i used to be a mechanic he says. now i just unplug bits and replace them. i try to prise the plastic casing away to get at the guts of the machine. the wires like arteries
connected to electronic muscles.
george wears engine oil like some men wear after-shave. he’s got dark skin and
good looks. in fact, he looks a lot like elvis. george, the king of rock and oil.
but now his hair his thinning. a bald spot shines like a headlamp. he chain smokes
and i don’t ever see him stopping.
are you precious about your computer? george can barely make out the letters on
his keyboard. he’s blotted them out with oil. whorls of fingerprints groove his mouse.
he wears red overalls and i think there’s a lot of pent up anger zipped up in
there. tragedies have touched his life. bureaucracy has made his work
difficult. everything written down in triplicate. in theory, he can’t even smoke in
his own workshop anymore.
but he’s still got a smile as wide as the sea.