1963-08-25 - A Bellhop and a Mechanic
Summary: A Bellhop comes to pick up from a mechanic…
Related: None
Theme Song: None
lawrence carnelian 


It's afternoon, and the sun is not at all friendly: and in the middle of the concrete jungle of the city and the pavement, heat seems to just amplify and radiate. In Serrato Automotive, that's answered by fans. There's multiple big fans that keep the air flowing, but air flowing doesn't really equal cool. Still, it's better than stagnant, hot air. The garage is large and deep, going three car lengths back with three lanes where work can be done. Cycling cars in and out of the garage from the lot nextdoor is something of a logistical puzzle, but one that they manage without real difficulty.

Chance, who is known as the super hero Carnelian by absolutely no one in this city yet, is working on a Chrysler Royal '38, a white beauty that has its engine up and is raised on the hydraulic lift for easy access in the recessed area below. He's in a pair of dark blue overalls over a dark gray fitting t-shirt. There's some grease stains on everything, from his forehead to his toes, likely, even though his toes are hidden in a pair of steel-toed boots.

*

The thick synthetic fabric of his work uniform traps the summer heat close to Lawrence's body. A thick bead of sweat materializes at his temple and runs down where the strap of his Bellhop cap wraps beneath his jaw. His face has a nice sheen of perspiration, yet the high collar of his red and gold jacket remained fastened all the way up to his adam's apple.

His answer to the heat was removing the pair of white gloves he is required to don. It doesn't do a whole lot. With a dry cleaning bags in-hand and raised up to shoulder height, Lawrence wanders the perimeter of the garage until finally happening upon Chance. "Excuse me. …sir?" He asks in a smooth, calm voice.

*

"Mmmn?" Leaning over the Royal, Chance is distracted a minute, but the words eventually make their way into his skull and he's looking up. He immediately does a double-take upon seeing the man's uniform, and especially that cap gets a long look, but then he blinks and shakes his head free of the surprise. Rising up, he grabs the white somewhat greasy towel from over his shoulder and lifts it down to wipe off his hands carefully as he pads over with a confident air towards the fellow, "Hey man. I'm Chance." He offers his recently mostly-cleaned hand out to shake, "Anything I can do for you? Drop off, pick up, consultation?"

*

"I'm real sorry about disturbing you, sir," Lawrence offers, raising his eyebrows with an attempted air of innocent expectation. He shuffles his possession, shoving the gloves he'd been holding loosely between his fingers into the pockets of his tailored black slacks. "Hello," Lawrence takes the hand with a few gracious nods, giving it a firm and grateful shake. He licks the salty sweat from his fat lips, attempting to give the grease-covered Chance a once over without being too obvious. "I'm-" For a moment, he actually considers responding with his own name, as if this man would want it. The corners of his eyes pinch pleasantly tighter in a smile. "I'm here for a pickup. Uh, Mr. Shepherd's vehicle." Retracting his hand, Lawrence fishes around on his person for the pickup slip he'd been handed. "It's ehem, …blue?" Uncrinkling the Chevrolet bel air's paperwork, he holds it flat as if attempting to make heads or tails of the handwriting before turning it in Chance's direction.

*

For his part, Chance has an easy smile, nodding his head and returning the shake with a firm grip that isn't imposing. He's confident enough in his place to almost have a cocky air, but he's warm with his smiles and welcome. "Oh, don't worry about it. That car's not a rush at all, we're doing some restoration work as it was bought after a crash. Please, though." He laughs softly, shaking his head, "Don't 'sir' me. That's Uncle Miguel, the boss. I'm just Chance." He flips his grease towel over a shoulder, and steps in closer to look down at the paperwork.

"I'll go get our records, if you'll excuse me a moment, Mr— I missed your name?" There's a quick grin there, a show of dimples above his somewhat crooked jaw, "I have to have something to call you besides the guy in the… no offense at all intended, kinda odd hat. What's with the hat?" He seems genuinely curious.

*

Lawrence's attention wanders over to the Chrysler before drifting back. He's a calm, thoughtful person. "Lawrence. Coleman," the bellhop offers a hesitant smile, bringing up his hand to rub at the back of his neck in a bashful gesture. It's thwarted by the many other things in his hands, making him feel a little silly. "I work at the Waldorf, si-" He pants, subduing a laugh at almost calling Chance 'sir,' again. Brushing the pad of his thumb against his nose, Lawrence glances away in an attempt to save face. It's also an attempt to conceal the sudden toothy smile of amusement that overtakes him. "It's my uniform, y'dig?" He didn't pick it!

*

"What's the Waldorf?" Chance asks, his complete and utter ignorance of society and those well to do folks and their affairs evident. But he nods, and heads over to the small room at the side. He's gone there only a moment before he comes back with a clipboard, flipping through it and then nodding with purpose, "Ah! Right. A '58 Chevrolet Bel Air, blue, convertible. She's a good girl: Bel Air started meaning something with her generation, meaning premium and not just a style, and the safety frame is solid. You know what I like best? She shines from within, she doesn't need all the chrome you find elsewhere. I am not a fan of chrome. To shiny by half: I want to hear an engine sing, I don't give one twist if an old girl is dressed up pretty like."

Grinning, though he seems friendly about it, "Uniform? You need an odd hat to pick up cars for what I am absolutely certain is a well off white guy? Well, Mr. Lawrence Coleman, I hope they tip you." As he steps in near to the other man, he lifts the clipboard and indicates the record of work, "See here, the problem was in the transmission, the gearbox, which… well, I don't know if you or your Mister Shepherd care, except this is the final cost we'll be billing." He points at the bottom line.

*

In the time it takes Chance to disappear and return with the clipboard, Lawrence has removed his hat. He cups it in his free hand, holding it at his beltline. The mechanic's remarks receive a quiet scoff in what is surely agreement for all that he's said. "I don't know too much about cars," Lawrence says quietly after Chance is close, craning his neck that much closer to look over the clipboard as if he has any understanding of its contents. He doesn't. "What I /do/ know, you add another zero to the end of that, nobody gonna notice." Rather than attempt to share any sort of conspiratorial look with the other man, Lawrence looks away.

*

"I don't know too much that isn't about cars." replies Chance with a quick grin and a half-shrug: it would be self-deprecating were he not so obviously comfortable in his skin and confident enough for any two men. There is a moment of hesitation at the suggestion, but it lasts only a moment, "A man is his honor, Mister Coleman. I worked for years at my last job doing an honest day's work every day I worked, and then a new owner bot the shop and had no use for a lying, cheating spic. So I moved across the country to get a job with my cousin. Now, here, no one's going to call me a spic— but my cousin's reputation is what keeps us in business, keeps people coming here even though its not the best neighborhood. That's honor. Between men, honor matters, I think. I'm not going to tell you your business, Mister Coleman, and am not going to judge you your choices— not at all— but for me and mine…" He taps the place on the clipboard, "This is the fair price for our work. Let no man say otherwise or that this is a place where spics cheat proper folk. Maybe I don't eat as well a meal tonight, but I'm more likely to eat next week."

*

"You're absolutely right, sir," Lawrence shows no outward sign of remorse for his suggestion, save for a humble dip of his head as he replaces his hand atop it. There is no bite to his tone. Oh, and I guess we're back to 'sir,' officially. Side-stepping briskly to create more of a distance between himself and Chance, Lawrence goes about tugging at and straightening his uniform.

*

"Didn't we talk about this 'sir' business, Mister Coleman?" asks Chance with a wry grin and a shrug, gesturing, and leading through the shop itself and into the lot at the side of the autoshop, "You have this… air about you. Like you're talking to them. But you're not. You're talking to me. I'm one of the help. You can relax. I'm just a mechanic. I work hard every day then I go home and work some more. Then when all that work is done I go out and help my community working some more. Also…" He laughs softly, "My uniform is covered in grease. You have a hat. Just because I'm not taking you up on the suggestion doesn't mean there's any issue between us, man."

*

Lawrence follows after Chance into the lot, still allowing for some distance to build between them. He silently admires the back of the other man's neck and shoulders before the mechanic's words make him narrow one eye. Evidently, he is not under the impression that they are the same. "You got your honor, I got my 'sir's'," he purrs musically before pop-smacking his lips. His eyes twinkle with fearless amusement. "Mister Chance."

*

Chance turns a bit and regards Lawrence behind him a moment, and he smiles; the reason could be anything really. Maybe he noticed admiration or maybe he finds amusement in the disagreement. Either way, he leads to the Chevrolet, and gestures, stepping towards Lawrence and offering the clipboard a moment, with the pen coming out of the clip at the top, "Sign here, Mister Coleman, then." He pats down against his overalls, and comes up with a business card a moment later: Serrato Automotive. Carlos Serrato. It's got a bit of a smudge of grease, but only a bit. "I don't know anything about any Waldorf's or any sirs, but I do know if you're picking up a car for someone you know people. Point them my way and I'll consider it a favor done: if you like I'll cut you in a finder's fee. Plus." Then he grins broadly, dimples and slightly crooked jaw to full effect— if its a positive effect is up to the beholder— "We can be friends then. There's never any dishonor in referrals."

*

Tucking the dry-cleaning under his arm, Lawrence takes the clipboard and scrawls his name at the aforementioned spot. "Can't ever have too many friends," he says coolly. His eyes are confident, direct as he trades back the clipboard for the business card. The effect is positive, but Lawrence will fight to the bitter end before he smiles back. Only a tinge shines through to his exterior, appearing in the corners of his eyes where they curve into happy, crescent moons. "Better not be any grease up on the inside of this car," he warns playfully, reaching to pop open one of the doors and lay out the dry-cleaning on the back seat.

*

For a moment, Chance's confident demeanor cracks with hesitation as he regards the other man, rendered uncertain by cool reaction of the other. The result is a cooler tone as he nods, "Of course not, we're not savages. We don't even go inside the car unless needed, and if needed, take special care. In an engine, though, you can't avoid the grease." Tucking the clipboard under an arm, he reaches into his pocket to pull out the key they were left with and hands it off, "Unless you need anything else then, Mister Coleman?"

*

"I've already kept you too long," Lawrence accepts the keys with an open palm, toying with them to hear them jingle for a moment before he ducks into the vehicle. After closing the door, he takes the time to re-apply his white gloves before he starts the engine, backs out into the street, and drives off.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 License