Free Sample
Preview from chapter one
I always considered myself a mechanic: methodical, precision-focused, able to diagnose exactly what would make the machine of another person fail. It takes a lot of know-how and skill to break down an engine perfectly so it can be put together again. A good mechanic never starts a job unless he knows how each step is going to go, all his tools are on hand, and he’s got sufficient time to twist all the bolts. As I buzzed my mother into the building to see my new apartment, I looked around one last time to make sure it was ready. She was a Honda Civic, and I was going to tear her down to the chassis.
When I buzzed her into my new building, she smiled on the security camera before her face disappeared behind the battered steel door. She’d aged well, if you judged by strangers and at a distance. Only up close did the seams in her self-control showed: the jaw too tight for a social call, the hands worrying her purse with thin echoes of the tics I’d hated inheriting. She wasn’t stupid. It had been years since the two of us had been on speaking terms.
“Hi Mom,” I said, as we exchanged the ritual hug. Scent of department store perfume, the resilience of thick wool against my face. “It’s been too long. I missed my mom.”
She clung to me, and I heard her voice quiver. “I never thought I’d hear you say that, Mitchell. I missed you, too.”
The new place was barely furnished: some IKEA shelves already buckling with the weight of my books, a thrift-store couch with springs that stabbed into your spine, a folding table in the “dining nook.” Mother passed her gaze over it all, calculating, searching for errors in taste she could collect and file away. Her lips were taut, her eyes the gray of TV static on a dead channel.
“I brought some paint swatches,” she said, setting her purse down on the table with a thud of resigned disappointment. “These walls…Mitchell, they’re rental white. You of all people…”
“Isn’t that better than living in a mausoleum of colors you stole from a Martha Stewart catalog?” I said.
She bristled. “Darling, I only want you to be proud of where you live. You should bring women here, eventually.”
“The ones I like, don’t last long enough to care about the walls,” I said, lighting a cigarette just to see her flinch. “I don’t play the long game, Mom. i find ‘em, finger ‘em, fuck ‘em, and forget ‘em. You want coffee?”