Brake Pads

            I went to Bill the smog guru’s shop to have my brake pads replaced.

            “Sit down, sit down,” Bill said.

            We sat down and started to talk. Our conversations usually start off nice and easy and then take a wicked turn, only to end politely, and cordially.

            This conversation was no different. We said our salutations and quickly thrust ourselves into the powerful effects of Bill’s prescription medication.

            “I’ll take the Norco just before bed. I’ll feel a slight tingle before I pass out.”

            Bill mentioned the other pills he’s taking, but there were too many to remember.

            Somehow the conversation deviated to Bill’s childhood. He said he had a thing for fire when he was a kid. I told him that’s how serial killers get their start. He looked confused and introspective for a moment but continued telling me his story.

He started a fire and got a beating for it from his father. His father was a Sergeant in the army. Bill, not to be deterred by the beating grabbed a large glass ashtray and a piled a mass of toilet paper on it.  The ashtray was more like a platter so the toilet paper piled up nicely. Bill put a match to the toilet paper on his bed. He was sitting crossed legged on his bed, behind the fire when his father walked into the room having smelled the smoke. His father just looked at him, but didn’t say anything.  It must have been a wicked sight.

            Bill and I talked for about an hour. I never did get my brake pads replaced.