Get Yourself a Hotplate, Pal by Daniel Crépault

Cedric stepped down from the van and squinted toward the storefront. The icy wind roared through the low buildings of the industrial park, passing through his threadbare overcoat and making his skin ache. Reaching back into the vehicle’s dank warmth, he rolled up a small sleeping bag and stuffed it into the footwell along with the small camping stove. He carefully locked the door and walked across the snowy parking lot toward Rick’s Repair Shop, a small red and yellow building behind Main Street.

Reaching the store entrance, Cedric pushed hard on the door and stepped inside. The door was lighter than expected and crashed into the wall. A teenager working at the parts counter looked up from her phone, startled.

“Sorry!” Cedric’s smile twitched as he pointed toward the far end of the store. “Is that the way to the service centre?” She nodded and turned back to her phone. Cedric set off, wet boots squeaking on the floor as he wound his way through rows of windshield wipers.

As he joined the line at the service counter, Cedric’s stomach growled. He coughed and flexed his abdominal muscles but couldn’t stifle the rumblings within. His eyes moved past a young couple watching Good Morning America on TV in the waiting area and over the vintage license plates on the wall, before settling on a popcorn machine in the corner. A handwritten sign invited him to enjoy the free snack, but the sight of the fluorescent yellow stains and grime streaked on the glass nauseated him, and he turned away.

“I can help you here,” said a man behind the counter. His front teeth were broken and jagged. Cedric stared and wondered why, what misfortune, neglect, or accident had caused such damage. The name Rick was emblazoned on the man’s faded blue coveralls.

“Good morning,” Cedric said, stepping forward. “I’m here to drop off my vehicle for service. It’s for the brakes and rotors. I called yesterday.” He slid his key over the glass countertop.

Rick handed it to an employee standing behind him, who disappeared through a side door. “Right. I can have it ready by tomorrow morning.”

“I can’t leave it here overnight. Is there any way I can get it back later today?”

Rick sighed and ran a finger over a handwritten copy of the schedule. “I might be able to get it done before this evening. We close at 7:00pm.”

“How much will it cost?”

Rick quoted a number that he said would include parts and labour.

Cedric’s mouth went dry. “OK. Do I pay that now?”

“You can pay when you pick up the vehicle. Thanks.” Rick looked past Cedric to the next person in the lineup. “Next, please.”

“Is there a discount since I am doing two repairs here instead of one?”

Rick looked back at Cedric, fixing him with eyes the colour of dishwater. “A what?”

Cedric’s face flushed. “Well, I figure I’m giving you the business for both jobs, the brakes and the rotors. So, can you come down a bit on the price?”

The older man’s ears moved as the muscles in his jawline flexed. After a moment, he shook his head. “Maybe if you were a veteran or a firefighter or something.” He looked past his computer monitor at Cedric’s bowtie and rumpled shirtfront. “You a veteran?”

“No, I’m not.”

Rick flashed a smile that didn’t look friendly, his lips curling back over broken incisors. “Then you gotta pay the same as everyone else.”

Cedric looked over his shoulder toward the waiting room, meeting the glance of curious customers. He rubbed the back of his neck with a sweaty hand. “No problem. I just thought…”

“You thought what? That my time is less valuable than yours because I don’t wear a suit to work? Because I get my hands dirty?”

Cedric took a step back. “No, nothing like that. Thanks for your time.” He turned and stared at the floor tiles as he walked back toward the store entrance,

“Where do you work?” Rick’s voice had come from a few feet behind Cedric, but he kept walking and reached for the door. “Hey, I’m talking to you.”

Cedric turned to see the store owner limping toward him, supported by a metal cane.

“If one of my employees showed up where you work and asked for a discount, what would you say?”

“I’m between jobs at the moment,” Cedric said, back stiffening.

Rick stepped forward and raised a finger to within an inch of the younger man’s face. “Well, suppose you had a job, would you expect to work for free?”

Cedric’s hands, which had remained buried in the pockets of his overcoat, clenched into fists. Then, seeing Rick wobble unsteadily on the cane, he let out a breath and turned back toward the door. “No, I guess not.”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” Rick said. “Have a nice day.”

Cedric swung the door hard, and it slammed into the wall with a bang. The wind hit him full in the face, stinging his eyes. He shut them and cursed, feet crunching in new snow as he directed his steps toward Main Street.

The rest of Cedric’s day had been uneventful. He followed his typical Monday routine, stopping at the grocery store on Main Street to buy three discounted day-old sandwiches from the deli counter, then heading to the library on Notre Dame Street. He took the furthest unoccupied carrel, charged his phone, and used the public computer to send out résumés between bites of stale ham on rye. There weren’t many jobs for salesmen in such a small town, but he couldn’t bring himself to move away from the place his ex-wife and twin boys still called home. Sometimes when the fear came, he parked down the street from their house, close enough to see the trampoline in the backyard. Not for long. Just until he could breathe evenly again.

It was 6:45pm, time to head back to get the van. He stood, hesitating. Leaning back down, he typed “rick’s garage reviews” into the internet browser and pressed Enter. He scrolled through the results, then hit Ctrl+F and searched for any mention of “discounts.” Finding none, he frowned and logged out of the computer.

Darkness had fallen over the town, but the snow had stopped, and he was grateful for the walk. The repair shop’s parking lot was empty, except for his van and a few other snow-covered vehicles. Finding the front door locked, Cedric rang the doorbell, heard a maglock buzz, and pushed his way inside. The parts counter was deserted, and the store was silent except for the squeak of wet boots on tiles. He reached the service centre, and Rick looked up at him from behind the counter. Cedric met his gaze, but said nothing, waiting for the other man to speak first.

“We replaced the brakes and rotors. Here is the total, including parts and labour.” Rick placed a work order on the counter and pointed at a figure near the bottom.

Cedric grunted an acknowledgement.

“I had one of my guys detail the inside.”

“I didn’t ask you to do that.” Cedric felt a flush of heat through his neck. His mind flashed to the van, inventorying everything this man or his employees might have seen there, all the shameful evidence of his fallen state.

“No charge.”

“Well, who asked you to do it?” Cedric asked louder than he intended.

Rick looked up, surprised. “Nobody. Look, pal, we were trying to do you a favour. That’s all. We usually charge $40 for detailing.”

“You have no right to go through somebody’s vehicle unasked.”

The dishwater eyes met Cedric’s and softened. “OK. My mistake. I shoulda called you first. But there wasn’t a number on file, and I figured since you asked me for a discount and all you wouldn’t mind the free service.”

“Alright, well, what’s done is done,” Cedric said, chastened by the reminder of the morning encounter.

He tilted his credit card toward the reader, silently praying the transaction would go through. The machine spat out a length of receipt, which Rick slid across the counter, along with the van key. Cedric said thanks, breathed deeply, and turned to retrace his steps toward the storefront.

“Get yourself a hotplate, pal.”

The words had come from behind him. Cedric turned to see Rick hobbling toward him on his cane.

“What?”

“I said, get a hotplate. It’s a lot safer.” It was the same tone he used to educate customers about synthetic motor oil or winter tires.

“What are you talking about?”

“Look,” Rick said. “I didn’t always own a garage. I’ve been around a bit myself.”

Cedric frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“An electric one. Like a George Foreman Grill or something like that. Don’t use the camping stove in the van. You’ll kill yourself with carbon monoxide if you’re not careful,” Rick said. “Unless that’s the plan. No judgment or anything if it is. I know guys who went out like that.”

Cedric felt the hair on his neck standing on end. “It’s nothing like that.” He raised upturned hands and cocked his head to the side. “I go ice fishing with my sons on the weekends.”

Rick nodded. “Have it your way. My mistake, pal. Have a good night.” He unbolted the front door and held it open as Cedric walked out.

After clearing snow off the windshield, Cedric drove out onto the street, slowing as he reached a stop sign. The brakes were no longer making that irritating screeching noise. He parked behind a retail store that allowed RVs and campers to stay overnight. It was too early to set up his bedroll and sleep, but the dull grey light from the nearest lamppost wasn’t enough to read by. It had started to snow again, and flurries swirled against the windshield like angry bees. Rick’s crooked smile came to mind, and Cedric crossed his arms, bracing against the cold already seeping its way into the van. He peered out at the customers coming and going and wondered where each was headed and what they’d spent their money on. Glancing at his wristwatch, he left the van and entered the store’s well-lit warmth. An elderly man wearing a blue vest approached and welcomed him, pointing a crooked finger at the clock and announcing that the store would close in ten minutes.

“That’s okay,” Cedric said. “I won’t be long. Which aisle has the electric hotplates?”

Daniel Crépault

Jonathan Kovaciny at en.wikipedia, CC BY-SA 3.0 http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/, via Wikimedia Commons – electric hotplate. Original image slightly cropped to fit.