As I arrived at the car shop, I stopped and stood on the sidewalk, looking at the building in awe.
I knew Dad had gotten a job working on vintage cars, but I never expected the place would be so retro-looking.
The faded pastel blue of the metal-paneled building, with its large red letters on the front indicating it as "Vinton's Vintage Repair," looked so cool. The enormous garage, with white painted over metal and wood, made me feel like I had stepped into one of those old movies with street gangs and old diners.
"I should have worn a pink sweater and poodle skirt," I thought as I listened to the old-timey music coming from inside the garage.
I walked inside through the open garage door to see if Dad was in. It should not have been a surprise that the inside of the shop would be similar to the outside. Still, I never thought the owner would make the effort to decorate it so intricately.
Covering the panel walls were old vintage calendars, posters remembering old Americana, racing flags, and uniforms. A few old Hot Rods and motorcycles stood displayed on the side of the large garage, covering a big neon sign that leaned against the wall.
On the other side stood a wide workstation with many shelves and drawers, probably filled with sockets, screwdrivers, hammers, wrenches, and all the tools a group of mechanics would need to fix a car. At the end of the wall, an old cooler in the shape of a soda bottle stood filled with bottles of cooling liquid, water bottles, and other chemicals for repair.
I looked at all of it, amazed, while a group of men calmly worked on two cars, a Beetle and a Corvette.
I then shifted my eyes to them and noticed that none of them was my dad; they were too short. Then I saw one beneath the Beetle, using one of those flat beds with the wheels that mechanics use to pull themselves underneath the vehicles, and realized that was Dad. His long, muscular legs popped out from underneath the car like it ran over a giraffe.
"Señorita?" a young Hispanic man suddenly asked me.
I looked at him, smiling, surprised. He looked like a nice enough man, staring back at me with a questioning gaze. He probably wondered why a strange girl was dragging a bike inside his place of work.
"Oh, I'm sorry," I laughed. "I was just looking for my father, Joe Curry."
"Oh, Joe. Yeah, he's down there," he said, pointing to the Beetle.
I smiled, nodding.
"Yeah, I noticed. Thank you."
"Joe!" The young man shouted, tapping the side of the car. "There's a lady here to see you, man."
Then he nodded at me and returned to his job.
It took Dad a few minutes to get out from under the car, as the thing with wheels couldn't pull his entire body. Still, when his face finally emerged from underneath, covered in sweat and oil, he looked surprised to see me.
"Tammy, baby, what are you doing here?"
"Hey, Dad. I just came to bring you some food."
My father took his time getting up, fixing his suit, and cleaning his face with a crusty old rag.
"Baby, I'm working, don't you see?" He said, wiping his hands. "Anyway, did you tell your mom you were coming here?"
"Yeah, I messaged her so she wouldn't worry. I just wanted to see where you worked. Is that bad?"
"No, no, baby. It's fine. It's just a bit awkward, that's all," he said, smiling and leaving the rag on a big, red metal toolbox with wheels. "So, how's grandma? Did you see her?"
"Yeah, I did. She's fine," I said.
As always, after classes, I went to see Grandma Ariana, who lived near my school. I just decided to visit Dad because I had no homework that day.
"Great," he said with a worked breath.
"This place is cool, Dad!" I said enthusiastically, and I saw my father's eyes shine with pride and happiness.
"I know, right? I kinda love it here." He said, looking around.
He then pointed to the small car, showing me its progress. He and another mechanic had been working on the car for a few days, and they were almost finished. The car looked pretty good for how old it was, although the color still lacked shine, but I assumed it was one of the last details they would work on, so I didn't mind.
"It really didn't need a lot of work. The owner kept it in pretty good shape." Dad said, rubbing his hand on the car's side-view mirror.
"How old is it?" I asked.
"1979. It used to be white, but the client preferred a darker color. So we cleaned it, painted the base, and added dark green. I think he's going to be pretty happy about it. "
"I bet," I said, smiling at my dad. I enjoyed seeing him happy after years of working in miserable jobs.
"So, what did you say about food?" Dad then asked me, looking at the large basket of my bike. I had a piece of bread inside a Ziploc bag, wrapped in napkins.
"Oh!" I exclaimed, turning to take the small package out of the basket. I then offered it to Dad, smiling, proud of my cooking achievement.
"I made you a sandwich. Tuna, mayo, and lettuce," I said.
"Cool!" He smiled happily.
He indeed looked a bit hungry. He was such a big man and worked so hard that I always thought the lunch he made every night wasn't enough for his body. Also, he wasn't that good at cooking, but he didn't want to bother my mother by making her do it.
He took the small sandwich, unzipped his overalls, and placed it inside.
"I might sneak some bites later," he said with a little naughty smirk.
He then asked me if I had checked out the front of the shop, his eyes staring at me with excitement.
"No, I just walked into the garage. Can I go into that building?" I asked, now curious about what the old building held inside.
"Sure, baby! It works at the front of the store, where clients stay most of the time. It also works as a tiny museum with a gift shop," Dad said, looking inside the drawers of the red toolbox.
"A tiny museum?" I asked, excited but a bit confused. "Of what? Cars?"
"Yep. Cam placed many old pictures of his grandfather's car collection and some Hot Rod memorabilia. It's pretty neat! Clients love it."
"Who's Cam? Is that your boss?"
"Yeah, that's the guy who hired me. He's a really nice guy. He's inside the office right now, talking to a client on the phone, but he will be right out," Dad said, then asked, "Do you want me to introduce you to him?"
I felt a little embarrassed, but as I knew it would make my dad very happy, I accepted his offer.
So we waited. In the meantime, Dad checked on the toolbox for a small flashlight. He asked the same young Hispanic mechanic if he had seen it, and the man shook his head, so Dad kept searching.
"Why are you looking for a flashlight?"
"Oh, I sense the car's chassis is a bit loose, so I wanna check," he said. "It's nothing. I just wanna make sure everything is A-okay down there."
I nodded, interested.
I had never been into cars like my father was; he was almost obsessed with them, but it was cool to hear him talk occasionally. And because I was looking to get my driver's license soon, I thought learning about things like that was necessary.
Suddenly, the side door to the small building opened, and a handsome older man with dark hair and eyes walked out. He was wearing overalls like the rest of the men, and like the rest, he was smaller than my father but still taller than me. He had a scruffy beard, tattoos on his arms, and a kind smile with pretty dimples.
"So, how did it go?" Dad asked.
"Fine. We agreed to leave the Corvette one more day to ensure the paint won't chip so easily," the man said.
"Great. So, you can go get the spray tomorrow, right?" My dad asked the man, and he nodded, saying he could.
"Great!" My father exclaimed, then turned and introduced me to the man.
"Cam, this is my daughter, Tamara," he said, then turned to me and introduced the man to me. "Tammy, this is my boss, Mister Cameron Vinton."
The man smiled and stretched his hand, offering me a shake.
"Glad to meet you! So, what are you doing around these parts, sweetie?" The handsome older man asked.
"Sorry if I interrupt. I just came to visit my dad. I wanted to see where he worked," I said shyly.
"It's no problem, honey," he said. "Well, what do you think of the place? Is it cool?"
"Even better. I never expected to see a car shop this ... fun looking?" I said, trying to describe it the best way I could.
"Fun looking? Like it's a fun place to work in?" The man asked, then smirked, "I guess you could say that. I just wanted everything I like about vintage cars in one place, and my house is too small to fill it with all this junk."
"It's not junk. It's really cool," I said, being very honest. I thought the place was pretty cool and felt like kicking myself for not visiting sooner.
"Thanks!" Mr. Vinton said, proudly looking around. He then added, "Have you seen the museum we have in the front?"
"I was talking to her about it to see if she could check it out," Dad told Mr. Vinton.
"Sure she can!" Mr. Vinton exclaimed, seemingly surprised that I hadn't done it yet. He looked back for a few seconds and then back at me.
"You know what? Zack can show you around."
I wondered who Zack was as the man began yelling the name towards the building. A few minutes later, the door to the building opened again, and a quirky-looking boy appeared. He was as tall but not as tanned as Mr. Vinton and looked very similar. His dark hair lay in long, wild curls, covering his strong eyebrows. He also had a bit of a mustache on top of his upper lip.
"What?" The boy asked Mr. Vinton as he looked out the door.
He stayed there for a while, but after noticing us, he slowly exited the building. I smiled and fixed my hair, ensuring no hair was coming out of my low pigtails.
Mr. Vinton then introduced the boy to me. He was his son, and his name was Zackary, but he was used to being called Zack by his father and peers.
"Zack, this is Tamara, Joe's daughter," Mr. Vinton said, "she came to visit her dad and wondered if she could see the museum."
I waved at him and told him to just call me Tammy, as everybody called me that.
"Sure, Dad," The boy shrugged, pretending to be chill, but I could see a tiny smile on his lips, which made me giggle inside.
So, as Zack escorted me inside the tiny building next to the garage, I left my father and Mr. Vinton to talk.
As I walked past the pale blue wooden door on the side of the building, I was left with my mouth open.
The smell was the first thing that hit me. It was the same smell you sometimes got from the pages of an old book. Wood and cocoa. The light from the large glass window that stood next to the front door shone over picture frames, making it difficult to see, but as I walked, I noticed they were a collection of black and white pictures of young men around cars.
Zack and I walked between two wooden counters, one with several drawers and several folders on top, the other with glass panels and two metal barstools on the other side. Next to the counters stood an old wall phone, like the ones you saw in the kitchen of old sitcoms. I looked down and noticed the wooden floor of the building, and realized this place was truly ancient.
"How old is this place?" I asked the boy.
He closed his eyes for a bit, trying to remember.
"I think it's from the forties. I don't know the exact date, but Dad bought it back when I was little. I think it's one of the oldest buildings around. I mean, there's a lot of other old buildings around Vernon, but not a lot of them remain untouched."
"This is so cool. I love old buildings like this."
"Me too! I think it gives the landscape a little flavor," he said, smiling.
He then moved his arm and made a gesture with his head, leading me to the side of the room where the museum was.
It all started with a small table on one side of the door. On top of it, a small sign indicated visitors to sign the guestbook. Next to it was an old counter with a glass display. Inside the display stood several small hot rod models. They stood similarly as the row of hot rods in the garage, but the cars were more colorful and exaggerated, almost cartoonish in their design. The pictures on top showed the world of fifties drag racing and included photos of races, cars, and young people enjoying their time in between.
"Where did your father get all these pictures?" I asked Zack.
"My Grandpa. He was part of that lifestyle growing up in Buffalo," he said, pointing to the man who supposedly was his grandfather. It was a young man with a slick greaser look, smiling as he held a curvy blond in his arms.
"He's the one who made those car models."
"Awesome!" I said, pretty impressed.
We moved to a clothing rack holding several old jackets, all with the names of what Zack called hot rod groups and drag strips. They all looked so cool hanging there, next to several posters of old racing movies.
"Have you ever worn one of these jackets?" I asked Zack, and he nodded, taking a blue one. It had the symbol of a white car on a blue background and initials spelling "N.H.R.A."
"What do those letters mean?" I asked.
"National Hot Rod Association. It's a jacket of one of their members. Dad bought it from an old guy a few years ago," He said, then added, "I used it for Halloween last year. Dressed like a greaser, looked pretty cool."
"Was your dad okay with that?" I asked, curious.
"Sure, he told me to be careful, and I did. When things got wild, I placed it inside my locker room."
"That's nice. You, listening to your dad," I said.
Many girls in my school were very disobedient, and even when it could be fun, sometimes it felt like it wasn't even necessary. It was all for attention or to seem rebellious.
"Who else am I going to listen to?" Zack laughed.
He then walked back and moved to the side of the room where a jukebox stood next to the statue of a crow, which Zack told me was the symbol of an old whisky brand that his dad had bought from a bar. The machine next to the crow looked just like the one at the Johnny Rockets restaurant my parents and I visit once in a while up in Hollywood.
I walked to his side and looked inside the jukebox. Then I noticed that it was not real. It just looked like one from the outside. There were lights and names of songs, but it was all fake.
"Wait, is this where the music comes from?" Confused, I asked, "I thought it was an old jukebox."
"Pretty cool, uh?" Zack smiled, slapping the machine. "My dad asked a guy to make it for him. It's a modern player but looks like an old diner jukebox."
I gasped in amused surprise. I touched the plexiglass of the machine and stared at the little lights flashing inside. Then, another question came to mind.
How could I hear the same music in the garage so clearly if the jukebox was inside?
"How does the music reach the outside?" I then asked Zack.
"Well, speakers. They are connected to it," the boy said, pointing to a little square up in the ceiling, "Dad placed them inside and out. It sets a mood."
Finally, I thanked Zack for the tour of his Dad's place, and he then led me back to the counter, standing behind it. I sat on one of the metal barstools and looked inside the counter. Posters, stickers, and pins said "Vinton's Vintage Repair" and "Hot Rod Museum.
Zack leaned against the glass counter and smiled at me, creating two cute dimples on his cheeks. That made me blush a little, so I began talking to distract myself from his smile.
"So, how does this business work?" I asked, "Do clients just bring their cars or...?"
"Well, usually what happens is that the clients first come by a reference. Dad then tells them to bring all their papers to see if they are in order, if the cars are not stolen, and to see the details, like the year and model."
"Is that important?"
"Well, yeah. It's good to know which parts to get and how long it would take to get them. Sometimes, models are from a certain year or a certain series, and those models might be discontinued. Those pieces might not exist or might take longer to get."
"Wow," I said. "Is it difficult to repair vintage cars?"
"I guess?" Zack said, unsure. "My dad makes it look easy, but he has experience and contacts, so I guess it might be hard for a first-time worker. It's a matter of love for the craft."
"Yeah, my dad is kinda like that. He's been obsessed with old cars since he was a kid. Like our own two cars are pretty old. The newest one is about twenty years old."
He nodded.
"My dad's car is brand new, which is weird. I would think he would have an old one, like your old man," Zack said, and I chuckled.
After that, we both stood there in silence. I began looking around, thinking about what to say next, but in Zack's case, it seemed he didn't really mind just being there with me. He just looked at me and smiled kindly.
"So, what is the oldest car you have gotten?" I asked.
Zack smirked in a curious way, like he had a cute story to tell.
"An old 1961 Plymouth Fury," He said, raising his eyebrows. "It was blue, though; if not, I would have named it Christine."
"Why is that?" I asked, smiling curiously. But to my chagrin, my smile confused Zack, who frowned.
"You know? Christine? The car? From the book?" He asked, and every time he added more information in the form of a question, the more his expression turned from confused to slightly horrified.
I shook my head a bit, ashamed, telling him I didn't know what he was referring to, and he chuckled a bit, saddened by my ignorance. He then explained the book to me and what the name meant. It was an old horror story about a car that seemed to be alive and killed people. I thought it sounded like a fun book, but he said the book was a bit long, and besides, the movie was better.
"Maybe...we could watch it one day?" He asked me, sounding slightly shy.
I smiled, thinking he might be shy about asking me because he feared I could see it as a date invitation. So I stretched my hand and placed it on his arm, nodding in agreement.
"I would love to," I said in a friendly manner. "I mean, I'm not savvy regarding car films or horror."
"What kind of movies do you like?" He then asked me, honestly interested.
"I like old David Lynch films," I said, a bit embarrassed. Most people thought it was kind of a hipster taste, but I liked them because they were pretty, dark, violent, and also soothing sometimes.
"You like those weird movies, uh?" He chuckled.
I gave him a shy smile back.
"Yep."
"By the way, where do you go to school? I know you guys live in Huntington Park, but I've never seen you at school," he said, beginning to scratch his neck.
"That's where you go? Huntington Park High School?" I asked him, and he nodded.
"I go to Saint Claire, up in Lincoln Heights," I told him. "My mom was raised there, and she has connections. It's a really good school, and I get to be there on scholarship."
"Cool! What type of school is it? Private?" He asked.
"It's an all-girls catholic school, don't you see?" I pulled back a bit, displaying my uniform in all its glory. The white shirt, red plaid skirt, and the red sweater with the embroidered initials of the school on one side, all of it.
"Oh, I just thought you liked to dress preppy," he said.
"No, silly! It's my uniform." I laughed. "Besides, I wouldn't wear something that matched my hair like this."
"I like how it looks," Zach said, which made me blush. "All red, like the embers of a fire."
"Weird, but thanks!"
We then stood there in silence, again, looking at each other as the sounds of the garage and the jukebox played in the background. I looked down briefly and realized my hand was still on his arm. I didn't want to seem rude and remove it, but it could also be seen as creepy if it stayed there.
So, I spent a good while struggling to decide what to do with it. Meanwhile, Zack seemed to be looking out the window into the street.
Suddenly, the old phone on the wall rang out of the blue, snapping us back into reality. So Zack opened the side door and yelled for his father to come.
"Dad, phone!"
Mr. Vinton walked inside and picked up the phone.
"Vinton's Vintage Repair, how can I help you?" He said in a soft but masculine voice.
We both looked curious at Zack's dad as he listened to the person on the other side of the phone. By the muffled sounds coming out of the receiver, it seemed to be a man talking.
"How old?" Mr. Vinton asked.
Zack's father then nodded as the man talked. Zack suddenly reached into his dad's overall pocket and took a small pack of gum. He took two pieces and offered me one. I accepted and grabbed some gum, placing it inside my mouth. It tasted spicy, cinnamon and sugar spreading on my tongue.
We then continued listening to the conversation while we chewed.
"Rough shape, uh?" Mr. Vinton asked. He listened for a bit, then added, "Sure, sure, no problem, but it might take a while."
The man kept talking, to which Zack's dad kept asking questions like what year the car was and what model it was.
Finally, he asked if the man would bring the car around the shop or if the vehicle needed a truck to be carried over. The man answered, and he nodded, smiling. It seemed the more the man talked, the more Mr. Vinton heard dollar signs just rolling out of the man's mouth. Finally, before the call ended, we learned that the car would have to be picked up at the man's house on Saturday.
I wondered if I could ask Mom if she would allow me to come to see the car's arrival before we had lunch, as that would be pretty neat.
"Dad?" Zack asked his father as he hung up the phone. "Is it good?"
"Oh yeah," Mr. Vinton said, seemingly ecstatic about the call. "Big shot guy."
"Cool!" Zack grinned, then asked his father what type of car it was.
"A Ford," Mr. Vinton told him. "Pretty old."
"Older than the Chrysler?" He asked, smiling.
It looked like both were getting pretty pumped up about the arrival. Mr. Vinton nodded and told him it was indeed older, but just a few years. It was an old fifties car, and it could mean big money for the shop.
After that, Mr. Vinton walked out of the room and towards my father, patting him on the back while telling him about the call he had received. It sounded like Dad was pretty excited as they walked away, but besides that, I couldn't hear much more of their conversation.
So when Dad finally finished his shift around an hour later, I decided to ask him about it as we hopped up in our old pickup truck, which Dad had candidly named his "workhorse."
With my bike in the back of the truck and the wind entering through the open window on the side of the driver's seat, I went for it.
"What was the call about?"
"What, baby?" He asked, sneaking a peek at me while he drove.
"The call that Mr. Vinton got? The one that made everybody so happy?" I asked.
"Oh, that!" Dad said, chuckling. "Some big TV producer wants us to fix an old car he bought from his hometown. It seems very special to him, and it's in pretty bad shape, so we might get a lot of money coming soon."
"How much money?" I asked, genuinely curious.
"Probably about a hundred thousand," he said.
"A hundred thousand dollars for a car repair?" I exclaimed in shock. My shock made my father's smile wider.
"Yeah, it's pretty exciting," he said, "Cam and I might be working on it."
"Just the two of you?"
"Maybe Pedro, too; he's a good kid," Dad said, shrugging his shoulders. "The thing is, whoever works on it gets a cut."
"So the fewer people working on the car, the bigger the cut," I said, and he nodded.
"Exactly," he said. "I'm really hyped to tell your mom."
The money angle made me more excited about the car's arrival, and I hoped Mom would let me see it.
Turning my head slowly to my window, I looked out at Huntington Park's streets as we got closer to our house. It was close to the shop, so the trip was short.
In retrospect, I should have hoped for nothing regarding the deal, as nothing good would end up coming out of it.