The Rise Of A Broken Man

Eight

Eight

The woman rounded the corner and stood in front of a huge mahogany door. Then, she knocked once and twisted open the knob.

“Mr. Winyard, the man is here now,” she said.

“Oh, finally. That's good. Let him in.”

Devon couldn't see the person inside the office, but he heard him clearly, and he could tell he was old, at least, maybe enough to be in his sixties or so.

He tried to look into the office but the woman had already turned back to him. “You heard him, young man. You can now see him.” she pushed aside, allowing him to enter into the room. It wasn't until he did that he saw how large the place was. There were tall, elegant wooden racks that stretched from floor to the soaring ceiling, their angled beams now lined with hundreds of wine bottles glinting in soft, natural light that came from outside.

Each shelf holds bottles of varying hues; deep reds, amber golds, and pale greens, their glass catching the sun that filters through the floor-to-ceiling slatted windows on the left. The space smells faintly of oak and aged wine, rich and warm.

Devon finally looked away from the magnificent sight in front of him to the man behind the desk.

“Hello, young man. I've been waiting for you.” the man said and Devon frowned again.

“Huh, I'm sorry for keeping you waiting then,” he said, giving a slight bow. He concluded that the man must have been given the wrong date of his arrival, and wanted to access or ask him some questions.

“Well, you haven't told me your name,” he said and Devon gave a nod.

“It's Devon Hayes, sir.”

The man, Mr. Winyard, nodded his head as he waved him to one of the chairs in front of his desk. “Please, sit. I was told you're good with cars.” He said, and Devon nodded.

“Yes sir. That's what I do best.”

“Good, because I have some vintage cars I need you to work on. The manager should talk to you about the pay when he comes here later.” he said, pushing up from his seat. “I heard someone else would also be coming by, but I'm not sure about him yet. You came highly recommended.” Mr. Winters said.

Highly recommended huh? Was that Hector’s doing? Miguel’s, or his cousin’s? Either way, he was grateful someone was talking that highly of him.

The man… Mr. Winyard started towards the door, then he turned his head to look at him over his shoulder. “Aren't you coming?” he asked and Devon quickly stood up to follow him.

They started back down the hall he had come from, and the man continued talking. “So I'll have Rogelio, that's the manager, give you the tour of the place once he's here.”

Soon, they got to a door and the older man punched in the numbers to open the door, and they both stepped into the…

What the… Devon stood there with his mouth dropped open as he stared at the cars in this large room. There were about twenty cars in here, with five vintage cars.

“Holy…” he let the word trail off as he stared at them, walking behind the man.

“This is known as the iconic America muscle car,” the man started and Devon continued, nodding his head.

“Oh yes, a Ford Mustang, introduced in the mid sixties, really strong with good mileage.”

The man gave a pleased hum, turning toward Devon with a faint, knowing smile. “So you do know your history,” he said, clearly testing him. “Most young mechanics these days only care about efficiency… electric this, hybrid that. No appreciation for what it took to build a machine that roared.”

Devon’s lips tugged into a small grin. “Well, sir, cars like this weren’t just built to move—they were built to speak. You can tell by the sound of the engine if it’s proud or if it’s hurting.”

Mr. Winyard let out a low chuckle, stepping closer to the nearest Mustang. Its deep blue paint still gleamed despite the dust. “You speak as though they’re alive.”

Devon shrugged, running his eyes along the curve of the hood. “Some of them are,” he said simply.

The old man turned his head, studying him for a moment before nodding approvingly. “Good answer.” He walked around the car, his cane tapping lightly against the concrete floor. “You’ll find the tools and supplies you need are in the side storage. But I’m sure you brought your own?”

“Yes, sir. They’re in my truck outside,” Devon said. “If it’s fine by you, I can start on one of these right away. The Mustang’s calling my name.”

Mr. Winyard’s eyes gleamed with faint amusement. “Calling your name, is it?” he echoed. “Then I suggest you answer. Go on, get your things. Let’s see if the man I was told about lives up to the recommendation.”

Devon nodded once, firm and respectful. “Yes, sir.”

He turned to leave, the sound of his boots echoing softly through the wide, echoing chamber of steel and silence. As he reached the door, Mr. Winyard’s voice followed him, quieter this time but laced with something heavy… almost like a test cloaked as advice.

“Be careful with that one, Devon,” he said. “It’s not just a car. It has… history.”

Devon glanced back, brows furrowed, about to ask what he meant; but the old man had already turned away, his hand resting on the hood as though feeling the heartbeat of the machine beneath.

Outside, the air was cooler, and Devon exhaled slowly. History or not, a job was a job, and if fixing cars with stories was what it took to build his own new beginning, then he was ready to start writing it.

He walked briskly toward his truck to get his toolbox and went back inside to where the garage was.

He started to work on the car for what seemed like eternity, checking thoroughly what could be wrong, then when he found out what it was, started to work on it.

Maybe it was an hour or two after, he heard the door open and he saw the woman from earlier walked in with a tray.

Now, she didn't seem as irritable as she was before. She seemed a bit relaxed, like she had been able to handle whatever it was the was putting pressure on her before.

She walked to him and handed him the cup on the tray. “It's freshly squeezed orange juice. I made this batch this morning and put it in the fridge to make it cold. I'm sure you're thirsty.” She said.

Devon wanted to shake his head, tell her he doesn't take sugary things like that, he had never really had the luxury to, but he didn't want to prolong talking when he could be working so he nodded.

“Thank you, miss.” he said.

“Oh, it's Mrs. Martha. Everyone calls me that.” she said.

“Thank you, Mrs. Martha.” he drank half the content and handed her the cup.

Mrs. Martha smiled, then she turned to leave, leaving him to continue his work.

Another hour later, the mustang was already starting to work, but he knew he needed to do more on it. This was easy progress. He was sure it would be the easiest among the five cars.

Before he could think of how to get Mr. Winyard to come here, the door opened again and three men walked in.

One was Mr. Winyard, and he recognized the other as Rogelio because of how much he looked like Miguel. He wasn't sure who the last man was, but he waited for them to reach him.

“This isn't the man you're expecting, Uncle.” the third man he couldn't recognize said.

“Then tell him not to bother coming, Goergie. If he’s not here yet, hours after our appointment, and a man who's suppose to resume tomorrow is here already, working, then there's nothing for him here.” Mr. Winyard said.

Devon frowned as he heard them talk. Of course, now it made sense. The man had been expecting someone else but thought he was the one.

“He’s supposed to work on these cars, Uncle, he came highly recommended. This man can work on the work trucks.”

“Only one mechanic is working on my cars and trucks, Georgie.”

Well then, what was going to happen to him now.