My father's garage

Jarred flipped a switch and the yellow light above him hummed. The ground, concrete, produced a thud with each step. Jarred walked straight to the work desk in the back corner. He turned on another light, which flickered at first, to illuminate blueprints and coffee stains from his father’s past. Blueprints for an engine he never built. Jarred scooted the chair out, and with it a cloud of dust.

Sitting for a moment, his eyes wondered aimlessly. Old family photos had faded and formerly exciting power tools sat rusted. The floor behind him still had that splotch of green from when he accidently dropped the paint can. Beyond the stain were his father’s shelves. They were simple, metal shelves holding piles of boxes. One rack displayed old trophies from car shows and county fairs.

The trophies were covered in dust, just like the cars they recognized. Jarred’s favorite was by far the blue Mustang with the white racing stripe. It was a convertible, and whenever he imagined himself driving it was always in the soft leather seat of that car. Now, the black leather looked white and crisp. He feared that sitting on it would cause the material to dissolve under his weight.

The cars were never covered inside the garage. The place was a paradise, all those years ago. When Jarred’s father passed away, he couldn’t bare the thought of seeing this place again. The tools, each one held with precision and expertise by his father, only reminded him of his failure to achieve greatness.

Like his father, Jarred too found his past in this garage. The scraps in the back were proof of that. Twisted fenders and bent metal sat in a pile, left to rot. Faded on a door was the number 28. Jarred remembered choosing that number, painting the black numbers over his green hot rod. Somehow, the glass remained unbroken and unscratched, and perfectly reflected Jarred’s subdued expression.

The garage felt empty. There were cars, papers, and pictures, but mostly there was a sense of loss. That blue Mustang won so many races. It brought pride to the family for years. Maybe if Jarred had a chance to drive it, he thought, maybe he could have been great too. Instead, his mark on history would forever be that green puddle of paint – a stain on the Mustang’s floor.

The grease had built up on Jarred’s palms from handling the old parts. He decided to leave the garage and wash up outside. Stepping out, the sunlight rendered him blind. Turning around to see the garage, the whole place suddenly felt small. The stucco walls revealed nothing of what was inside. A muted brown door, faded over time, left no feeling of pride.

Taking in these sights, Jarred skipped washing up and got on his motorcycle. The engine roared and he fled the scene as quickly as he could. It no longer mattered what the garage meant. It was just a stucco building with a concrete floor. Nothing on the floor had to matter any more. That humming light would burn out soon enough.