Rubbed Out¶
The customer slaps a tire pressure gauge on the counter and says, “Fix this. It’s been acting up since your guy put it in.” His tone implies your guy is a ghost, which you suppose is fair. The gauge’s needle wobbles like it’s drunk. You want to explain that the boss didn’t install it—you did, three days ago, while he was still here—but the badge on your shirt feels like a stone. Its lamination crackles when you move.
You adjust the badge. The photo beneath is a smudge, a face worn pale by thousands of swipes past the shop’s time clock. The boss’s name—Manny—still peels at the edges. You’ve started signing receipts with his looped signature. The customers don’t notice. The corporate payroll system hasn’t called.
“Sure,” you say, “but it’ll take a minute.” Your voice sounds like it’s coming from behind the badge.
The waiting area has five chairs, all bolted to the floor. A fern in a plastic pot wilts by the window. Its leaves curl like the edges of the For Sale flyers Manny used to tuck under the windshield wipers of parked cars. You remember him laughing: “People buy tires when they’re already here, not when they’re home thinking about it.”
A list of things you’ve learned since he vanished:
- The safe combination is Manny’s daughter’s birthday.
- The tread wear chart behind the counter is actually a family tree. Manny’s ex-wife’s name is still stuck to 1995 with a pushpin.
- When the phone rings, the first thing the caller says is always the make of their car. Never their name. Never please.
The customer hovers. You notice his boots—steel-toed, scuffed at the toes. Manny would’ve charged him for the inspection. You say, “This’ll be $25.” He grunts, hands you a credit card. The badge on your shirt grows warm.
Three days ago, Manny was here. You were balancing tires when he pocketed the badge lamination machine and said, “Cover for me. I gotta fix something.” His truck’s shadow stretched across the lot for ten minutes. Then it didn’t.
The card declines. The customer curses. You try Manny’s signature again, slower this time. The machine beeps. A receipt spools out, but the customer’s name is wrong—L. Ramirez instead of L. Campbell. You tear it off, crumple it. The badge itches.
A list of things you’ve ignored:
- The way the badge’s photo sometimes flickers when the shop lights hum.
- How the safe now locks at 5 PM sharp, even if you’re inside.
- The phone’s habit of ringing only when you’re alone.
You hand the customer a new receipt. He leaves without thanking you. The badge feels lighter.
In the parking lot, a woman steps out of a sedan. She holds a clipboard, the kind Manny used for inventory. Her badge is crisp. New.
“Looking for Manny,” she says.
You touch your chest. The smudge beneath the plastic is gone. Your own face stares back, pale and grainy. You didn’t notice it changing.
The woman glances at the clipboard. “He’s been reassigned.”
You want to ask where. Ask if he’s okay. Instead, you say, “I’ll pack his things.”
She doesn’t correct you.
That night, you stay late. The list of things you do:
- Shred the family tree.
- Empty Manny’s drawer: a half-eaten pack of mints, a photo of a girl in a soccer jersey.
- Lamination machine whirs when you press it. You feed it a new badge: your name, your photo.
The phone rings. You answer. A voice says, “Your shift ends in five minutes.”
You hang up. The badge on your shirt doesn’t itch anymore.
The next morning, the fern is gone. In its place: a new pot, new soil, a leafy green plant. No curling edges.
A customer asks for Manny. You say, “He’s not here.” Your voice doesn’t waver.
The badge stays cool all day.