2019-06-28 - It's Totally Not A Chop Shop

Steelhead Service Center is the name of the run-down garage. It has a faded, cracked logo of a leaping salmon. Very PNW. The place looks derelict, hasn't been repainted in a decade or more. Not a whole lot is going on here, either--no cars waiting their turn at getting serviced, no bustling mechanics. Pretty depressing overall, especially under the grey and drizzly sky. However, there is music. Someone is in there, playing a lively fiddle.

The sound of the bucket truck on approach is audible to anyone paying the least bit of attention. This diesel engine is made for hauling most of a few large trees in and out of National Forests over questionable roads, and it sure sounds like it can. It's the largest of Out on a Limb's three trucks; Big Betty, as Cy calls it, and August has (very reluctantly and under extreme duress a.k.a. Cy's teasing and pestering) begun using the name as well. The other two trucks are smaller units, better suited to city road work. Big Betty is a former USFS truck August got for a steal, the one he typically drives.

Big Betty's engine could use some tuning. Any mechanic who's worked on diesel before can tell. (To anyone else--like Out on a Limb's owner and employees--it sounds like a diesel engine. More or less.) Obvious only to someone who knows bucket trucks is how there's also something amiss with the way the arm's sitting.

August eyes the service center. He'd heard they were open again, and he doesn't wanna wait a damned month for the Forest Service to have time for him to drive clear to Olympic, where they have a service station specializing in these. But it's looking pretty dead.

It's looking pretty damn dead. The lights are on, but that's the only sign (aside from the music) that anybody's home. Still, after a few minutes, the fiddle stops. The side door opens and a tall lanky guy comes out, looking annoyed. He strikes an impression of a disreputable character, stubbly and tattooed but not a hipster or a punk or any other recognizable-on-sight counterculture sort. He just seems kind of rough. So, in short, a lot like a typical mechanic in a dead-end job.

He strides on over, head turned a little as if the diesel rumble is music itself. "Yeah?" he calls.

A sign of life! Disreputable-looking life, but life none-the-less. August is no stranger to down on their luck mechanics in dead end jobs; he grew up in a trailer park near the docks. It's one of the reasons he wanted to check and see if Steelhead was open again--a lack of shine and polish doesn't mean much to him. Good work at a fair price, on the other hand, does, and he's not of a mind to question extra grease or a few tattoos (like he's one to talk).

He shuts off the truck so they don't need to be shouting. As Itzhak approaches August squints at him, an expression like he's trying to place him somehow. Whatever he's seeing, it has a notable effect on how he replies. His usual guarded nature eases the barest fraction. "Apologies if I'm harassing you on your day off or anything. Just wanted to find out if you're open and taking work." He raises an eyebrow. "Looks like no?"

Itzhak stares at August like he almost recognizes him. Almost, but not quite. "Nah. I'm open. Ya girl needs some engine work? She sounds off." He reaches up to flatten a hand against the hood, as if the truck is a horse that needs introductions. "Nice truck," he says, grudgingly. Like how dare August have a nice truck. "Pull up to bay one. I'll open the door."

August sees that look from Itzahk, and for a moment he's curious. Almost curious enough to try that same thing he tried on Ignacio, feeling out what this thing is about Itzahk, but he opts not to. What he really needs to do, is talk to Finch. He makes a mental note to do that.

"Great," he says, relieved, of them being open, then, "...thanks," both to the compliment and to the offer to roll it up to the bay. He fires the truck back up, waits for Itzahk to open the door before pulling her around and up.

Itzhak just tosses a hand in response, already on his way back to the building. New York manners to go with his sharp, nasally New York accent.

The bay door ratchets itself open. Itzhak ducks out from under the still-opening door to jog over to the truck's cab and brusquely gesture August out. Then he hesitates, glancing at the arm. "Guess the bucket needs work, too?"

August slides out, gives Itzhak a once over now that there's not a truck door and several feet between them. No doubt due to the accent, among other things. "Yeah," he says, offering over the keys. "Got hit by a branch while we were clearing during that storm last week. Messed with the alignment, think the motor might be having a problem now too." He tilts his head. "That something you can work on?" He sounds like he's walking a fine line between hopeful and preparing for disappointment. This is the kind of vehicle that usually goes to a special shop...if the special shop's not over a hundred miles out. In cases where it is, like August's, it goes where he can get it worked on. For example, Steelhead.

Itzhak's muscular in the way a thin guy can be. He's wearing a ribbed grey tank top despite the drizzle, so a lot of tattoo is on display. One arm is covered in leaves and vines and pomegranates, of all things. The other upper arm has a hyperrealistic sparkplug with a pair of crossed wrenches. His knobbly knuckles have faded blue letters on them. Stay on one hand. Down on the other.

"Yeah huh," he says, a little absently, eyes roaming over the bucket arm. "I can work on it. Go on in, side door's open." He takes the keys, having come to his decision, and hops into the cab to maneuver the truck in.

Inside the shop it's almost as bare as the outside, although there's the usual complement of tools and mechanic stuff. There's no real waiting room, only a desk along one wall with some chairs for the unfortunate who have to while-u-wait. One thing is very obvious, though: a huge terrarium that takes up one corner. It looks homemade, like it's been built in place. Inside are a lot of big branches and carpet-covered platforms with cubbylike spaces beneath. Also inside is a white and bright yellow-orange snake the diameter of a fire hose, slowly draping itself on a branch.

August makes no attempt to hide noticing the tattoos. The words on Itzhak's fingers tell him a great deal--how many guys had he seen in Portland with similar when he was growing up? plenty--but the vines and pomegranates are much more interesting to him. He says nothing, though, just heads inside.

He almost doesn't see the rest of the interior; he can feel the terrarium before he's even in the doorway. He walks right up to it and crouches down, surveying plants and snake alike. "Nice little place he's got for you here, eh honey?" He can't help it, he reaches out with his mind to the snake like he would any other animal, gives it a gentle brush of greeting. Who knows, the mechanic might be able to do this too. It would certainly make handling trickier animals a snap. August hasn't been bitten by a goose in years.

The snake is a beauty, iridescent and muscular with good health. Its pinprick-bright reptile mind reveals it as a female. She lifts her head to rear up in a 'periscope', her mottled black and pink tongue flickering out in August's direction. Her eyes are ruby red. She's fifteen feet long if she's an inch. Many, even most, pet reptiles are sluggish, understimulated and bored. Or terrified. Not her. She noses the glass. Tongueflick.

Itzhak pulls the big truck in and slides out of the cab. He doesn't seem to be in any hurry, coming over to help August admire the snake. "Her name's Lemondrop. She's my baby." He hasn't introduced himself, or asked for August's name, but the snake gets an introduction.

"Lemondrop," August echoes, watching the snake move with intense interest. "I'm not used to seeing them this active." He studies her a bit longer, hazards, "Python?" He says it in a way which suggests he knows a python is a snake that people keep, and so this might be one; much the same way, when presented with a large evergreen conifer, someone might say, 'Pine?'.

"Lotta people think they don't need much room or anything to do. Keep 'em in plastic tubs with nothing to climb. People are idiots. In the wild, these guys climb, swim, hunt, do everything any other animal does." Itzhak taps the back of one nail against the glass, very light. The snake flicks her tongue, interested, but there's no food smells to keep her interest going. She goes to pour herself over the highest branch. Itzhak glances at August. "Reticulated python. Usually folk're scared to death of her. You're not." He was grudgingly complimentary of the truck, now he's grudgingly impressed that August isn't afraid.

August makes a low sound, stands up. "Problem with a whole lot of animals. People think they need a lot less than us just because they don't drive or hold jobs or whatever. They expect everything's like a small dog or a cat, don't bother to get properly educated, expecially about," he tips his chin at Lemondrop, "the ones that aren't domesticated."

He watches her a bit longer, looks askance at Itzhak. "Afraid of her? She's not a timber rattler or anything. You've got her in," he gestures at the terrarium, "this, not like I can't outrun her if I have to." Also, he introduced himself, but like hell he's saying that out loud. He can't really just tell people his fear of animals is vastly reduced since his mind got better at interacting with them, not even someone like Itzhak. He looks at Lemondrop again, frowns, shakes his head. "Nah, nothing to be afraid of. Respect, now, I assume that's needed. She's still gotta eat, and I'm sure if she's hungry enough a lot of things look mighty tasty. But fear?" He shrugs. He's pretty sure his geese would eat him if they needed to; he can't fault a snake if it'd do the same.

Itzhak snorts, eyes still on Lemondrop. "You could outrun her all right. Chances are real low she'd even see an adult person as food. Respect, you're right about that. She could strangle you if you were holding her and she got scared. Moral of the story is, she'd kill you but probably not eat you. Ain't you glad you asked?" His tone is sour, but if August has any perception at all, self-directed. Like he's pissed off at himself for standing here rattling on about his snake.

August gives Itzhak an amused look, shrugs in acceptance of the information. "So, if she gets scared, don't let her hug me. Got it." He nods towards the shop floor. "How long you think? Not in any hurry, just want to keep it in mind for my scheduling." More like, wants to be ready to sort out who's using their personal car to drive equipment to and from a job (him, of course, though Cy might volunteer since he has a dually).

Itzhak tears himself away from the terrarium. He swivels to eye the truck, and...something almost happens. The faintest glimmer of some force, only enough to feel a brief jab of adrenaline in the presence of....something. In less than a heartbeat it's gone. "The arm's the real bitch. I gotta see how deep I need to go. Balance problems, you said?"

He walks, almost prowls, over to the truck and climbs it like his snake climbs her branch. Poking around, he mutters to himself. Then, raising his voice, says to August, "It might be as long as a week. Is this gettin' billed to you or someone else? ...What's your name, anyway?"

He finally got around to it.

August looks between Itzhak and the truck, eyes narrowed. He has the distinct impression something happened, except, nothing did. Or, nothing he can identify. He shakes it off with a shrug of his shoulders. "Yeah, the motor's struggling, so something is out of alignment for sure. Not surprising, it was a hell of a branch that hit it." Not while anyone was still in it, thank God.

"Bills to me. Well, to the business, but, same difference." He waves that aside. "A week's fine. Honestly, even two is. It beats driving to the nearest Forestry service site." And being driven back. And then waiting a month. And then, driving back out to get it. No thanks.

"Roen," he says. Then, almost like it's an afterthought, "August."

"Well, you can see I'm swamped with work," Itzhak says, flinging a hand out at the empty cold garage. He jumps down from the truck. "So I'm gonna hafta pencil you in to get you done in a week." His tone is sour again, self-mocking. Now, finally, he offers a handshake. "Rosencrantz. Itzhak." In a weirdly exact way he does the same thing, saying his first name after the fact. "Guess you get a lot of work out of that old girl with the storms, with how huge the trees are around here."

With a wry smile, August says, "Just give it time, people run their cars straight into the ground out here. Or the weather does, take your pick." He personally suspects the former, but blaming the weather is a time-honored Pacific Northwest Tradition and he's not going to stop now, especially not in front of someone new to the area. "Soon as people know you're open they'll roll, push, and tow 'em on in."

He returns the handshake, firm and friendly. "Good to meet you." He gets out a business card; it's not the fancy sort he'd give a customer, instead it's the location, everyone's names (even the new girl, Finch), email, phone, and fax numbers in small, sharp print. He taps the first phone number. "That's the business number, better to call that so if I'm not available one of the others can take it. My signal's not great at home, but Cy lives here in town so even if I can't answer he can."

Itzhak takes the card, his mouth twisting. "I ain't gonna call tryin' to go out with ya daughter." So he's apparently decided why August told him to call the shop. August's reasons are just polite fictions.

Despite how incredibly rude he just was, Itzhak looks at August, eyebrows tilted up in a way that gives him a wistful air. "So, you a local?"

Now August's smile is saccharine in the extreme. "Well on behalf of fictional family I thank you for not trying to hit on my non-existant daughter, who would probably just slash your tires for presuming, were she any child I had a hand in raising." He follows that with a nod.

"Nah," he continues, like he wasn't just explaining to Itzhak that if he had a kid for Itzhak to harass Itzhak would wind up with property damage for his troubles. "I mean--from the area, yeah. Portland. But I only moved up here about, three years ago, now." He scratches his beard. "Did you just take over this place? It's been closed for a while." Understatement of the decade.

Itzhak snorts and tips the business card towards August in a silent 'touche`'. He tucks the card away in a pocket of his jeans. "More local'n me. You ever driven cross-country with a retic? Not recommended." Now he's at a loss for something to do with his hands. "Yeah. Took it over for a family friend. Told him I wasn't gonna come out until it was warmer, no way was I going to haul Lemka through the cold. Then it got warmer so here I am." He shrugs. Life story, encapsulated. "Tryin' to turn the place around, but I just got here. Barely finished her enclosure."

"Warm," August says. He almost laughs, flicks a glance outside. "Won't be warm here until July. But it's not snowing, at least." He half-turns to look at the terrarium, raising his eyebrows. "You made that? Hell of a job, you should offer custom work. Lot of people," he gestures in a circle, "around here, they keep animals with special housing needs. Might be able to make a little extra money for yourself." The same way August does when he hires himself out for private garden consulting, on the rare occasions he can handle being around other people for a couple of hours.

His eyes shift to Lemondrop herself. "That had to be rough." He actually means on the python; Itzhak looks like he can handle a cross country drive. "But you got her here, got her a nice new crib. Hard part's over." Of the reason for coming out here, he says nothing. Family friend might mean Itzhak is one of the local families, which says all kinds of things about him. (August makes a mental note to ask Finch about Rosencrantzes.) "Well, I need to call in my ride, and get to an appointment." He offers his hand. "Nice to meet you. Good luck with getting everything up and running."

Itzhak's clearly thinking about something else. When he blinks and looks back at Roen it's with a confused sort of appreciation. "Yeah, I built it. I build stuff. Fix stuff." Come on, August, isn't it obvious? Get a move on! He amends, about the weather, "Warmer enough so she'd be okay packed with hot water bottles. Man, what a chore. They can get real sick if you take them outside in freezing weather when they were just in a controlled environment. I didn't want to leave her for someone else to take care of, or have her shipped, or," Itzhak shakes his head over the logistics. "I don't trust nobody else with her. I did kinda expect it to be over 70 degrees by now." He casts a baleful look out the bay door. "It's perfect in New York this time of year. Anyway, enough of my yappin'. I'll call you." Itzhak shakes Roen's hand.

Of the complications surrounding moving Lemondrop, August says, "Jesus, that sounds complicated," and gives her one last look as he turns to go. "Yeah, can't blame you." He stops short of saying 'like leaving your kid with someone' because it's not, except, he feels like it is. Another one of those Glimmer things he has to remind himself to not repeat. "Glad she made it out here okay." He even waves at the snake as he's taking out his phone. To Itzhak he says, "Thanks again," then holds up the phone to his ear as he heads out the door.