Auto Shop

The smell of oil and tires linger, though a breeze moves through a wide open roll-up door that faces a moderately busy street. Every so often the multiple swooshing sounds of moving cars outside enter the quiet chamber of the auto shop, interacting with the occasional bursts of mechanical drilling that come from the heart of the garage. There is the occasional clatter of metal hitting metal, or a drill, or the sporadic chorus of ringing phones.
The space is long and narrow and goes deep into the two-story building. The front of the shop is evident to the outside world simply by the open roll-up door and the sign above it that reads in handwritten red paint: “Mas Auto Shop.”
There is a continuous low hum coming from the back of the shop, from someplace far behind the roll-up door and office and waiting area by the front. The sound comes from something mechanical, some machine in a state of waiting, charging for use.
Fifteen feet from the roll-up door is a walled-in office with glass windows on two sides that open into the garage. Inside the space is illuminated by yellow overhead lights. There are two long wooden desks piled with paperwork. There are two computers on each desk, miscellaneous office equipment: pencils, staplers, ballpoint pens, notepads, a calculator. A girl, hidden behind the counter in front of the desks, is talking. She speaks with an Asian dialect, she talks very quickly.
On the outside of the office wall, just above the window, facing the opening of the roll-up door, is a big square blue sign with the Chevron emblem in the center, below the emblem in bold white letters is the word ‘Lubricants.’ Next to that large sign is a collage of other smaller signs. There are signs for the shop’s promotions and specials. “Lamp Station Prices” with hand-written in prices, ‘Smog Check’ signs with the type of inspection and the hand-printed prices beside them, and on the corner of the wall, a big STOP sign, below it is written: ‘Stop here please.’
On one side of the rollup door is a rack of new tires, a small wind chime hangs from a metal bar on the rack. On the other side of the open door is a small space for waiting. A row of decorative bookshelves three feet tall delineates the space between work and rest. The black bookcases are divided into a checkerboard of cube-like shelves, some with open backs and others with cardboard backs. On top of the bookcases are four equally spaced plants in white and blue ceramic pots. Towards one side, there are two variegated climbing ivy plants, and then two other small palms with alternating stripes of green and white.
Within the waiting area are a variety of seats. Against the wall of the shop that faces the street is a black exercise bike. A few feet from it is a gray and slightly stained rug with two loveseats and a wooden bench that face each other. The cream leather loveseat sofa faces the wood and wrought iron bench. Perpendicular to the cream leather loveseat is a worn light brown loveseat. It is plush and the fabric on the headrests is slightly darker than the rest of the fabric, indicating that many people have rested their heads against it.
In the center of the carpet, between all three loveseats, is a large round coffee table. There are piles of newspapers, a week’s worth of news. Almost all of them are in an Asian script, though there is one local newspaper in English, pictures of a neighborhood fire grace its cover. A pile of magazines with only their spines showing sit buried below the piled-up newspapers. An abandoned white paper coffee cup and an empty folded white paper bag which once housed a pastry sit on one end of the coffee table. Across from the coffee cup, on the other edge of the table, is a wide jade plant in a terra cotta pot. A terra-cotta looking plastic tray rests below the pot. A small stuffed Hello Kitty face hangs from a thin string from one of the jade plant’s thin branches.
Between the two plush love seats is a small end table. The wood is worn and the varnish is nearly stripped along the top, though the legs are still shiny. On its surface is a large jade, its leaves are smaller and lighter than the plant on the circular coffee table.
The phone rings and is quickly answered, then again, the space is made alive by the tinkling of the chimes.

Casino

Brick-like pieces of luggage roll smoothly over the marble flooring of the lobby. A low rumbling echoes dimly against the walls as the plastic wheels roll over tiny lines of grout where each slab of marble comes together to meet another. There is a steady stream of people in the lobby. Couples walk in through the doors and towards the registration desk, men in their fifties walk quickly from the elevators towards the revolving doors that lead to the waiting taxis. A gray haired man in a long black coat reads the newspaper in one of the lobby’s blue upholstered armchairs, women in high heels click and clack on the hard floor. Beyond the marble boundary of the lobby, the green carpet begins. Down four steps and past two gold handrails is the large open casino. A variety of sounds comes from the dozen rows of slot machines on the right of the room. Their lights blink and flash, white, orange, and red. A group of large, white haired ladies in matching kacki pants and white collared shirts sit in a line on the padded stools of the slot machines. They hold small plastic cups, their hands reach in, almost in unison, grabbing quarter after quarter and feeding it into the machine. The casino is covered in a carpet of green that is accented by a busy pattern of yellow lines and blue dots, but the chaos of the pattern is held together by the dark green background of the thin carpet. It is a well worn carpet, made even thinner by the constant high heels of the waitresses in short black skirts that hardly cover their rear and the shined black shoes of the blackjack dealers that stand stoically upon it. A mirror covers the wall at the far end of the room. The mirror and the track lighting above reflects the thousands of bottles that sit on clear shelves just an inch from the mirror. Each bottle holds a varying shade of yellow tequila and each bottle is a different color, red, blue, buffed white glass. Waitresses swarm around the bar, behind it, in front of it…the women in tightly fitting nylons and black-strapped high heels hold small circular trays. Some hold trays with small glasses filled to the brim in clear alcohol, some hold trays that only have the melted remains of ice cubes and small slices of limes and crumpled napkins. Mounted on the wall, just perpendicular to the mirror, is a flat screen TV. A football game is on the screen, the images flash and change every second, but the sounds are muted and the importance of the game is lost amidst the sounds of slot machines and dealers and waitresses taking orders and the jingling of a dozen quarters spilling into plastic cups. A cluster of 6 blackjack tables are positioned close to the bar. The oak tables are taller than average and around it are extra tall metal stools with padded leather seat cushions. Three people sit at the table, the dealer stands like an idol before them, holding the cards that will determine their future. A blond woman in her thirties holds four cards in her hand. She looks at them with boredom etched along the sides of her red-painted mouth. She looks at the cards, she looks at the dealer, she takes a sip of her drink. All along the sides of the casino are metal bleachers like the kind found in a sports stadium, only despite their size, there are only five rows. They are dotted with the young children of gamblers, left to anxiously observe the proceedings as powerless spectators.

Two Hundred Feet Above the Earth

On the brightest of sunny days, a flying contraption soars on a current of crisp blue wind. At about two hundred feet above the earth, it coasts, like an oversized time machine on a rogue mission. Its speed is high, and it easily leaves behind the flocks of white birds on their yearly migration.
The pilot is a mystery, whether man or machine, I cannot tell, but the contraption flies well, maintaining its smoothness and speed amongst the aggressive wind. I sit upon a wooden bench at the helm, a rickety old fence post once stolen from a neighbor’s yard. There is no floor, and my legs dangle loosely over the seat, each new gust of air sends them swinging wildly, like the limbs of my companion.
The machine is small and compact, made mostly of copper tubing, sheets of metal and a huge brightly colored air balloon which keeps us afloat. It looks like a lunatic’s invention, created quickly from a doodle using found scrapes and stolen debris. It has traveled far to make this journey, centuries or more, but there is an excitement that permeates the whole of it, blanketing us in newness and innocence. The wind feels like a friend playing upon our skin, the birds wink in our direction. This is a maiden voyage, clean from any past experience. All is new, and from this flight, we will not be returning.
We are directly above a city. A potpourri of structures stretches to the horizon in all directions, a striking mixture of large and small buildings, civic centers, offices, houses, museums, and monuments. This is the eternal civilization- the one that has spawned countless poor imitations. This is Rome as it could have been. This is the city philosophers have spoken of…the ideal city thought only to exist as concept. The edifices shine, scrubbed clean and glowing in every possible glory. Their hues are soft and inviting, only the palest shades of marble have been used in their construction. Under the light of the full sun, everything is immaculate. Stretching to eternity, the avenues are precise and wide, dividing the immense landscape into navigable blocks. They are so clean…so exact. Their possessive symmetry shouts far into the sky and reaches my ears. The best engineers and mathematicians have created these roads and I am breathless in the precision of their art.