I step into the cool dark room of cars raised towards the ceiling, into the smell of dust and oil. A silent television up on the wall lights the dust in flickering colors and shines on his face. My worn sneakers nearly slip on the smooth cement.

The man does not stand.

I ask him if he will take a look at my car. He peers at me curiously, then walks outside into the sunlight and stands as I pop the hood. He gazes inside it, hands behind his back, not touching anything, as if he were only observing.

I describe the way the gas felt when I touched the pedal, the sputtering motions. He does not volunteer anything, and finally I ask him if he thinks he knows what is wrong with it.

You say you bought gas last night? he says.

Yeah.

Could be bad gas if it’s true the car started sputtering after you bought it like you said.

So you think it could be the gas?

I doubt it. We don’t sell bad gas. Nobody’s complained, and believe me, people would’ve complained if we’d sold them bad gas.

He frowns at the thought of complaining people, and his red tongue comes out and licks at his chapped lip.

I didn’t buy it from here, I say. I bought it down the road.

He shakes his head. Same truck that fills that station fills ours. The only thing might be if their tank was almost empty. When it got filled it might have kicked up sediment. That could’ve clogged your feeder.

So you think that’s it?

No.

I wait for the man to say something more, but he only shades his face and tucks his long bangs beneath his cap, against his blistered ear. He never stops regarding me.

Well, so what do you think it is? I say.

No idea.

The man walks around Tomas’s Oldsmobile, peering curiously at the oversize tires, the lowered shocks, the white paint that covers even the chrome on the bumpers. At home it seems like a normal car to have, but here I feel like throwing a damned blanket over it. He touches nothing, like if he did he might have to try and fix it.

So do you know anyone who can fix it? I say.

He glares up from the passenger window, into which he has been looking.

Sure.

And who is it?

The man smiles to himself, shaking his head as if I had reminded him of something amusing.

You’ll have to ask the owner, he says. He does all the work.

Okay.

He ain’t here, though.

The man does not offer to tell me where the owner is. He just looks at me.

Okay, when will he be in? I say.

Oh, he don’t work on weekends. It’s Saturday.

You’re kidding.

Nope.