Fired, retired, rehired and fired

Yuba City Honda is a like a family. You don't quit family. Like the mafia, the only way out is death. 

It was always the same. An ex-employee would be going about their business, entertaining some faint a wisp of a hope that perhaps they had somehow been granted grace, slipped through the cracks, or been forgotten about. But despite their trying, their denying, running or hiding, they would never be free from the specter of the blood contract by which they were bound. 

And however peaceful of a life they might have made for themselves, in whatever far off corner of the globe, there was the certainty, the inevitability, that one day there would be a knock at their door or a tap on the shoulder. Two visitors, with dark hats and trench coats, would appear and administer the final act of  job termination. Two bullets straight to the heart, silencers quieting the fatal shots to an almost gentle "P----zip....P---zip."

I'd been fired, back in 2017, and I was one of those walking dead men. Still alive, on unemployment and then disability, I mostly kept to myself, biding my time. Almost flirtatiously, I would visit the dealership from time to time, stopping in to check on the old crew. I was always greeted kindly and given the royal old-timer's treatment: 

"Howya doin'? Long time no see. Need an oil change? What can we do for ya today?"

On one such visit, I walked through the office and chatted with Beavis, the parts counter guy. "Need any parts today, Spark?" he asked, dryly. 

"Not today, Beav," I said, "I'm here to see about getting my old job back."

"Right this way, then," he said, and he walked me out to the shop. 

It was as quick as that. Rehired, with no formality or paperwork, just back at work as if I'd never been gone. 

I wandered around the shop, and everyone was busy at work on hard jobs -- engines, transmissions, major teardowns -- all stuff I detested and had tried my best to avoid during my tenure there. Not being in a hurry to dive into any of that, I walked back into the office to chat with the service writers and await the dispatch of more desirable work. 

Cherry picking like that was frowned upon these days, however, and was only tolerated in special cases. People who bought the service writers lunch, for example, would be granted a single pass on one hard job, and a gravy service would magically be dealt from the bottom of the stack of repair orders on the counter. 

I had no such privilege, since I was always too stingy to play the lunch game. I relied on pity, or perhaps fear -- fear that I'd make "the face"  -- to somehow be granted exemption from the difficult dispatches. Everyone there knew my situation at home, and no one wanted to be the one to ruin my day. 

It had gotten so bad, this work avoidance of mine, that at one point, I just flat out told them:  "I can't do hard jobs." I felt that I was so stressed out and mentally taxed with the duties of caregiving, that I just didn't have the concentration or stamina to be hoisting engines or doing complex diagnostics. I was an old horse, barely able to gum soft grass.

Now that my wife was dead, that had all changed. I had lost my immunity, and I was expected to tow the line just like everyone else. 

"Come on back to my office," Beavis said to me curtly.

I followed him to a small room in the back of the parts department. Without fanfare or explanation, he handed me a wrinkled, torn slip of note paper with some faint pencil writing on it. It was the  paper, the one you didn't want to get. Your walking papers. 

"But...I..." I stammered. I got this nervous uncertain feeling. Was this going to be it?

"You can't avoid transmissions and engines this time," he said. "They aren't putting up with that anymore."

If I could just talk to Joellen, I thought, I could somehow straighten things out. Boss Lady had always been sympathetic to my plight. Maybe she'd give me another chance if I promised to try harder. I walked into her office and tried to plead my case, but to no avail.

"We'll look into it, Andrew," she said, "but for now, you'll have to go. This is your last day."

I had that sinking feeling, like my ship had been torpedoed, and the deck beneath my feet had shifted and become unstable. I paced around her office for a bit, and then went into the break room to sit down. 

I was trying to collect my thoughts, leaning back into the uncomfortable black vinyl cushions of a very old metal framed couch, when I saw Leo, AKA Little Beenie Bastard, walk into the break room. He was accompanied by another employee, and they were both wearing dark hats and trench coats.

"You know what this is," he said preemptively. "Let's not make this any harder than it has to be."

Out of his trench coat came the pistol, its silencer extending the barrel almost to my chest. He pulled the trigger, and I heard the terminal "P---zip...P -- zip," as two shots sliced the air. 

I looked up at his face, and he was smiling. At the last minute he'd pulled the gun to the side, and the two bullets struck my arm, harmlessly bouncing off like a couple of peas from a pea shooter. I looked at my arm, and there wasn't even a dent or a red mark on the skin.

"Now get out of here," he said, still grinning, "and don't make us come after you for real."

I got awakened by a telemarketer, so I'll never know if that was a false reprieve or not. I sense that I still have obligations to the YC Honda family to fulfill which I'll be revisiting in future dreams.