"In Which Reality Involves a Scheming Fairy Godfather"

(Pt. 1)

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"It's hard to wait around for something you know might never happen'; but it's even harder to give up when you think it's everything you want."

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Unknown

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8:15 PM

The Garage, Downtown Square

https://youtu.be/FqTd1C5wQqA

I'm an impatient person. Always had been.

It's a common and chronic symptom of my impulsivity. That, and the relentless urge to move around until my brain exhausts itself, and my body rids itself of the extra energy.

One way I deal with it is through pacing back and forth, and around the workstation without having anything else in mind, and letting the repetitive action lull my mind into a meditative state.

Despite its calming effects, it only annoys the people around me. Not that it's my fault. I mean, I didn't tell them to look at me. But they still do anyway.

"Ave!"

I stare at the ceiling one last time, the bright fluorescent lights illuminating the area around my desk. 

KLUNK-KLUNK-KLUNK, CLINK-CLINK! KLUNK-KLUNK-KLUNK, CLINK-CLINK!The steady sounds of metal tools and machines surround me in a rhythmic tune, while the acrid smell of rubber and aerosol paints stream through my nostrils.

I spin around. My hair, which I had pulled into a high ponytail, flips along as I face him.

I blink at him. "Yeah, Pops?"

Pops (or as his birth papers call him, Heinrich Wagner) is a giant of a man towering over at 6 ½ ft. with burly arms, sturdy thighs, and the body of a tank which he managed to maintain from his former days in the Marines.

Most people in town tend to steer clear of him, not just because of his tough battle-scarred persona, but also because of the rumors that he is somehow a president of an MC gang out to wreak havoc and turn our little town into his personal crime den.

Frankly, it sounds friggin' awesome.

Who doesn't like Sons of Anarchy? It has the three best things worth watching: (1)Charlie (2)Hunman's (3)Abs.

Anyways, for all the single ladies out there who crave a little danger or suspense to fog-up their bathroom mirrors, take a trip to the wild side, 'coz this grumpy local John Hamm* (wink-wink!) is exactly what you need!

I'm not exaggerating.

With his mousy brown locks tied into a bun, eyes always fixed in an intense and penetrating stare, scruffy beard that had been neglected, and tattoos running down his arms for days, you couldn't ask for anyone better to relive your Game of Thrones fantasies!*

(The auction starts at $5.99 — what a steal! Disclaimer: this is an act to match-make and not to pimp. Also, if you think you can get him to wear a suit, well you're better off dreaming!)

Jokes aside, Pops owns The Garage, an auto repair shop that also functions in auto-detailing, paint jobs, auto-restoration, and retailing spare auto parts. 

What started as a passion project to support ex-convicts and youths at risk, became a commercial success — not only in this town but also — in the state. Hell, we even got the plaques and news clippings to prove it!

Of course, starting out wasn't easy for Pops. Situated near the epicenter of Averill, The Garage was bound to be a subject of rumors.  

Even with having car collectors and lotharios from other towns bring their fancy cars to have the whole The Garage experience, not everyone in town approved of our fine establishment — particularly Pops's choice of employees.

What can I say? Each of us had a not-so-pretty reputation.

Still, Pops manages to build a home out of the remains of an old abandoned fire station. The exterior and interior of the building were renovated into an '80s style industrial warehouse to maximize space, safety, and optimization for all working areas.

This brings me to one of the most fun things out of this situation: Fireman Poles!

Oh, and then there's Dax and Declan, Pop's trusty apprentices, and the shop's comedic duo. They get to do the tinkering and experimenting with newer cars. They also mess up — a lot — which is always fun to watch.

Meanwhile, I'm stuck with printing from ORs* to vinyl. I don't even get to apply the vinyl on the cars — or get too close to the cars.

I'm not complaining, though. Do I look like someone who wants a car to crush the life out of me?

Anyways, if there was anyone I could talk to, it was Pops.

"What are you doing here?" he asks again, his South Bronx accent still as prominent as ever in his deep gruff voice.

He wipes the grease off his meaty hands with a rag.

I tilt my head, hands clasped behind my back. "Uh, working?"

Well, I said talk to  — not confide with my deepest thoughts!

His grey-green eyes remain neutral, even as he catches the delay in my response."Your shift's already over fifteen minutes ago. You've been walking back and forth for the last ten minutes." 

"Right, I knew that" — I titter. Not really — "I...was just searching for a, a better reception. You seriously need to update your WiFi plans, by the way, Pops."

"Uh-huh" — he scratches his beard, sounding unconvinced — "and you didn't think that maybe it's because you're not holding your phone?"

Without missing a beat, I automatically pull out my phone from my back pocket and pretend to raise it over my head. "See? Still the same."

"A hundred Mbps is already a good deal" — he points out — "any higher, and I doubt anybody" — he says in a loud voice, swiveling his head — "would have any work around here!"

"Cheapskate!" Dax booms from the workstation next to mine.

I chuckle. Loud guffaws soon follow from the rest of the remaining crew.

With the new pair of contact lens that Pops stocks for me in the office, I spy Dax's stocky frame lying supine on a car creeper under a classic '50s Chevrolet Impala.

"I heard that!" Pops fires back, cupping his mouth.

I lightly punch his rock-hard stomach. "Lighten up, Mr. Krabs.* We're just messing with you."

"No, we're not!" Dax contradicts, his voice muffled by the heavy body of metal on top of him.

This time, Declan joins him laughing from under another car.

"That's an overstay for you two!" he points at the two of them, his stern and thunderous military voice meant to intimidate.

Dax and Trevor pause for a moment before filling the shop again with their loud horse laughter.

I snicker. Three years later, and he still thinks it's gonna work with those two doofuses.

"Kids these days!" — he rants on before turning his attention back to me — "For a minute there, I thought the spray fumes got to you. That or you've been puffing ether behind my back."

"Ether?" — I snort skeptically — "Come on, Pops. This ain't the '70s."

I go towards my desk and prop myself against it.

"Don't I know that?" he grunts, propping his hip on the edge of my cluttered desk.

"So, you gonna tell me, or should I make a little phone call to Glassman and find out what's really happening?"

I purse my lips, shifting my weight on either foot, hands tucked in my pockets. "Nothing new, just the normal stuff. He already gave me my clean bill of health for the month, so you can stop with the helicopter-parenting now."

He gives my body a quick once-over anyway, checking for signs that something — anything — was wrong.

"Is that so? Exactly, how many hours have you slept for this past week?" he asks, still not convinced, reaching for the bags under my eyes.

I casually duck under his arms and slid away from my desk. "Aside from the normal bout of insomnia, he's been encouraging me to keep on my usual routines. He seems satisfied that I've been trying out with a lot of things." At least, anything that would remind me or trigger my once love-hate relationship with certain prescription pills.

Pops crosses his arms to his chest and nods. "As you should. You've been a great help here, so far. Though, that still doesn't explain why you're still here after your shift."

I twitch my mouth to the side. "I just can't help think about what Travers sai"—

"Travers, huh?" he rumbles, grimacing at the mention of my teacher's name.

Oh-kay, mentioning his name first is a big no-no.

I throw him a censoring look, arching my brow. "Really, Pops. You want me to tell you or are you too hung up on your widdle man-cwush to listen?"

That was a joke. A not-so-funny joke.

Whatever Pops feels for my teacher is the exact opposite of a 'crush', and he wears it plain as day.

Pops still doesn't trust Travers (it's a long story — mainly fueled by baseless rumors), and those occasional meetings between them didn't really endear Travers to Pops as I hoped they would.

He grunts, not liking to be chastised about Travers. "What's he done now?"

I tilt my head to the side, my eyes downcast to the beautiful chaos of my desk. "He submitted my work to Pulse, and now one of their editors is planning to meet with me."

Pops's face cracks into a full-blown grin. "That's great!" he exclaims, throwing his arms around me and swinging me around in a bear hug. 

Usually, in any other moments, I would return it with an even tighter hug. Then, he would hug me back even tighter until either one of us surrenders.

It was one of Pop's ways of showing he is proud of me, expecting me to lap it up like a love-starved orphan. I saw it as a battle of brawn and wills.

However, this was not one of those moments. I silently endure, my arms hanging limply to my side, as Pops swing us around to his heart's content.

Pops easily catches on to this and gently lets me go. "Why aren't you happy?"

I give him a tight-lipped smile. "I am happy."

He blankly stares at me, his face serious. "Kid" —  he pokes my cheek — "you can go on lying to me" — poke — "but I know you're not happy" — poke — "you're practically giving me the 'BooBoo Lip' again." 

I glare at him, slapping his hand away.

"A-hah! There it is again!" Pops points at my face. "Come on, kid" — he nudges my shoulders with his — "it's a great thing, right? I mean, not only are you getting paid to write a book, but you get to impress those people from NYU and you get to do it without your family's help."

I scrunch my nose, lips pressed in a thin line. Suddenly, the smell of aerosols felt too overwhelming, prickling the corners of my eyes.

I bite the inside of my cheek. "I'm supposed to expect a call from them around six or eight in the evening. But" — my mouth shrugs — "so far, there's none. It's already past eight. I guess they changed their mind." 

I shrug and pick up a couple of pens and place them in a drawer.

Pops gently cups my jaw and angles it just enough so I could meet his eyes. "Listen here, young lady.  You have a gift right there" — he taps my temple —   "anyone who says otherwise will have to deal with me" —  he points his thumb to his chest" — "who knows, maybe the editor was caught in traffic or a meeting or forgot to charge their phone."

I sigh. "Let's just be realistic and admit that I'm not good enough."

I break my jaw free from his hold and start to pace.

"Okay" — he nods, arms raised in surrender — "that we'll discuss for another time. But right now, I need to slap some sense into you" — he points his forefingers at me — "you need to relax, kiddo. You might not see it, but I do. You have this endless potential inside of you that you're so scared of when you shouldn't be."

My lips twitch. "Cheesy, caring, and so supportive. How come no woman ever snatched you up in the last fifty years?"

His jaw drops open. "Fifty? How old do you think I am?" 

He scrunches up his brows, self-consciously rubbing the few fine lines on his forehead. He really needs to put some moisturizer there.

I tap my chin, pretending to think as I count off. "45... 50...55"— I watch his expression drop into a frown, getting deeper and deeper the higher I go — "...60?" 

He makes a choking sound, aghast. "I'm 42!"

"Are you sure?" I ask in a squeaky voice, biting my balled fist to contain the laughter bubbling in my stomach.

"Doesn't seem that way, what with the receding hairline and the slight paunch." 

I was totally kidding. Pops in his 40s, with his full thatch of hair and rock-hard abs, is a knock-out to any woman out there.

He gives me a nasty look and juts his lower lip forward in an off-putting version of the 'Booboo Lip'.

Ugh, watching a grown man do that is just wrong!

"Okay" — I raise my hands — "I'll stop laughing, just don't do that!"

He looks at me sullenly.

I lean forward and grin at him. "You still haven't told me why you're not dating."

He crosses his arms, his forefinger touching his philtrum. "To answer your question, it's because I have yet to find a woman who isn't crazy." 

I tilt my head. "You think all women are crazy. You practically say it all the time!"

"Because they all are," he says as if that basic fact explains everything.

"Careful" —   I poke at his stomach — "that's my kind right there."

"Nope, you are a crazy kiddo who just happens to be a girl. Thank God,"  —  he glances up to the ceiling in relief  —  "for small mercies."

I knit my brows. "That doesn't even make any sense." 

Does he not see these two orbs attached to my chest?

Hell, I have to face them every day I look in my bathroom mirror and carry them around while some douche would catcall me on them just because  — like any girl  — I have a pair of boobs.

Yet, he still acts like I'm a little girl.

"Yes, it does. Big difference," he emphasizes with his hands and diverts the conversation. "Why don't you call up your friends and go with them?"

"They're going to this new club in town. They're probably there right about..." — I glance at the clock hanging by the wall — "now." 

(To Be Cont.)

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Ever had that feeling you're facing a great opportunity, but you're afraid of getting disappointed that you convince yourself you're not good enough and it will only lead to nothing so you decide to just back out?

For anyone who doesn't know Jon Hamm, I suggest you google him. He is an absolute DILF, IMO.

B-u-u-t, if you think you know any DILF celebrity hotter than him, I'm all ears.

Write your suggestions down below in the comments section.

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PLAYLIST

Vividly — Tagore Chayne

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*[F/N]*

Jon Hamm — an American actor known for his role as Don Draper on the hit series Mad Men. Jon Hamm is also a term of reference for a man with a large penis.

Game of Thrones fantasies — a slight reference to Jason Momoa's Khal Drogo character.

ORs — (plural for OR) acronym for an official receipt.

Mr. Krabs — (Eugene H. Krabs) a fictional character in the American animated television series SpongeBob SquarePants. He is known for being the money-loving miser and owner of the Krusty Krabs.

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Copyright © 2017 Lei André