Jim Ray Brook, N.Y. — 1983 Moirai Mechanics

One day, as I was wandering aimlessly homeward, I saw an auto shop. I remember my shock. I’d been down that road many, many times before, and it had never been there. It seemed to have sprung out of the earth. It seemed like a hallucination, but I’d been clean for a long time now.

It was as out of place as crystals inside a geode, perched on this deserted road in the middle of nowhere.

Moirai Mechanics, was penned in iridescent, arching, gold letters over a wide turquoise eye that nestled inside of a purple triangle. It was an odd sign, but it called to me somehow. I was looking for work after all, and I had learned to weld in prison.

I was met at the entrance by a solid brown woman, about forty-five or so — a bull dyke if I ever saw one.

“Hi,” I said, but she didn’t reply, just looked at me like I was, well, not exactly welcome, but expected.