Ares adjusted under the car; something was biting into his back, probably a bolt. He shifted to get a better torque on the drain plug. Ever since he was a child, Ares remembered the smell of grease, puttering engines, and black smoke. The repair shop had been his life.
"A steady hand, a sturdy wrench, and a willing heart can fix any machine. Remember that," his father's voice trickled through his mind as he cranked the wrench. "…but what if you don't want to fix machines?"
"Tch." He'd made it too loose, and black oil dripped onto his face. "Dammit." Ares held the plug with his right hand while his left searched. "Where is it?" Finally his fingers felt plastic—it was a cut-off engine-oil bottle. He placed it below the drain, mainly from experience at this point, and removed the plug.
"Get yourself together. You can't always spend your life here." He wiggled out from under the car and found his father—his Dad—talking to a customer.
"It's the timing belt. We should fix it unless you want this beauty to break down," Dad said, caressing the fender. The beauty was a white 2000 Toyota—black dashboard, tan leather seats. It showed the owner respected it, took care of it. Ares could tell a lot about the owner of a car just by looking at it. Dad had drilled these lessons into him.
"Cars are windows to our souls," Dad liked to say. If a man called a twenty-five-year-old white Toyota a beauty, that told you plenty. Dad loved cars—not for how they looked, but for how they hummed. "If the car is too clean, the owner probably doesn't want people to know what he does. If it's too messy, he's going through a tough time. All you have to do is check whether the steering wheel is worn to tell what the owner feels. We hide our thoughts from people, steel our faces—but when no one's around, our hands write our story."
Ares reached for the wrench in his back pocket. The cool metal brought a little peace. He waited until the customer left; talking to Dad in public could be… risky. Rows of wrenches sticking out of the wall were proof of that. There were hundreds of them, sticking out of the wall like a porcupine. He could remember most of them; some had miraculously found their target. Dad was a great mechanic but a terrible shot.
One particular wrench caught his attention; it was old and rusted. He ran his finger over it. "he found about the dress I had made... Mia was so happy." He chuckled. On second thought, it would be better to do this at home. A woman wearing a pan in a gun holster appeared in his mind. Sweat trickled down his face. "It will be. Right?" God had granted him loving parents, depending on your definition of love. Theirs was a unique kind.
Time was a blur after that—changing oil, replacing timing belts, carburetors… When the shutter finally closed, it was night. They walked back home, hoping to find courage hidden in the cobblestones, but all he found were drunk college kids, whizzing cars, and empty silences.
In the TV lounge, sitting on Jeff, he found courage—their yellow sofa, courtesy of a flash sale. Mia had named him, their second brother with warm hugs and deep secrets.
"Dad… I'm leaving for Saint Martins. Everything is ready. I am going no matter what you say."
"What are you talking about?" Sam asked. It took him a while to understand what Ares was saying, and there he was. Sam—bull. Sam the dreadful. "Over my dead body!" Dad roared with a wrench in his hand, always able to conjure one at a moment's notice.
"Ma, tell your husband I am going no matter what?" Ares brandished a wrench of his own.
"I'd better get some popcorn," Ares's mother said as she skipped off.
"Popcorn?"
"Popcorn…"
Both father and son stared as she returned seconds later with full makeup, sunglasses, and—just as she'd promised—popcorn in her hands. How she managed that would remain one of the world's great mysteries.
"Honey, if you lose, I'm going to divorce you," she told Dad, then to Ares: "And if you lose, forget about going to Saint Martins."
"W—what!" Father and son gaped.
"Fight!!" she roared as she lifted her sundress to reveal a cast-iron pan holstered to her thigh.
Everything became a blur—punches, flying kicks, ragged breaths. The men looked at each other.
Ares squared his shoulders. "No matter what you do, I will be a fashion design—"
He ducked. The wrench whizzed past his temple and thunked into the wall, leaving a wrench-shaped dent.
"Honey!!!" a scream came from next door.
"Murder!" Ares yelled toward the door, already sprinting down the street. "Psychopaths…"
"Where do you think you're going?" bellowed Dad behind him—barefoot, in boxers, Mom slung over his shoulder, eyes blazing. Mom munched popcorn like she was at the movies.
"Put on pants!" Ares shouted. "And Mom, I'm your only son—help!"
"Get him, honey. He forfeited his right by running. No son of mine will be a fashion designer. We can make another one," Mom said cheerfully.
Dad's pace surged; dust tailed his heels.
"I'm dead… Somebody, anybody help me!" Ares howled.
Mom's pan flashed, racing toward Ares, and suddenly everything turned quiet.
Witness report: A man in underwear and a woman in a sundress were seen dragging an unconscious boy into the darkness.Separate incident: A wrench was implicated in the heavy beating of a man. The victim's wife reported "a loud clang, then a wrench appeared in my husband's… backside."