched as the craft made several short, hesitant movements and then began, slowly at first, to rotate end over end. It was spinning faster now, like a four-seam fastball. Jake smiled. He'd engineered the gizmo to fail, having no idea what the consequences of that failure would be, but if he was going to wind up dead, he sure hoped that his killers wouldn't get away with it. Suddenly, the craft plunged straight down toward the pile of ash that had once been Jake's Car Works. The blast from the explosion was strong enough, even at a quarter mile's distance, to knock Jake on his ass.

Jake got up, a little off balance from the concussion, dusted himself off, and walked unsteadily over to the Adirondack chair and collapsed. "Told you. Best damned mechanic in Strafford County." He took out his phone and dialed 9-1-1. "Yeah, hello, uh, I think a plane just crashed into Jake's Car Works out on Route 125. Yeah. No, I won't try to be a hero and do anything stupid." He hung up. His mind was racing. Had he saved the planet? Maybe so, but he realized that saving himself was probably enough. No. Definitely enough. He laughed. I guess this is what they call a message from the universe, Jake thought. Literally, in this case. 

Jake noticed his hands were no longer shaking. He smiled. Message received. It was time to move on with his life.