The Risky Shim
965 Words
Back at the shop on County Road 11, Tom was trying to lose himself in the familiar logic of a broken engine. He had a 1980s Ford pickup on the stand, and its carburetor needed a complete rebuild. It was perfect work: tangible, mechanical, and silent. He gripped the wrench, trying to focus on the worn bolts, but his hands felt restless, and his mind kept replaying Jessie’s voice.
“Because people want to be built, not fixed. And maybe they don't want to be a house, either. Maybe they want to be a rocket ship, and you're just standing there with a hammer, trying to fix the porch.”
He knew she was talking about Mark, her ex. But she was also talking about him. He had spent his entire adult life trying to build a perfect, immovable house—with Clara, with Sarah, with Emily—only to realize he was trying to force a stationary foundation onto a partner who needed to move. He was the hammer, trying to fix a leak that was meant to be a fountain.
Tom wiped his hands on a rag, leaving a streak of black grease. The engine wasn't solving his problem. It was too predictable.
He had promised himself a withdrawal, a tactical retreat back into his solitude, but the silence of the shop felt different now. It was no longer a fortress; it felt like a cage. The mug rack he had fixed at the diner felt more stable than his own emotional resolve.
He had to go back. Not to talk about feelings, and certainly not to build a rocket ship. He needed a safe excuse, a small, non-threatening request that Jessie wouldn’t be able to easily dismiss.
He spent the next hour walking around his shop, looking for the perfect bait. A broken drill press? Too involved. A simple thank you? Too flimsy. He needed a utilitarian transaction.
Then he remembered the kitchen. When he’d peeked over the counter in the diner, he noticed a faint drip, drip, drip sound coming from the service area—the persistent noise of a leaky faucet. It was the kind of noise that drove people like him crazy. It was a failure of the seal, a small, predictable leak that wastes resources.
He grabbed a new brass cartridge for a standard commercial faucet, tossing it into a clean, unlabeled paper bag. It was the cost of a cup of coffee, and it required only fifteen minutes of effort. It was the perfect, non-emotional offering.
He drove back to The Daily Grind just as the sun was starting to drop, casting long, bruised shadows across the asphalt it was getting dark at 5 because fall was setting in right at closing for the diner. He parked far away, feeling like an undercover agent.
When he walked in, the diner was quiet, mostly filled with single diners and closing time chores. Jessie was polishing silverware near the register, her focus intense.
He walked right up to the counter, setting the paper bag between them.
“You’re going to mess up my flow again, Tom,” she said, not looking up. She didn't sound annoyed, just resigned.
“Quick, then,” he said, keeping his voice low. “It’s two things. First, just a quick check on the mug rack. It solid?”
She put down the knife she was polishing and pushed on the rack with her thumb. “Solid. Thanks. It’s the least of our problems now.”
“Good.” Tom tapped the paper bag. “Second, this is a new cartridge for the faucet in the service sink. I heard it leaking yesterday. It’s wasting gallons of water a day. I can swap it out now, or you can give it to the owner, but it needs to be done.”
Jessie finally looked up, her clear brown eyes searching his. She wasn’t looking for hidden meaning; she was looking for the cost.
“Why, Tom?”
“Because I fix broken things,” he said simply, using his identity as his shield. “And because you offered me ten minutes of conversation yesterday. This is me squaring the bill.”
She picked up the bag, turning it over in her hand. “So this is professional payment for emotional vulnerability.”
Tom grimaced. She saw right through him. “It’s me thanking you for telling me I’m not a plumber, I’m a carpenter. Or something.”
Jessie almost smiled, shaking her head. “You owe me nothing, Tom. But a non-leaking faucet sounds beautiful. You know the owner will just ignore it.” She looked at the clock, then at him. “Fine. Swap the cartridge. But when you’re done, I want a builder’s recommendation for something.”
“A recommendation?”
“Yeah,” she said, her voice dropping. “I need to fix the front porch railing at my house. It’s rotting, and I don't want to mess it up. I need reliable advice, not a marriage proposal.”
Tom felt a ridiculous surge of relief. A porch railing. That was a measurable problem, a safe topic. It was a way for him to build something for her, even if it was just confidence.
“Deal,” Tom said, feeling a warmth spread through him that was stronger than his coffee. “I'll fix the leak, and I'll tell you how to build the porch.”
He didn't know how to build a rocket ship, but he knew how to build a porch. And maybe, just maybe, that was a safe place to start.
- Writer
