Something for Nothing
Wayne spotted him when he arrived. Moleskins, Aviators, Cuban heels, leather jacket. One of those, thought Wayne. Gonna want something for nothing, for sure.
There was the usual array of customers on the shop floor, about a dozen blokes in jeans, flannel shirts and workboots, mostly, arms crossed or hands in pockets, feet apart.
A young one, baseball cap backwards, stepped up to the counter. ‘Got a muffler for a Datsun 180B?’
‘Reckon we do. Terry? Muffler for a 180B?’
There was a pause in the sounds of scraping metal from the racks out the back. Soon a bloke in overalls ambled up the front and dumped a blackened metal component on the counter.
‘There you go, mate,’ said Wayne. ‘Sixty bucks.’
Someone wanted a passenger door for a 1971 Corolla; another was after a radiator cap for a Mazda 121. Then Moleskins approached the counter. Hang on, thought Wayne. There wasn’t a queue as such but the customers always seemed to know who was next, according to some mysterious algorithm, some unwritten rule of law. He sensed a mild ripple of consternation from the shop floor.
‘You got a windscreen for a Homer ute, 1968?’
Wayne narrowed his eyes. ‘A Homer, eh? The T641 model?’
‘Yep. That’d be the one.’
Wayne looked up as another two customers arrived through the roll-a-door. ‘We got one down the yard, hasn’t been stripped yet. Weren’t sure if we were going to bother. Not many still on the road.’ He turned halfway around and yelled, ‘Terry! Come out the front for a minute?’
*
Wayne led the way through the yard, past a tower of worn tyres, down a dirt path between stacks of rusted car bodies. He kicked aside scraps of metal as he went.
They passed the dented shell of an orange 1969 Corona. Bloody Terry. Take three days off to take Gracie to the coast, God knows she deserved a break, and see what happens—Terry goes and buys a wreck off Mick Tooley. He should’ve known it’d be stolen, the proceeds headed straight for Melbourne’s seedy drug dens. And five minutes later Terry’s already onsold the engine. Soon as that sucker tries to register his rebuild, Roads and Traffic’ll put it over the pit and clock the engine number.
Wayne cast a glance at the gate, half expecting to see a cop car cruising in already. Receiving stolen goods, just what he fucken needed. He booted a rusty hubcap off the path. Time to get out of this crooked business. Soon, anyway. Gracie’d be happy.
Anyway, deal with this joker, for now. ‘So you like the old Homers?’
‘Just doin’ her up to sell.’
They turned down another narrow alley.
‘That your line of work?’
‘Sort of.’
Chatty guy, thought Wayne. ‘OK, here she is.’
They stood before a white utility, weeds struggling up around its flat tyres. The duco was bleached and blistered, rust bleeding through the door and around the wheel arches.
‘This the one?’ asked Wayne.
‘Yep, she’s the one.’
The Homer had been sitting there a while. Wayne rubbed his chin. What were the chances of anyone else wanting that screen – or any other part, for that matter? He’d probably be sending it off for scrap soon. Then again, this guy’d be lucky to find one at another wreckers this side of the border. And he’d have Buckley’s of sourcing a new one. Even if he could, a new T641 screen’d have to cost at least five hundred dollars …
‘How does one eighty sound?’
Moleskins looked away, crossed his arms. ‘Bit steep, I reckon. Give you forty.’
Wayne snorted. He didn’t mind a bit of good-natured negotiation, but forty dollars was an insult. He squared off. ‘Mate, it’s not worth my time to remove it for forty. If you want it, it’s one eighty.’
The bloke crossed his arms, looked Wayne in the eye. ‘You know no-one else’ll be round asking for spares off this wreck. Take the forty while you can.’
Wayne made a move back towards the shop then turned around, gritted his teeth. ‘One. Hundred. And. Eighty. Bucks.’
Moleskins stood for a moment, holding Wayne’s gaze, chewing his lip. Then he looked back at the Homer, stepped over and ran a cursory hand around the rubber seals on the screen, and grunted. ‘Whatever.’
Wayne sighed. ‘Okay. You want the rubbers or just the screen?’
‘Just the screen.’
Well, good, thought Wayne. Saves me having to scoop the bloody thing out with a wire. He unclipped a Stanley knife from a belt loop on his jeans and hacked through the rubber seals around the screen, heaved it off the utility and tucked it under his arm.
*
Back in the shop, Wayne laid the windscreen on the counter. ‘There you go, mate. One eighty.’
‘Give you forty bucks.’ The bloke was smirking, bouncing on the balls of his feet.
Wayne blinked. ‘Fer fuck’s sake, buddy, we agreed on a hundred and eighty.’
Moleskins pulled two twenty dollar notes from his wallet and flapped them in the air. ‘Forty bucks. Take it or leave it.’
Wayne heard a grim chuckle from somewhere on the shop floor, and a low whistle. He looked down, took a deep breath and let it out slowly, lifted the hinged flap of the counter and edged through to the other side. Moleskins smiled uncertainly, took a couple of steps back.
Wayne picked up the windscreen, weighed it in his hands, looked around. ‘Could you gents give me a bit of space, please?’
The customers glanced at each other and shuffled back.
When it hit the concrete, the windscreen exploded in a cascade of roiling diamantes, a flurry of glittering fragments. Sunlight from the open door glanced off a million newly crafted safety-glass surfaces, casting fleeting rainbows on faces, on boots, on the corrugated shed ceiling. When the last crystal had tinkled into the corner there was a cool silence.
Moleskins backed towards the roll-a-door, stuffing wallet and notes in his pocket. ‘You’re mad…’ he muttered. Wayne stamped his foot and the bloke spun around and marched out, the crunch of gravel receding as he made his way down the driveway.
Wayne slipped back behind the counter, closed the flap and looked around the shop. ‘Next?’
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About the Author
Jennifer Severn lives on the far south coast of New South Wales, Australia, with her husband and their ratbag rescue terrier, where she writes while alternating between practical management of, outright denial of, and gratitude for her physical limitations. You can read her blog at www.jennifersevern.com.au, or follow her on Facebook: www.facebook.com/DryRiverWritings.