📸 PRODIGAL’S JOURNAL - DAY 11

 

Bakersfield — Bobby’s Automotive

Eccl. 4:12

September 2030.

I remember when I met him.

The sign wasn’t faded.

BOBBY’S AUTOMOTIVE.

Dark lettering carved into stained wood, mounted level above the bay. Clean. Straight. The kind of work a man checks before he walks away.

The roll-up door was fully retracted. The shop opened straight into the Bakersfield sun.

Heat held to the concrete. Light thinning toward evening.

Sunlight crossed the slab and struck the lift plates. Old oil stains marked the floor, layered and permanent, but swept. Dust moved through the beams without urgency.

From the sidewalk, I could see the whole place, but the view centered on the back of the forest-green C10. The hood was raised at the far end, a green wall above the cab, hiding whoever worked at the engine.

As I scanned the shop, I felt the weight of being watched. The space behind that hood stayed hidden.

Before I stepped fully into the open, I raised my voice.

“I’m here to trade.”

A pause.

The hood came down with a solid metal clap. A man stepped around the front fender, wiping one hand on a rag. He reached to the workbench, took up a shotgun, and held it low across his chest. His thumb rested along the safety. A pale scar crossed one knuckle, thin and old.

I stopped short of the oil line.

“Hey,” I said. “Didn’t mean to walk in on you.”

Gideon shifted once on my shoulder, feathers settling.

“Shop’s closed,” he said.

“Rumor has it you’re honest,” I said. “And you trade fair. That’s why I’m here.”

He watched me a moment longer.

It wasn’t sharp. Just measured. He stood balanced, weight even, knees loose. His eyes assessed without hardening.

My gaze moved past him and began to sort the room.

Pegboard covered the wall behind him. Metric on the left, standard on the right. Ratchets spaced evenly. Sockets clipped into rails. A torque wrench set apart. The red Craftsman toolbox near the lift showed chipped enamel but the drawers lined true. AC Delco. Moog. Kern County Raceway Park. A small American flag. A Virgen de Guadalupe decal worn nearly smooth.

Near the office wall, a refrigerator hummed beneath a Kern River calendar marked September 2030 in blue ink. Taqueria magnets crowded the door — Los Tacos, Rancho Grande, a faded chili pepper curling at the corners, and a bright red Tomateros tomato near the handle. Fishing photos were pinned beside it — the 178 above the water facility, Pismo surf, Morro Bay with two halibut on ice. In each he stood squared to wind, patient.

A few bright lures hung from wire near the ceiling — a chrome Kastmaster catching light, a couple of Rooster Tails with red and white hackle, a floating Rapala with a clear diving lip, and a red-and-white bobber chipped along its seam. The metal flashed when they turned; the plastic kept its color.

The radio murmured from a bench — disturbances south of town, sheriff patrols still moving. Congestion building along the 99. People coming north from what was left of Los Angeles. Fuel tightening.

“You fish the Kern?” I asked.

“When it behaves.”

“And the coast?”

“Morro Bay. Sometimes Pismo.”

That was enough.

“Not here to take,” I said. “I heard you might trade.”

“What things?”

“Fuel filters. Two quarts sealed. Spark plugs. Not junk.”

He stepped forward half a pace and studied me — posture, breath, where I held my weight.

The barrel lowered slightly.

“You alone?”

“Yes.”

“Had a few visitors yesterday.”

He let the word sit.

“Thought the noise on the radio meant nobody would answer.”

He tapped the shotgun once.

“They were wrong.”

My pulse shifted, then steadied.

Gideon tilted his head.

“Generous phrasing.”

Bobby glanced at him, one eyebrow shifting.

“He always that polite?”

“When it suits him.”

The shotgun leaned against the office wall. Close enough to matter.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The smells settled — warm oil, rubber dust, sharp WD-40. Next door, carne asada and blistered jalapeños, lime bright in the air.

Work. And something like family beneath it.

I handed him the spark plugs. He checked the seal and the weight.

“Storage unit?”

“Yes.”

He nodded.

I reached for a wrench.

“Three-eighths don’t hang there,” he said.

I put it back.

He noticed.

“Most don’t.”

A pickup rolled past outside, riding low under too much cargo.

“South’ll get loud before here does,” he said. “Ninety-nine’s already tight.”

Measured. Just information.

“My wife’s making tacos,” he added. “If I don’t eat before five, I get stupid.”

“Preventative maintenance,” Gideon said.

Bobby let out a short breath that might have been a laugh.

“Split those peaches. Tacos’ll be done in ten.”

It had been a while since anyone asked me to sit.

He finished tightening the bolt before stepping away.

Finished it.

That’s what I remember.

Not the shotgun.

Not the traffic.

Not the radio tightening the horizon.

The open door.

The truck kept level.

The smell of char and lime under oil.

He wasn’t hiding.

He was watching.

In a city coming loose at the edges, that felt steady — and for the first time in a long while, possible.