A sequel to one of my shorter stories here on this blog, as prompted by the marvelous @sjw-publishings. I’m not dead I promise, just way way way too busy.
Adam honestly didn’t know how he had ended up at the retro-styled mechanic. Well, he partly knew how. When his Volvo had originally started making weird noises, he had brushed it off as a rock in his system or some chunk of pavement lodged inside his interior. A week later, he found himself struggling to brake on the interstate. But it was only a month after the first incident when he brought the car in. Even Adam had his limits, and those were discovered when his entire dashboard lit up with blinking red lights.
Now Adam sat quietly in the mechanics shop, waiting to get a diagnosis on the 2005 vehicle. It wasn’t too old, but it was due for some maintenance. At least that’s what his boyfriend had said. He’d also quipped that Adam needed a treatment too; his pleasant stature at just under 6 feet not hiding the little extra weight he’d gained around the stomach. His bouncy red hair however made him fit into any Irish bar, a trait his boyfriend found perfect to utilize to get free drinks.
Fiddling with his fingers in his hoodie, Adam investigated the rest of the shop with his eyes. When he’d been searching for a shop online, he had just chosen this one due to its close proximity to his work. He hadn’t expected it to appear so…vintage. In fact, the place looked as if it had come straight out of the 1950’s, no age or weathering even apparent. Old-fashioned advertisements, outdated equipment, and even the prices were insanely cheap as if untouched by decades of inflation. The mechanics themselves were dressed up too, wearing outfits and hairstyles reminiscent of a greasier time. The vast majority of them were smoking freely inside the open building too.
The mechanic who had met with Adam earlier had stated that the inspection wouldn’t last more than an hour and had kindly invited him to take a seat in the shop. The magazines available displayed actors who had died out years ago, and the television set in the corner seemed to be running some old black-and-white gameshow.
“Welcome back to The Slickest Greaser!” the announcer shouted. Although Adam had his phone accessible and fully-charged, he was intrigued by the show. A line of men slowly filled the screen, with the announcer approaching each one separately. Unknowingly, Adam began to paw at himself, creating a noticeable boner in his khakis.
“Alright, Doug, what do you think defines the ‘Slickest Greaser’?”
The man known as Doug stepped forward. He was fairly bulky looking, with a stacked, more muscular build and stoic facial features. He wasn’t particularly attractive–and not Adam’s type– but Adam’s boner raged on.
“Well,” Doug began in a voice as sturdy as his body. “he’s gotta have muscles dat can impress, abit of uh showoff ya know? If he’s gonna make the scene then he can’t be lookin’ like a wet rag.”
Both the announcer and Adam nodded in agreement, with Adam not realizing what he was doing. Jocks and athletes made themselves look menacing with their gigantic muscles, the kind of aura men should naturally emit. Luckily, Adam naturally fit right into this category, maintaining a body that was both strapping and intimidating. With his daily visits to the gym, he had developed an impressive six-pack and bulging arms while also maintaining a decent schedule for work and play. Although he wasn’t really into any sports, his ripped body was very strong.
“Up next we have Johnny.” The announcer made his way to a shorter male who was almost bursting with excitement. He too wasn’t the most attractive male, but he certainly wasn’t unpleasant looking either.
“Johnny,” the announcer smiled, with the smaller man nodding feverishly. “What do you think defines the ‘Slickest Greaser’?”
Johnny’s answer was quick and sharp: “He’s gottuh have dat masculine look of uh cool cat. The body ain’t enough to make him uh 50’s daddio.”
The announcer’s grin grew wider as Adam contemplated the response. It felt right to him. There were way too many different men already in the world, so there had to be some normal, similar-looking males to even out the curve. If a muscular body came off as intimidating, then he needed the face to match with it. This problem however had never occurred to Adam, as he had the stereotypical lantern jaw and protruding brow. For him, the issue of masculine features had never been an issue.
“Rocco,” the announcer began again, moving down the line to a taller, better-dressed male. “What do you think defines the ‘Slickest Greaser’?”
Rocco had the classic pompadour and piercing brown eyes of any male greaser from the period, but his lanky figure and awkward personality made him seem much less appealing. This however was not enough to tame Adam’s hard-on, which had grown slightly from its previous size.
“The ‘Slickest Greaser’,” Rocco started. “has that crazy obsession over dressin’. He’s gotta really get into da groove: leather’s bettuh, uh huh?”
Adam found this answer a little hard to interpret, but true. He didn’t fully understand all the outdated slang, but he knew it to be correct. Adam suddenly recalled his own closet, filled with various outfits of leather and denim. Adam was currently wearing some of his favorite pieces, which included a plain white tee covered by a leather jacket, a pair of dirty jeans, and two hard boots that stomped with every step.
“Yes?” a man in the middle replied. By the look on his face, you could see he was reviewing his answer for the third or fourth time.
“What do you think defines the ‘Slickest Greaser’?” the announcer asked politely.
“I don’t know if anyone’s said it yet,” Wheezer babbled as if he was mentally reading off of a dictionary. “But the ‘Slickest Greaser’ has ta be uh greaser through-and-through: black-and-white.”
“That’s a good point,” the announcer chuckled, as if he had missed something that was right in front of him. Adam didn’t get the announcer’s mood at first, but it began to make sense after a while. In fact, how had he missed it himself? The Slickest Greaser had to be a greaser, otherwise the entire point of the show wouldn’t make sense. Ace fortunately already had this figured out, his fingers diggin’ in the grease and stickin’ it and slickin’ it’ on his black-haired ‘do.
“Last is Tony.” The announcer swiftly moved back to the front of the line, grabbing the attention of a man of average height. His features were about as plain as the rest, but he was cockier and more confident than anyone else had been.
“What do you think defines the Slickest Greaser?”
“Everyone’s goofed the easy answer,” Tony sneered with a hint of an Italian accent. “He’s gotta swoon them babes! Makin’ out with uh Betty who’s stacked. C’mon boys, you all square or somethin’?”
The announcer laughed at the participant’s intensity. Ace chuckled too, for what the contestant said was right. How had they all missed that? Of course the Slickest Greaser had to be a lady’s man. How else was he expected to ooze testosterone and masculinity? Ace couldn’t believe his own stupidity, not noticing the sudden lack of his boner.
“That’s all for tonight!” The announcer shouted as the television screen went black, but no one was really watching anymore. Ace was already making his way back to his 1955 hotrod, noticing the mechanic had left for the paperwork. He proudly crouched in front of his baby, lighting a cigarette as he waited.
“Hey there, stud,” a pretty girl approached Ace moments later, papers in hand. “My daddy’s just about wrapped up with your hot rod here. He said it’ll only take a few minutes more.”
“That’s all uh need, cupcake,” Ace revved, changing the topic to what the two really wanted to discuss. “Name’s Ace, cause I’m the best at what I do.”
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