Episode 2 - Home
Some days suck more than others and today was turning out to be one of those suckier days, positioned well to the right on the bell curve of suckiness. After a difficult installation and Jerry going all gangster on me, after all that, the dashboard of my Honda started squeaking. It wasn't a cute, timid little squeak, no sirree. It was an irritating, chalk on the blackboard noise that was shredding my last nerve.
I turned up the radio hoping to mask the noise. No joy there. Every bump in the road generated a squawk that cut through the thump and wail from my favorite rock station. The noise got louder and more insistent as I drove through the bedroom community of Saline and on into the countryside.
The dashboard produced a new family of noises when I turned onto the graveled drive of the old gas station. The squeaking finally stopped when I pulled up under the canopy and parked. Thank you God!
I turned off the ignition and the rock and roll music gave way to the shrill sound of Spring Peepers. Natalia loves this eerie amphibian mating chorus, but the sound gives me the creeps. It reminds me of something from a horror movie soundtrack.
I leaned over the center console and removed a wrench from the glove box. The metal was cool in my hand but it got warmer as I drew a modest amount of energy from it. I directed the warmth across my chest and into the hand spread on the dashboard.
With my energy-enhanced my senses I examined the internal structure of the dashboard. Two of the mounting brackets had failed. Decades of vibration and environmental extremes had fatigued the metal, allowing the heavy dash to rub against the frame.
I drew more power from the wrench and directed the energy into the brackets, re-shaping them with my thoughts until everything was once again solid and supported. Seeing no other problems, I stopped the power flow and shivered as the warmth dissipated from my arms and chest. The little wrench was a little shinier when I returned it to the glove box. With all the repairs the old Honda needed over the years, it was beginning to resemble a piece of abstract art.
I unfolded myself from the driver's seat and groaned as I grabbed my messenger bag. Hours of squatting during the book machine installation left me stiff and sore. As a physical Catalyst, I don't have quick fixes for my fatigued parts. I am forced to rely on old-school remedies like rest and a tincture of time. I pushed my achy body toward the station and unlocked the door. It was good to be home.
Home. Yes, I live in a gas station, or more properly, a building that used to be a gas station.
The boxy, two-bay structure was a decrepit, rodent-infested hulk when I bought it two years ago. Natalia told me I was crazy to purchase a neglected property in the middle of nowhere, but I loved the place. I invested countless hours into restoring, remodeling, and re-purposing the structure. My Catalyst abilities allowed me to repair and strengthen the sagging structural elements at minimal cost. They also helped me to restore the enameled steel exterior to its original condition.
I closed the front door door with a sigh and locked my troubles outside. Wallet, phone, and keys found their proper places on the glass-topped entry table and I headed toward the kitchen.
The original designers wouldn't recognize the interior spaces. The sales area is now a living/dining room with an open kitchen at the back. The decor was “industrial chic” with a gridded open ceiling, polished concrete floors, area rugs, and shiny black granite counter tops. Cream-colored vertical blinds covered the large windows and Scandinavian cabinetry lined the common wall along the service bay. The living area consisted of a leather couch, recliner and a variety of tables facing a wall-sized flat-screen television. Natalia gives me grief about my man cave, but I don't care.
I retrieved a piece of pie and a beer from the fridge and flopped into the over-sized recliner. The stress-induced fog lightened a bit as I took a sip of the brew and rolled the cold bottle against my forehead.
“I don’t approve of your dietary choices,” a soft Australian contralto complained. “Who’s going to provide for me after you meet an untimely end?”
“Hello Irma,” I said without opening my eyes. “What happened while I was away?”
Her emotion-laden “Hhuh,” told me that the conversation wasn’t over, merely postponed. Irma was my personal assistant, mother hen, and artificial intelligence project. I’ve been adding features and modifying her unique programming for the past ten years.
“Your boss called and left four messages. He wants you to finish installing the book machine this weekend.”
“Yeah, he has a bug up his butt about this job. We’re a week ahead of schedule and he’s still pushing hard.”
“When is he ever satisfied?” Irma asked.
“Point taken. Anything else?”
There are four new room temperature superconductor papers in your review queue. The one from Stanford appears to be breaking new ground.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And two men were nosing around the station this afternoon.”
I froze with the bottle half-way to my lips. My sucky day just got suckier. “What were they doing?”
“One of them was messing with the Power Wagon. The other attempted to force the front door with a pry bar. When that didn’t work, he tried the back door.”
My stomach knotted with dread and uncertainty. Was this an attempted robbery or something much much worse?
I turned up the radio hoping to mask the noise. No joy there. Every bump in the road generated a squawk that cut through the thump and wail from my favorite rock station. The noise got louder and more insistent as I drove through the bedroom community of Saline and on into the countryside.
The dashboard produced a new family of noises when I turned onto the graveled drive of the old gas station. The squeaking finally stopped when I pulled up under the canopy and parked. Thank you God!
I turned off the ignition and the rock and roll music gave way to the shrill sound of Spring Peepers. Natalia loves this eerie amphibian mating chorus, but the sound gives me the creeps. It reminds me of something from a horror movie soundtrack.
I leaned over the center console and removed a wrench from the glove box. The metal was cool in my hand but it got warmer as I drew a modest amount of energy from it. I directed the warmth across my chest and into the hand spread on the dashboard.
With my energy-enhanced my senses I examined the internal structure of the dashboard. Two of the mounting brackets had failed. Decades of vibration and environmental extremes had fatigued the metal, allowing the heavy dash to rub against the frame.
I drew more power from the wrench and directed the energy into the brackets, re-shaping them with my thoughts until everything was once again solid and supported. Seeing no other problems, I stopped the power flow and shivered as the warmth dissipated from my arms and chest. The little wrench was a little shinier when I returned it to the glove box. With all the repairs the old Honda needed over the years, it was beginning to resemble a piece of abstract art.
I unfolded myself from the driver's seat and groaned as I grabbed my messenger bag. Hours of squatting during the book machine installation left me stiff and sore. As a physical Catalyst, I don't have quick fixes for my fatigued parts. I am forced to rely on old-school remedies like rest and a tincture of time. I pushed my achy body toward the station and unlocked the door. It was good to be home.
Home. Yes, I live in a gas station, or more properly, a building that used to be a gas station.
The boxy, two-bay structure was a decrepit, rodent-infested hulk when I bought it two years ago. Natalia told me I was crazy to purchase a neglected property in the middle of nowhere, but I loved the place. I invested countless hours into restoring, remodeling, and re-purposing the structure. My Catalyst abilities allowed me to repair and strengthen the sagging structural elements at minimal cost. They also helped me to restore the enameled steel exterior to its original condition.
I closed the front door door with a sigh and locked my troubles outside. Wallet, phone, and keys found their proper places on the glass-topped entry table and I headed toward the kitchen.
The original designers wouldn't recognize the interior spaces. The sales area is now a living/dining room with an open kitchen at the back. The decor was “industrial chic” with a gridded open ceiling, polished concrete floors, area rugs, and shiny black granite counter tops. Cream-colored vertical blinds covered the large windows and Scandinavian cabinetry lined the common wall along the service bay. The living area consisted of a leather couch, recliner and a variety of tables facing a wall-sized flat-screen television. Natalia gives me grief about my man cave, but I don't care.
I retrieved a piece of pie and a beer from the fridge and flopped into the over-sized recliner. The stress-induced fog lightened a bit as I took a sip of the brew and rolled the cold bottle against my forehead.
“I don’t approve of your dietary choices,” a soft Australian contralto complained. “Who’s going to provide for me after you meet an untimely end?”
“Hello Irma,” I said without opening my eyes. “What happened while I was away?”
Her emotion-laden “Hhuh,” told me that the conversation wasn’t over, merely postponed. Irma was my personal assistant, mother hen, and artificial intelligence project. I’ve been adding features and modifying her unique programming for the past ten years.
“Your boss called and left four messages. He wants you to finish installing the book machine this weekend.”
“Yeah, he has a bug up his butt about this job. We’re a week ahead of schedule and he’s still pushing hard.”
“When is he ever satisfied?” Irma asked.
“Point taken. Anything else?”
There are four new room temperature superconductor papers in your review queue. The one from Stanford appears to be breaking new ground.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And two men were nosing around the station this afternoon.”
I froze with the bottle half-way to my lips. My sucky day just got suckier. “What were they doing?”
“One of them was messing with the Power Wagon. The other attempted to force the front door with a pry bar. When that didn’t work, he tried the back door.”
My stomach knotted with dread and uncertainty. Was this an attempted robbery or something much much worse?
