Vince pulled into the strip mall parking lot. Amid a sea of cars, he found a tight space that lacked shade and was not as close to his destination as he would have liked. He got out of his car and ambled over to the restaurant named Stefan's Greek Food. It was on the corner of the shopping mall complex, neighboring a suspicious dental office. Since it was on the corner, it was perched on the top of a fairly tall, steep bank, lush with nonnative species of plants, that overlooked the freeway. Most of the restaurant's walls were taken up by large windows, which made it look like a glass castle at the top of an industrial city. Through the windows, Vince could see that the place was empty. The lunch rush had passed and he was just in time to beat the dinner crowd.

Out of all the restaurants, of which there are many in River Canyon (the place where there is no river or significant canyon, such is the nature of Southern California), he could have chosen to go to a chain where he wouldn't have had to leave the comfort of his vehicle. But, this place had grown on him. It was close to the shop where he worked. He had found it by happenstance one lunch break. It had been a while since he had eaten there but today just felt like a gyro day after he had gotten home and showered. He pulled open the glass door, releasing the noise of various fans, and stepped inside.

A friendly, gravelly male voice greeted him from behind the counter, "Ah, it's you again! Though later than usual. What can I get you?" The man looked like his voice sounded. He radiated amiability, was middle aged with hair that was once totally jet black, overweight, and somewhat greasy or sweaty. He wore a white chef's apron over a white tee, black pants, and tennis shoes that had seen many days. He definitely had Greek ancestry. His life was one of work, of flame, and he seemed to enjoy it. "This place must be his, it's been him every time," Vince thought to himself. He smiled mildly, "I'd like the gyro plate, please."

"Good choice, classic choice." The chef smiled broadly, rang him up and disappeared into the kitchen. Vince chose a seat next to the windows that overlooked the freeway. Unlike most people in the modern day, he did not take out his phone and mindlessly scroll on some app. Instead, he watched the flow of traffic get steadily worse as rush hour approached. He had a pretty good view of an on ramp where no one was merging properly. Standard fare.

It was funny. The way this restaurant was, with the glass windows, made him feel as if he was in a terrarium. But, he was not the one being observed. All those people outside were. He wondered about each person on the freeway. How their lives were going. How many men versus how many women there were. How many women he might like to-- he was almost startled out of his traffic watching by the chef bringing his food tray to him.

"Oh, thanks."

"Thought I'd save you the trouble of standing up again. I know you work a hard job. Being a mechanic is not easy. My son works on cars for a living."

Vince grinned. "Yeah, it can be tough. But so is working in a kitchen."

"Ah, I've never had much trouble. I'm lucky that my body is so strong. I am old but I am not tired!"

Vince grunted approvingly, nodding his head, and the man disappeared back into the kitchen. "Must be nice to have found such purpose," Vince thought. He stabbed some gyro meat with his fork and tasted it. It was delicious, as always. He ate contentedly, serenaded by the white noise of the fans echoing off of hard white tile surfaces. His gaze wandered to the metal window sill next to him. He noticed there in its corner a small black pile of dead flies. This was out of place, the restaurant was always clean. "No matter what you do, filth always seems to find a way in," he mused to himself. He felt that this was prophetic to his life. He was the filth.

After a few minutes, a new customer arrived. The chef appeared from the door behind the counter. Voices overlapped in greeting.

"Georgios! Good to see you!"

"Hey, Stefan! Yes, long time no see!"

Vince made a point of remembering the name "Stefan," for his earlier deduction had been correct. It was not just the name of the restaurant, it was also the name of the chef, the owner.

"How have you been?"

"I've been alright. And you?"

"Same as ever."

"Ah, but that's better than bad."

"Yes it is!"

Vince tuned them out for a time as meaningless pleasantries were exchanged. As the conversation developed, he tuned back in. He learned that Georgios was part of Stefan's extended family. He learned that Stefan had a small dog. He learned that Georgios had a daughter. Then, he also learned that Georgios' beloved wife was perilously sick. The more Georgios spoke of this, the more distraught he became until suddenly he was crying. Vince frowned. He felt no sadness, he was bewildered.

"I... Stefan... I want everything to be alright... But it's not."

Stefan gestured for Georgios to come behind the counter. "Come, come, let's go to the back, not disturb the customers." Customers plural, meaning, only Vince. The two men disappeared into the kitchen.

Vince continued eating. He finished his gyro plate, threw his trash away, and left the plastic serving tray on top of the trash can. He pushed open the glass door and left the din of fans for the din of cars. He walked back to his car, a 1970s Caballo, a classic and a rarity. A beautiful car, he made sure of that. He compared it to the rest of the boring monochrome SUVs and smirked. It only stood out more among such drivel. It was a dark, sparkly sea green with a maroon leather interior and black carpets. He kept it meticulously clean. While everyone else treated their cars like appliances, which they unfortunately essentially were, Vince treated his like it was an extension of himself. He unlocked the door, sat down in the drivers seat, proudly pushed the key into the ignition, and turned it.

Nothing happened.

He tried again.

Nothing happened.

"What." Vince said.

He dragged his fingers across his face. "It's either the battery or the starter," he thought. He had no desire to work on this right now. He resolved to call his towing service.

He battled with the automated system on the other end of the line, trying his best to satisfy it but eventually he got transferred to speak with a real person. The woman who answered told him that the driver would be there in an hour, max. She also told him that this time, the service would be free of charge. He hung up the phone. "Good thing I have eaten, I can relax," he thought. He adjusted the seat back and kept the car door ajar. A pleasant breeze wafted over his face. The air was cool in spite of the strong almost summer sun. In a few weeks, it would be too hot. Best enjoy this now. He lit a cigarette...

...

The driver arrived after about fifteen minutes. Vince had gotten out of his car and was standing on a nearby curb. He flicked his cigarette into the lot. Out from the truck popped a weaselly looking young man. Vince clocked him as naive and new to the job. Not ideal.

"Hey," Vince casually said, raising a hand in greeting.

"'Sup," the young man said, and came over to shake Vince's hand.

The young man pointed to Vince's car. "That your car?"

"Yeah." He had described it on the telephone. Of course it was.

"Wow, this thing is mint..." A fact that was evident. The young man strode over to it and bent this way and that, looking at every possible accessible angle. He would have had an easier time appreciating it, if it wasn't in such a tight parking spot.

Vince told the driver the situation. After about twenty more minutes, during which the driver fumbled with chains and ratchets and Vince tried his best to hold his tongue while his precious car was dragged, undignified, onto the truck bed, they were finally on the road. The tow truck's blasting vents scented them with air freshener. They merged onto the freeway and a small white SUV almost hit them due to the tow truck driver's impatience.

"Don't worry about it, I'm a good driver. Hey, can I put on music?" The weasel abruptly asked.

"Uh, sure."

Within a microsecond after the words left Vince's lips, his ears were assaulted by autotuned voices and lascivious lyrics. He frowned again. It wasn't the noise that bothered him. Once more, he was simply bewildered. How people were so open with their preferences and lives was always a mystery. Didn't they know how dangerous others are? This phenomenon was twice as confusing when women were extroverted.

Vince resigned to awkwardly staring out the passenger window as the man sang every word of every song. The weasel seemed to enjoy female vocalists over male and all of them sang too sensually for Vince's taste. Most of them sang about sexual infidelity. Vince wondered if this young man took these songs as instructions for his own personal relationships, not that he cared. He would have greatly preferred some old rock. Now and then, in between songs, Vince tried to be friendly. He asked if R&B was the driver's favorite genre. "I only listen to rap and R&B," was the response.

They arrived at Vince's condominium and the young driver had a hard time backing into a safe position to unload his car. Admittedly, this was not due to inexperience. The condominium's parking lot was an absurd shape. Even so, Vince's vehicle eventually found its way into a parking space, miraculously unharmed, and the driver left, haphazardly speeding through the lot and back out into the wide world. Vince sighed. He now smelled of air freshener mixed with cigarette smoke. It was unpleasant. He approached his porch, glanced into his own window, then got out his keys. He unlocked the door and pushed in.

Once again, the thought echoed through his mind, "No matter what you do, filth always seems to find a way in."

---


By Adaline Guerra