2019-10-30 - Alas, Poor Yaris

A run-down three-bay garage neighbored by towering cedars on one side and the rest of the industrial park on the other, a dirt parking lot currently somewhat more mud than dirt, a flaking logo of a raven with a salmon in its belly: that's Steelhead Service Center. A big pickup truck, painted in orange with a subtle glitter, sits at the curb. The lights are on, somebody is home. And there's music drifting out, clearly audible, the bright sound of a mandolin.

And into the lot pulls a rather unremarkable little hatchback. It's a blue Yaris that only looks a few years old. And it's making a pretty awful sound when it pulls in. Something rattling, and when the engine is killed, it sputters, sputters, clanks. Dante steps out of the car. Today, it's not an overly flashy suit. Just a slim-cut gray one with a pale blue checked button-up and an orange-patterned pocket square. He's wearing a watch with an orange band that matches the pocket square - which is a pop of flare in an otherwise ordinary (for him) suit. He backs up and examines the vehicle, then starts towards the sound of the music. "Hello?"

Like he has a sixth sense for a rattling engine (he does), Itzhak pops out of the human-sized front door, scowling terrifically, a mandolin cradled to him with one hand. "What the hell are you doing to that engine?" Recognizing Dante, his tone gets friendlier, his expression warmer, "Hey, it's you! ...Still, what are you doing to that poor car."

"Driving it. Or attempting to, in any case. I was just going to the shop and it started making terrible noise. You're the closest garage." Gare-ahhge, in Dante's very English tones. "The question is, what would that poor car have done to me if I had to drive it any further? Oh, you're a musician as well." He nods to the mandolin.

"God, well stop." Itzhak makes a face at the poor Yaris. He glances down at his mandolin. "Yep, musician. Okay, pull 'er in." He vanishes back inside, and bay door one scrolls itself open. Inside the garage, it's spartan levels of clean and organized. Tools and toolchests and workbenches and hydraulic lifts embedded in the floor. The other big feature is the giant terrarium built into an entire corner of the garage. Filled with branches and silk plants and big platforms covered in artificial grass, it's home to a frankly gigantic snake.

"Alas, poor Yaris," says Dante with a dramatic flourish that wouldn't be out of place in Stratford. He gets back into the car. It takes a few tries for him to start the car up again. Then it makes horrible noise all the way to the garage. He gets out once it's pulled in. "Oh you have a gar-OH MY WORD." He backs up, away from the terrarium, startled by the sight of the serpent.

The snake is fifteen feet long if she's an inch, bright white with brilliant yellow scales in stripes and drips along her length. She's coiled up in a glossy pile, easily as big around as a firehose. Itzhak, still holding his mandolin, winces every time the Yaris makes one of its death rattles, but glances at Dante when he exclaims. "That's Lemondrop. She can't get out, see, there's a lock on her doors." And so there is...but this is to keep people out and not the snake in, but Itzhak doesn't tell Dante that.

There's also a little sitting area tucked at the back of the garage, delineated by a big thrifted rug. A few also-thrifted armchairs and a battered coffee table make up the area. Itzhak sets his mandolin on one of the chairs and comes over to pop the Yaris' hood. "Was she makin' any other sounds before this?"

"Not that I...noticed," says Dante. He stays a good distance away from the snake for a minute or two. Once his hind brain calms down, his innate curiosity clicks in. "Dare I ask what a creature like that eats?" He asks as he creeps a little closer.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the interior of the Yaris is immaculate. It could be a rental car, for how clean it is and how good it smells.

"Rabbits," Itzhak says absently, grabbing a flashlight and bending under the car's hood. "I give her a little variety, feed her a whole chicken sometimes, that's with the feathers and head and everything on. They need all the weird stuff on a prey item to be healthy. Sometimes I feed her a few big rats. Variety in prey and prey sizes gives their guts a workout, it's best for 'em, they'd be eating anything they could catch in the wild." Hope Dante wanted a mini-lecture on feeding giant snakes! The car is still hot from being driven, but Itzhak doesn't bother waiting for it to cool. He reaches right down into the engine.

"I see," says Dante. He rests his hands in his pockets. He keeps a respectful distance from the enclosure, but examines the animal curiously. He is a horror writer, so tales of animals being swallowed whole don't rattle him overmuch. "I shall have to write a snake into one of my future stories. Seems a ripe subject area." He glances over to Itzhak. "It's entirely possible I was too rough on that poor vehicle. I've never driven so much in my life. But then I'm accustomed to being within stumbling distance, or taking public transit."

Lemondrop shifts her broad head, sensing motion outside her enclosure. Her shining tongue comes out, flickyflicky. She noses towards the thick plexiglass. A new person to smell! Itzhak sticks his head out from behind the hood, eyes narrow. "Don't make the snake a bad guy. They got enough of that as it is. Big snakes are pretty chill. They almost never try to eat a human in the wild." ...Almost. He straightens up, plucking a rag dangling from the back pocket of his coveralls to wipe his hands. "I hear ya, there's not a half-decent bus route in this fershtunken state. That said, bad news, think you got a spun bearing. That happens when it's worn out but there's no symptoms before it lets loose."

"I shall have the snake swallow a particularly evil rabbit," says Dante as he walks around to come and look at the engine. As if he has any idea what he's looking at. "That you're saying it's bad news means it's neither a quick nor a cheap fix, hmm?" He sighs. "Well, it did get me from the East Coast without issue. There was bound to be a problem eventually."

"Yeah, look at this." Itzhak pulls the dipstick and holds it to the light. Tiny metal curls and shavings glint in the oil. "That's from the bearing breaking, and it goes right into the oil, which is like something getting into your heart. From there, boom, travels to the whole system. Technical term is 'FUBAR'd.' You need a rebuilt engine or another car." He reseats the dipstick like he's resheathing a sword. Then he has to wipe his hands again but whatever, he does it with the idle attention of needing to do it two dozen times a day. The look he gives Dante is almost sympathetic. "She got ya this far, but that engine's done for, pal."

"You're kidding," Dante deadpans. "Seriously?" He doesn't often touch his hair, as well-coiffed as it is. But he does right now, raking a hand through the side. "Perfect. Wonderful." He taps the top of the car with his fist. "Cars are more bloody trouble than they're worth sometimes."

"I can rebuild it. I got the technology." Itzhak makes an ancient TV reference with a quirk to one side of his mouth. "More, I got time and I'm flippin' bored." Now that the car has been diagnosed, he's studying Dante with too-intense attention, examining all the details of his suit and his perfect hair.

"Does everyone in this town take too good care of their vehicles?" asks Dante with a grin. He looks back to his car, then looks back at Itzhak as he feels the attention. "Have I got something on my face?" He touches his cheek, then rolls his shoulders back to straighten the way his suit falls.

Itzhak takes both questions seriously. "Nah, just not all that much work to go around, and what there is can be pretty quick. Oil changes, rebalancing tires, that kinda stuff." Then his eyebrows go up, like he's not sure what to make of the second question. "Uh, no? Face is good. Face is really good, actually. ...Was that weird? That was weird." He pulls a face.

Dante smiles with a little twinkle in his eye. "Not at all. Or rather, not registering at all on the Gray Harbor scale of weird." He looks back at his car, then over at Itzhak. "What's your honest opinion, aside from your boredom? Is this car worth fixing? Because I've been picking piano back up again, so playing a little music could replace your utter boredom rather than rebuilding the engine of a Toyota Yaris."

Considering, Itzhak looks at the car. "It's gonna cost less to rebuild the engine than buy another car this good, straight up. But that ain't the only factor. Do you wanna rent a car or rely on Uber while I'm working on it? Are you maybe a little tired of this car and you could use a change? On the other hand, are you really attached to her and want to keep her? That stuff I can't answer." He brightens up suddenly. "You play piano? I'm ..." Itzhak trails off abruptly, his expression turning odd. "I play violin. And mandolin. Obviously."

"Attempted piano. I played when I was young and let it lapse for many years. I've recently purchased an electric keyboard and started following lessons on a tablet. Ah, the wonders of technology." Dante looks at the car, then over at Itzhak. "I don't tend to have a lot of attachments to machines. But there is, of course, comfort in the familiar. But on the other hand, her mileage is a wee bit high." A beat, a chuckle. "I've never referred to my car as a she before this moment. Mechanic's influence?" The sparkle of amusement remains.

"I'm a bad influence, everybody says so." Itzhak smiles back, a little, anxiety on his long and expressive face. "Well, think about it, lemme know. Not really in any hurry. So, piano, yeah? What's your level of skill? ...And why you named Dante?" Out of left field! "I mean, it's an awesome name."

"I like bad influences. They're the most fun," says Dante. His smile takes on a bit of that sharky quality it gets sometimes. "I shall ponder. And have a peek at my finances to see what makes the most sense. In the meantime, is there a particular rental agency that is known for keeping its vehicles in good repair and not ripping people off." Then, "My level is better than Chopsticks, but not on to Chopin. Although that's clearly a wide gap. I can carry a tune, but sometimes I don't hit all the right notes? I--" he's caught a little off-guard by the question of his name. "Well, my father loved to read the classics. My parents met in Italy. I'd imagine that goes some distance to explaining it. It isn't a very English name, is it?"

Itzhak's hesitant smile goes lopsided, and he actually tints a little red and looks away. "Yeah yeah. Well, hey you'll learn, you keep at it. We could find something your level to play, no sweat." He looks back, interested to hear the story of Dante's name, and amused. "That's a great story."

"It would perhaps be more romantic if they weren't divorced. But yes, I suppose it's an all right story. Better than my parents thinking I was destined for an inferno, in any case?" Dante tilts his head and asks, curiously, "I take it you're quite musical? The violin isn't exactly something you just pick up casually, from what I understand."

Itzhak leans a hip against the Yaris, interested and engaged and all too happy to talk about music. His hands (and eyebrows) start talking along with him. "Violin's one of the hardest instruments to learn. I started as a kid, was fourteen. Some people think that's late in life," he rolls his eyes, "some people are idiots. Mandolin kinda comes along with violin, they got the same tuning, G D A E. The mnemonic for that is 'God Damn All Englishmen'," he adds with a mischievous glint. "Eight paired strings on a mandolin, four singles on a violin, you can play anything for violin on a mandolin."

"Strong fingers, high dexterity. Good for instruments, and also for twisting tiny screws in engines?" Dante asks as he flexes his own hand. "And yes, my countrymen are the subject of many mnemonics. I understand, I understand. Colonial sins and all that." A chuckle. "I'm terrible at reading music. That's what stopped me from progressing too far on the piano the first time. I prefer to do it by patterns, which, of course, only gets you so far."

Itzhak's reddening a bit further as Dante talks about his strong fingers and high dexterity. "Well, yeah, good with my hands. But music's hard! Music's a different language, got its own logic. It ain't easy. But you're a real smart guy, you can do it, unless you got a learning disability for that kinda thing." Itzhak adds, hastily, "No shade if you do. I got one myself."

"No disability. Just an extreme compulsion towards artistic chaos and away from things that generally involve things like logic and order." Which doesn't seem right, given Dante's dress and how immaculate his car is. "And a lack of patience. And perhaps an aversion to rote memorization. I had to do that with Greek and Latin in school and I hated every second of it." He's noted the reddening and it makes him smile a little. He's not about to point it out.

Itzhak nods in real sympathy. "Why do people make kids do that kind of stuff? They grow up hating it. It's the opposite of what would actually work. If you like artistic chaos, you could listen to the piano jazz greats and just kinda learn by ear. Piano you can do that, since you hit a key and the right sound comes out." Still red, and pretending really hard that he's not.

Dante smiles quite broadly. "I do love jazz. I think because it's got some chaos naturally baked in. And rhythms that get stuck in your head. And I've been told it's what best suits my voice. Which is a happy coincidence," he says, leaning in slightly. "The Greek and Latin were the side effect of a public..." he hesitates, corrects, "...what Americans would call a private school education. My father loves tradition, and Eton, oh, is it ever about tradition."

"Ya sing, too?" Itzhak's eyebrows go up, and he returns the smile, although his isn't nearly so uninhibited. "A lot of English guys in blues and jazz." He wrinkles his nose at 'tradition'. "Tradition, feh, it's fine for what it is, but man it can hang around your neck like a goddamn albatross."

"A bit better than I play piano, but still no virtuoso," says Dante with a tinge of modesty and an awkwardness that creeps into his smile. "And it can indeed. Nearly dragged my father to the bottom. He tried to hold on to our family home, even though it was drafty, in need of repair and cost a fortune to keep up. Finally, he let go but he still lives only a few miles from it."

"I sing too. Not my main thing, but playing violin, you just kinda pick it up. Hang on, lemme--" Itzhak digs his phone out of the coveralls' kangaroo pocket. "Gimme your number. I'm gonna have to text you anyway about ya car."

"My my, we're practically a duet," says Dante. He digs out his own phone and then recites his number. It's still got a New England area code. "Yes, please let me know what you think the final damage will be. Then I can determine if it's worth hanging on to the absolute...classic car that is the 2014 Toyota Yaris."

Itzhak laughs, finally, and shakes his head. "Hey, I don't judge, if you love a Yaris, well you gotta go with your heart. If you decide to let 'er go, I could help you find another vehicle." He punches in Dante's number and fires him a text. The line about the duet, welp, that makes him red again. Ugh, stupid capillaries. "Let me know."

The redder Itzhak gets the more pleased Dante seems to look. "I appreciate your help." He lets that sit a second, then, "I ought to call a cab then. I guess I'm ordering takeout this evening. I was on my way to pick up groceries."

"Give ya a ride." Itzhak hikes his eyebrows at Dante like, what a deal, huh? "But the groceries, you're on your own."

"Oh, that's very kind. I don't want to trouble you." Dante looks up from where he was looking through his directory to find a cab number. "I'm just at Bayside."

"Aight." Itzhak bumps the Yaris' roof with a fist and pushes off from his lean. "Let's hit the road." He flashes a much less burdened grin at Dante and shoos him on ahead. "Hope ya like Vivaldi, cuz that's what's playing."

Dante looks at Itzhak, eyebrow raised. He then slides his phone back into his jacket pocket. "If you insist." The edge of his lip curls up. "I admit my knowledge of classical music is poor, but the driver picks the music." There's a wry note to that, as he moves where he's gestured.