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Manager and mechanic Chip Wheeler was wrapping up with helping a last Tuner Shop client before he took his break. The business felt brighter when Chip was around. He passed every shift by cracking jokes and laughing, but something was changing for Chip under the usual sunny mask.
“Do you like the colour?” the customer repeated. She was some grinder with a fresh Sultan, bought with lots of hunted pelts no doubt. She was thinking of painting it a bold, rich ruby to remind her of the blood from prey she’d killed. Pretty morbid stuff!
“This is not… a good colour in my opinion,” Chip hedged. He didn’t have some funny quip about why. He knew exactly why he didn’t like that colour. The customer shrugged, and Chip breezed through the rest of the conversation as if he was on autopilot. He knew what people expected of him: silly Chip, soft Chip, juvenile Chip, always upbeat Chip.
Finding himself a quiet corner for his break, he slouched against the wall and slowly crumpled to the shop floor. “I’m gonna be in my head for a bit,” he said to no one in particular. Although no one heard, it wouldn’t be a surprise. He was in his head a lot lately.
The atmosphere of the busy Tuner Shop was familiar and comforting. He took in the scent of grease, oil, and paint, the general metallic tang. Wrenches and tools clanked, idle chit chat was exchanged. There was a consistent low hum of activity that let even a guy with jorts and a huge octopus tattoo blend in. The Tuner Shop felt more like home than anywhere else he knew right now. He loved the Billabong, but he wasn’t used to always sleeping on his own. Sure, the club was home, but maybe more importantly than that, Pez Speedwagon was home. And that home burnt down in a slow flame ever since Cleo Shaw showed up with a match. If he closed his eyes and focused hard, Chip swore he could smell the salty water from the nearby docks. Sometimes he imagined he could hear the waves lap at the docks’ supports.
He fished his wedding ring out of his pockets, half wondering why he even still carried it around. Rolling it between his fingers, he thought about his own supports. The boys, the babes, his beloved son, Edbert. Strong-willed like Speedwagon, when tensions flared in a meeting, Chip was elated to witness Edbert loudly and proudly choose his side in the divorce, abandoning any ties to the increasingly absent club treasurer they both used to call kin.
It felt nice, for once, to be top priority. Chip never knew that feeling with Pez or Cody or whatever he was calling himself this week. Whether it was Cindy, Cleo, or club business, Chip found himself spending a lot of time assuming his husband was “probably fine” and “just caught up in something right now”. Naïveté can’t last forever though, and every late night full of unanswered calls confirmed more and more of what Chip didn’t want to know.
Rising to his feet with a yawn, he paced around the shop floor, eyeing the various vehicles around him. Even the shiny S+ cars weren’t really making his soul sing. He was a car fanatic at heart, but lately small things seemed to be souring even that joy. Crimson paintjobs just reminded him of Pez now, who was probably illustrated next to the dictionary definition for “signature colour”. Porsches were a Pez thing too, although it wasn’t common to see something that pricey. Even those damn neon orange traffic cones had Pez memories all over them.
As if his legs started walking themselves, Chip wandered out of the shop and down to the docks close by. Sitting with his feet dangling off the edge, he looked at the cool blue surface, sparkling like sapphires. Anything to get that red hair, red kuttes, red car, red everything out of his head… at least until the next time he has to see Speedwagon as a Bondi Boy. Chip Wheeler might feel ruined, but a Bondi Boy always had to be fine.
He twisted the ring between his fingers again, biting his lip. All the angry words he never said out loud were bubbling up: manipulator, user, cheater. Chip could never call Speedwagon those words to anyone, especially not when he was outranked. A couple warm wet tears rolled down his cheeks.
He swallowed hard, feeling a palpable lump in his throat. “I will be fine,” he whispered to himself. Without a second thought, he chucked the ring as far in the depths as he could send it.
A roaring laughter escaped his mouth as the symbolic token gently sank. Chip smiled a real smile, his first one in a long time. He would be fine, eventually.