FIrewall

Corporate sent out a coupon. That explains
Cars lined up jammed at the chain keeping
Back from the bays at the Firewall Lube Shop
The customers cursing, complaining, irate at
The wait. Double the work but same crew, Ron
The manager not allowed more. Jack—knows
The ropes, never promoted—runs to and fro: “Tom,
Coolant! Arturo, the plugs!”—he’s mad, they all
Know, but Jack never explodes. He just
Sweats. He calls to his head man, who needs
No machines, diagnoses by sound, gets all his
Hours—Jack sees to that—and was nicknamed for
Noodles: “Hey, Ramen!” Under a hood, Ramen
Sighs: “Not my name”—given him by Arturo,
“See? Noodles! Chinese!” Ramen: “I am from
Vietnam”—Jack: “Help Juan? He’ll catch on
Quick. Where’s the Kid?”—his name too, lost to
Time—“Kid, see that old guy with the cane?—do his
Next. Looks like might have a stroke. Your safety
Glasses, lost? Broke?” “Ron says no need, we’re
Rushed.” “Oh, that right? You’re no good to me
Blind.” Art: “Jack, I’ll that that blonde’s Jeep.”
“Nope. You won’t.” Jack caught Art once
Gouging a lady, now gives him just men. Bad
Blood there. When Jack hired the Kid, Art kept
Ribbing him: “Nerd! Says firewall’s some
Computer word, can’t be our name!”—on and
On, every day, till Jack raised, not his voice,
But forefinger—a flag they all knew—took
Art back to the stockroom where no one
Could hear. From that day, hazing stopped.
Primed for payback, Art bided his time. So
One day: “Hey Jack! Those Saigon girls”—
Massage parlor next door—“must be quick!
Just took your lunch break!” Scaling
A ladder, Jack, growling: “I just fixed their
Sign.” Checking under a truck, knees
Stuck out, Ramen: “Those girls,
Chinese.” Jack: “Well, they look hungry.” Art:
“Hungry for me!” “Bet they’re fifteen. Enjoy
Jail. Where’s Ron? Still in the office? Oil
Filters look low.” From the chain,
The crowd groans. A shout: “Been here
Two hours!” Jack: “Ron, let Latisha come
Out and scan jobs, give folks times.”
Ron: “She can’t! You know that’s
Management!” Jack: “She can! I
Showed her how.” Juan: “Who’s
Stuck on skeleton, Superbowl
Sunday?” “The Kid.” “Shit”—
The Kid drops his wrench. Ron:
“Hey guys, we’re slammed. Forget
Lunch—” “Whoa!” Ron: “Tell it to
Oprah.” Tom, six-foot, red beard,
Stalks up: “Jack, I’ve had it!” Jack,
Shocked: Tom never complains. “I’m
By the chain, on that Volkswagen,
The tall lady’s, her with the bun. She
Keeps hassling me, screaming at
Me in some weird barking
Language. I’m done.” Jack frowns,
Tries to look calm. Starts in
Whistling off-key, scans
The floor. Who can calm
A mad foreigner? Then—

 

“Of course! Ramen!
Remember? You’ve translated
For Mr. Nguyen. You go!
Perfect!”
Ramen stares, blinking: “She’s
German!” He watches
While Jack, there since
Five, wipes the sweat from
His nose. Jack: “Just try?”
A pause. Heading
Out, Ramen sighs.