Sticks With You

The day ends when the 1998 Dodge Ram begins to purr – finally. Hands blackened by oil carefully lower the hood. Tomorrow, Mr. Edelman will receive a call about his truck and the seven-hundred-dollar repair. There might be some light yelling but if a man wants to see his beloved truck back on the road, a price must be paid.

Harlan steps away from the day’s project, greasy hands reaching for the rag on the hook. Peering through the glass door between the garage and the storefront, he fails to see the spots of red across the rag. Every bit of it is drowning beneath the swaths of black. A moment of the day was erased under the efforts of an honest day’s work.

After the lights have been turned off, the hatch doors locked, Harlan does his rounds. He counts off today’s earnings and makes sure to put the cash and receipts into the bank bag. Before he goes, he checks the desktop behind the high-rise counter where customers usually hang on for dear life. A car owner on a ledge, asking for help, begging for a diagnosis of their car.

Cornflower eyes slip beneath the thin veil of yellow lashes. Rocking back on his feet, Harlan feels his balance tipping.

A man, dark-haired and pale, screaming for help while the dusty ledge of the cliff-face starts to crumble. The steel-toe of a work boot coming down, pressing in hard enough to hear a snap, another scream.

The bell of the door chimes. Harlan’s eyes snap open wider than before, chin lifting. Harlan’s exhale is nearly as loud as the bell. His grin stretches for a mile. “Nick! I was just about to close shop. If you could give me a second –“

Nick turns on his toes, head bobbing, sharp black eyes taking in the establishment. “No, no yeah – yeah Harlan, take your time.” His hands are deep in his pockets, shoulders drooping, easy smile in place. Harlan notes that for all the looseness this man depicts, his eyes are as hard as rocks. “Take all the time you need. I was just coming by to look around. Maybe ask you a few questions.”

Harlan looks back down again to the desktop – ah, there it is. His pager. Clipping it onto his belt, Harlan’s lips shrug up, hand now free to come up through his hair. “Of course, Nick. Ask anything you want.”

“Do you recall meeting a Mister,” Nick’s lips twist right, puckering in thought. He puts on a show of withdrawing a small spiral-bound notebook. The cover and a few pages flip up, his thumb had been placed perfectly between each sheet to get to the main event. “Hott? David Hott? About,” Nick’s right hand comes up to a good foot above his head. “This tall? Black hair, fair complexion, drove a-“

“2008 Ford Taurus,” Harlan finishes for him. He leaves the security of his front desk, meandering to the door, “Yeah.” He realizes he still has his grease rag tucked into the back pocket of his jeans now that his fingers are no longer slick. Harlan nearly reaches for it, but stops at the last moment, hand coming around to the front pocket.

Nick watches him, eyes drifting down to Harlan’s hips, noting the flick of yellowed cloth – but the card Harlan pushes into his face quickly grabs his attention.

“I serviced his car three days ago. Quick oil change and a tune-up – he said he was having issues with the lights, electricity. He was in here for maybe two hours? I had to run between his car and Miss Davis’ – her old clunker had me in a tizzy.”

“Mhm,” Nick plucks the business card that has David Hott, Code Enforcement Officer neatly typed. There’s a small logo printed on the right – government, not local, but for the wonderful state of Arizona. “Yeah, Harlan. That’s the guy. We found his Taurus last night two miles away from Vermillion.”

“Oh wow,” Harlan smiles, arms crossing over one another, body rocking forward on its toes. “Vermillion is gorgeous this time of year. He picked a great time to go out there, maybe to camp.”

Nick’s eyes are more than obsidian pebbles now – they’re blades, slicing through the cotton-candy smile on Harlan Chapman’s open face.

“He’s not camping, Harlan. He’s more than likely face down in a cavern somewhere. The interior of his car had bits of his saliva and blood inside.” Nick steps towards Harlan now, “When did you last see David Hott, Harlan?”

“Three days ago,” Harlan answers, his expression maintaining its cheerful serenity. “Like I said. He popped in for a repair, he was here two hours and after paying me with his card, he left.” Broad shoulders lift, then fall, and finally, his arms come undone, swinging out in easy-going exasperation. “And then after work, I went to the diner, got my steak’n’gravy then I went home.”

“And the day after that?”

“The day after I-“ Harlan’s voice goes still. His eyes become cloudy. His mouth closes, “I came back to work.”

“You came back to work,” Nick murmurs, pen scribbling across his notepad. “You came back from where?”

“From,” Harlan’s left eye twitches. “From home. I came back here from home.”

“What time?”

“…Ten?”

“Right, ten. And what hours does your shop operate again, Harlan?”

“From eight ‘til six. You know that.”

Nick bobs his head, “I do know that. The whole town knows that, Harlan. Which is why I’m here. One of your customers complained that you were not open the day after David Hott disappear. Not until ten a.m. Your customer then went on to say that when you finally showed up you were all dusty and tired. He had scheduled an oil change and all you had done was checked the radiator fluid. He came back three hours later to demand the service he paid for being completed.”

“Right,” Harlan whispers, turning away from Nick now to sway his way towards the counter. His left side droops against the edge, arm pressing down to balance himself. “Georgie – yeah. Old coot, I was gonna fix it y’know. He ain’t have to go all loudmouth around town.”

The switch of dialect – it’s subtle, but Nick’s a sharpened detective. He hones in on it. “Harlan where are you from?”

“Arizona, just like you, Nick. What sorta question is that” Harlan chuckles, hand now pressing against his right eye. He pushes in hard as if trying to pop something back into place. “Now, as for Georgie and what happened that mornin’. It’s simple, Nick. I had a little too much to drink the night before. My nightcap became a night-dam,” Harlan laughs. “Haven’t you ever needed a little help to go to sleep?”

“Sure,” Nick nods, “But I tend to drink and head to work in the same state I was before. Georgie said you came in looking as if you’d traveled the Sahara Desert. Miss Mills can confirm this since her appointment ran behind as well.”

“Okay,” Harlan’s voice sharpens, “So? What do you want from me, Nick? I told you where I was, I told you what happened. Are you tryin’ to pin me down for this? ‘Cause, it ain’t gonna work, Nick. I told you where I was, I told you what I was doin’. So unless you got a warrant you can’t keep pokin’ around in my business.”

The notepad flips shut and Nick smiles, eyes wrinkling at the corners. “You’re right. I’ll forward what I’ve found to Officer Hart and she’ll decide if she wants to pursue a warrant or not. I’m just the detective, doing my part for the town.” Lips quirking up, he clicks his teeth, “You know – your accent. Reminds me of the time I lived on the East Coast, in the south. Had a few friends out there, stayed with them for a summer when I took my time trying to figure out my writing career.” The way he looks at Harlan, is the gaze of a man on a mission. Harlan would know that sort of look anywhere.

It is the same way he looks at a busted-up engine.

Or an old man who knew too much.

“I need to get going, Nick.” He makes sure to control the rounded curves of his words, each flick of his tongue.

“Of course,” Nick turns, “Have a good day, Harlan. See you soon.”

Once Nick disappears back into his 1999 Honda Civic, Harlan centers himself. Nick might have tried to ruffle his feathers, but Harlan knew who he was.

Harlan Chapman, autobody repair shop owner, lover of hot dogs, I Love Lucy, and guitar solos. He was just a man trying to make his living in an Arizona town. An Arizonian, born and bred.

The mantra repeats itself in his head as he goes back to the counter. He had wanted to see his schedule for the next day before the interruption.

8:00 ………..Brake Repair

9:30 …………Oil Change

1:00 ………..Wheel Alignment and -

               BEEP - BEEP

His eyes are still on the computer screen. Harlan freezes where he is, hand folded over the mouse, watching as his cursor hovers over the eleven A.M. time slot.

               BEEP - BEEP

As he straightens up, the nervous energy Nick had injected him with seeps out of his lungs. Harlan reaches for the pager clipped to his belt. He lifts it, the glow of the computer screen illuminating the blocky numbers below.

7 5 3 2

The pager returns to the belt. The computer is shut down. The bells chime, the lock turns. Chapman’s Car Repair is closed for the night.

Harlan’s grease rag is wrapped around his fists. The oil is darkened with ruby red liquid. He sits at his table, tucked away in his silver mobile home, eyes staring endlessly ahead. There is an ache that refuses to leave his bones. The exhaustion is muddled up with pain. He lets the rag unwind from his sticky knuckles.

The clock next to his bed reads 8:30 A.M.

“I’m late,” Harlan murmurs, stumbling to his feet. He thinks about what Nick had reiterated from Georgie -Sahara Desert.

Instead of rushing out of his home as he did four days ago now – he takes his time. Harlan moseys into the bathroom, light flipping on. What he sees is his face – there is a bruise forming around his right eye, the threaded pattern of stitches up along his cheekbone. Harlan’s eyes widen oceans of horrified confusion that drown all sense of normalcy.

“What in the?”

The water flips on, Harlan starts to wash his hands, hissing as the water stings through his flayed knuckles.

               BEEP – BEEP

Both hands pause under the water, palms curled up, cupping the spillage – shoulders up to his ears.

               BEEP – BEEP

His left-hand shakes while he picks up the pager. Turning it around, he reads the numbers exposed in the yellow light of his bathroom.

9 1 0 1

The pager rests on the sink counter.

His left-hand goes to the small wire rack nailed to the wall beside the mirror. Grabbing the orange bottle, Harlan uncaps it, pulls out one violet tablet, and sets it under his tongue.

As the pill dissolves, Harlan’s shaking hand stills. The water gets turned off. Harlan stays right where he is, staring at the reflection of his bruised collarbone without truly understanding what he was looking at. He gulps, the pill is gone.

And with its disappearance is all sense of confusion. Harlan smiles at himself in the mirror and gets ready for his day.

The day ends when Harlan decides he has done more than enough to the Jeep Wrangler he has been asked to tune-up. Nick comes by, right as Harlan is locking the door. The man stays in his Honda, waiting until Harlan has stepped away from the dirt path to speak up.

“What happened to your face, Chapman?”

Harlan beams, “I know I’m not much of a looker, Nick – but that’s a bit mean-spirited wouldn’t you say?”

“I’m serious,” Nick’s lips thin. “What happened?”

“Had a run-in with a door,” Harlan laughs, “I need to lay off the bottle at night, but it helps me sleep.”

“You mentioned that yesterday.”

“Oh. I did?”

Nick sucks at the front of his teeth but does not elaborate further. “Mm. Hey, have you seen Lily King around? No one’s seen her since last night.”

“Lily,” Harlan unlocks the door of his car, squinting. “No. I can’t say that I have.”

“If you hear anyone mentioning her – let me know. Her mom’s worried.”

“Okay.”

“Hey,” Nick leans forward while Harlan gets into his truck. Harlan, to his credit – starts the engine and rolls the window down to speak to the detective. “Still no word on David Hott.”

“Who?”

“David. Hott,” The ‘t’ crashes like a symbol. “The man I asked you about – the one whose car you serviced four days ago.”

“Oh – hmm. Can’t recall a Hott, but hey if I see him I’ll let you know.”

Nick’s car-door opens, “Harlan, we discussed it yesterday. We might have even had a small disagreement which is weird considering how you’re Mr. Pleasant twenty-four-seven.”

The engine rumbles and Harlan shakes his head, still smiling around a black eye and – “Good god Harlan are those stitches?”

“Yeah,” He laughs, “As I said, I have to lay off the drinking. Hey listen, I’m sure I would have remembered someone named Hott going missing. Stories like that – I hate hearing about them, they’re extremely sad. So, they stick with me.” The truck shakes, brake lights flashing while it slowly eases back. “I’ll keep my ears peeled about Lily and David, swear it. I need to go home now, Nick. I’m a little tired.”

As the truck turns and eases out into the road, Nick watches.

Either Harlan suffers from Alzheimer’s or he is a phenomenal actor.

No matter what – Harlan Chapman is a man who wants to forget, even if the unpleasantness sticks with him.