Midnight

It's been a couple of days since Midnight began putting her knowledge into practice tearing apart junkyard engines in the garage. There's been a distinct learning curve for her – much to her own surprise and frustration.

Now, that's not to say Midnight doesn't know what she's doing. She can easily identify parts and possesses a good understanding of the disassembly process in getting to specific components.

Her biggest issue has been a lack of patience – which in turn feeds on her stubbornness. It's been obvious to me from day one of meeting her Midnight is not one to ask for help or otherwise rely on someone else. To make matters worse, once Midnight is pissed off, she suffers severe tunnel vision – the world around her fades from existence aside from the one particular issue transfixing her anger.

Whatever problem or hangup denying her success is an affront that is unacceptable.in her mind.

"Turbo!"

"Stop calling me that!" Midnight shouts from the far garage bay. Her glowing blue irises are a clue-in to her boiling anger, bright enough to evaporate her cat-like pupils from sight. Meanwhile, the engine she's been fighting with is released from her magnetic grip, left to rock back on its side.

"Well, you didn't say anything the first three times I called your name, and I'm certainly not going to get between you and the violent tug of war game you have going on right now," I explain. With the last of the emails and parts requests on the computer dealt with, I sigh and shuffle around the counter. Time to see what Midnight is battling before she destroys the shop.

Fortunately, there haven't been many walk-in customers. But that's not about being embarrassed; the few that have trickled in for parts all sort of taking a glance, a double-take of surprise or shock, but say nothing about Midnight's presence.

I haven't figured out nor have asked whether it's just because she's here in an odd setting, or if it's her unique looks. At least Midnight hasn't taken notable exception to it.

Now, on a side note, I have historically had more business with shipping things out than people actually coming in and pulling their own parts. The trend of less in-the-flesh purchases has been going for a while. That's just due to the shift in the automotive business as a whole; a combination of convenience, lack of free time, and newer generations preferring to do their dealings over the web rather than in person.

God, I sound like an old fart talking about 'newer generations.' I have yet to even reach the halfway point of my thirties. But facts are facts.

Midnight continues to scowl as I reach her side and squat down to get a better look at her current project. Her height on all fours means she's now scowling down at me. But it's gotten a bit easier to ignore that look, considering I see it multiple times a day.

"What are you trying to do that has you literally dragging this engine around the floor?" I inquire, pointing to the fresh scrape marks on the dingy concrete floor. As evidence of her tunnel vision, the marks trail for more than a foot from the origin.

"I am trying to get the oil pan off, and I almost had it," she grumbles, making her frustration with my entrance crystal clear as usual.

Brushing the attitude aside, I take a good look over the rusted and dust-caked surface of the oil pan, scanning the lip around the perimeter that bolts up to the block. Circles of blue paint show where freshly removed fasteners once were, and it looks like she did indeed get all of them.

All of them that screw into the engine block, anyway. The front timing cover of the engine remains caked in hardened chunks of dust, particularly around the bottom. It's a reminder of how long this engine had been sitting out in the desert sand, subject to infrequent bouts of rain and mud since pulling it from the engine bay.

There's an area of the front flange that butts up next to the timing cover still completely obscured despite Midnight's wrath. I grab the ratchet she had been using to take out the bolts and tap the dirt away; two more bolt heads appear from that simple act.

Rather than comment on the discovery, I stay silent and keep my eyes glued to the engine. I find it better to just let the results do the talking for Midnight, as my words are likely to just whip her up into a fury. Nonetheless, Midnight snorts as the sharp clap of one of her hooves striking the floor echoes amidst the short-lived silence.

I still haven't figured out how she can be so damn quiet on hard floors with those hooves, both because of their nature and her physical size. Disciplined steps is my best guess.

"I would have found that on my own," she mutters, bitter at my revelation.

"I know you would have," I agree in a calm, reserved voice. I'm merely bracing for the successive escalation of her temper.

"You didn't have to come over and point that out to me," she continues to seethe.

"Youre right, I didnt have to."

Waiting for a moment, I finally glance over to Midnight as she offers no further venomous responses for the time being. At roughly the same time, her cold blue eyes dart toward me as they continue to bore holes through anything that opposes her.

"What?" she barks expectantly.

"I didn't say anything."

"You look like you want to say something."

"Will you let me say something?" I propose to her with caution. "I swear I'm not here to judge or criticize."

"Fine." I swear when Midnight's in a mood, it's like talking to a five-year-old ready to unleash a vicious temper tantrum. Its the main reason why I've begun to just let her mouth run rampant rather than argue. Let her vent before I speak up.

"Why is it a problem if I come over here and help you with something?" I question, hoping to get some semblance of productive discussion.

"Because I don't need your help," she rebuts without hesitation. "This is all just simple parts and pieces put together that need to be disassembled – I don't need help with that, I'm smart enough to do that."

"I have no desire to make you feel like you aren't smart. I guarantee you got me handily bested in the brains department," I concede. It's the best option for an olive branch I have to extend.

"Yet you can come over and point that out as if it were no big deal," Midnight shoots back without missing a beat.

"Because I've been doing this of shit for a long time, Midnight," I remind her. "I was over there with no involvement while you have been at this for a little bit now, too. That makes a big difference – a fresh pair of eyes."

Midnight's intense stare softens up a little bit as I explain my side of things. As I pause to find where I've landed with my comment, she offers a slight nod for me to continue.

"When things aren't going right – I mean, holy shit, you were dragging that whole motor halfway across the shop by an oil pan you thought was unbolted - just step back and take a breather. It's easy to miss something; I do it, believe me. All those books you've been reading are in-service maintenance manuals – they aren't going to tell you what could happen, or things to look for if a part has been sitting for a while."

"I'm not giving up once I start something – that's admitting failure," she hastily replies

"Taking a break to clear your head isn't giving up – it's giving you a chance to clear your mind and take a wider look at what's going on. There's no shame in that, and it's not like I'm timing you on this, either. This is your project."

Midnight takes a deep breath, glancing back over at her project for a moment, before turning back to me. "I'm not going to make a habit of taking a break," she warns.

"I'm not asking you to, and I'm not telling you what to do," I assure her, fighting to hide my amazement that she is receptive to my advice. "All I'm trying to do is offer some insight and a solution. You just let yourself get so pissed off, you don't use your sharp noggin."

Midnight raises her brow at that comment but has no reply – at least, not before the phone on the counter begins to ring. The shrill sound instantly halts the constructive discussion we seem to be having.

"I gotta get that. Seriously, there's no shame in asking questions, either. I'm not gonna make fun of you," I remind her as I make my way back to the counter.

Midnight stares at the engine block before her her as I glance back, not moving a muscle.

The parts-pulling work after closing turned out to be a rough and frustrating venture. There weren't an overwhelming amount of orders – it just so happened every single part I needed was a stubborn bitch to remove.

By far the worst had been the rear bumper off of a '64 Imperial. The car alone meant I would be dealing with a hefty part. But with unfortunate timing, Midnight had overestimated the endurance of her strength the last few days. She wasn't lying when she boasted about being able to lift a whole engine – but between her insistence that she do everything herself and the extra gusto she put forth whenever she became frustrated...

There wasn't enough left in her tank to hold the massive chrome slab while I fought with the mounting bolts in the frame. Like clockwork, every damn bolt mounting the brackets to the frame was rusted to hell and back, to the point the threads were nonexistent. To compund all of these issues, the customer needed the brackets, so I couldn't just torch em off.

That single order had cost the better part of two hours, between getting everything loose and then heaving the bastard out of its home without hurting myself in the process. Midnight's frustration over the situation was almost palpable – mainly because other than handing me tools and offering a token effort at pulling and prying, she was relegated to watching.

The other orders went marginally better, but by the time we had wrapped up everything urgently needed, the headlights of the Trailduster were required to illuminate the path home.

Even so, today wasn't all bad – far from it. Much to my surprise, Midnight seemed to have taken my advice to heart for the majority of the afternoon tearing apart engines. On more than one occasion, I witnessed her stepping away, taking a few moments to collect herself after having issues with attaining her particular objective at the time.

Of course, she played it off as looking for a tool, or being thirsty, or...

I pretended not to notice for the most part, knowing full well she was already reluctant to step away, let alone having me aware of the actual reason. It further makes me wonder where in the hell she came from and what circumstances made her so prideful to a fault. I can't say I've ever seen anything quite like it.

But now, while I fiddle around in the kitchen waiting for some poor-quality off-brand chicken strips in the oven to be done, I can't help but smirk. Midnight, the pony that doesn't need sleep, is lying on the couch with her eyes closed. Only the quiet drone of the TV offers any sort of sound to the living room.

It's been quite the adjustment having someone else with me all day – not to mention sleeping in my little shithole of a living space. Hell, I've lost track of how long it's been since I last had an employee. Obviously, she's not really an employee; I'm not paying her. But it has been a nice change of pace to have company, despite the abrasiveness she isn't ashamed to display.

"If you're still part of the living world, food is just about done," I announce, watching for any movement.

One of her ears perks up, swiveling in my direction from out of the mess of her mane. "I'm still awake. I told you I don't sleep," she murmurs.

"So, you're checking your eyelids for holes, I'm guessing?"

The comment draws enough attention from Midnight for her to raise her head and open her eyes. "I was relaxing with my eyes closed, you ass," she refutes, too tired or apathetic to offer proper venom in her voice.

"Oh, okay."

Midnight turns her focus to the television while I pull dinner out of the oven. I unceremoniously toss the chicken onto two paper plates and head out to living room, setting her pile of chicken strips on the coffee table while taking a seat on the other end of the couch, in front of the TV. Currently, an awful History Channel original series plays on the tube. But I don't really care; it's just moving pictures to pass the time.

"Are these even edible?" Midnight asks, sniffing at her plate before recoiling a bit.

"They go into a grey area of what is considered food, but yeah, I guess so."

"That's not a very reassuring answer," she grumbles, leering at me.

"Good thing it wasn't supposed to be," I retort, offering a shrug.

Despite the hesitations and the negative comments shared between us about the food, the focus is solely on getting something in our stomachs for the next five or ten minutes.

"What made you want to own a junkyard?" Midnight question comes from out of left field to break the silent stalemate.

I turn my attention to Midnight, who has already finished up her imitation edible chicken and stares at me now.

"What makes you wonder what made me want to own a junkyard?" I respond with my own admittedly obtuse inquiry.

"Boredom. And you bothered me with questions the first day or so I was here, I may as well get some sort of retribution."

"Well, I didn't really aspire to own a junkyard, I'll say that right up front. But I always liked older cars, even though most of what's here is before my time."

"How do you even know of this kind of stuff then? I assumed that you must have been around it," she objects.

"I was – my family was into that sort of thing, and they grew up in that time. Seemed like everybody had some vintage rod they wrenched on for fun. Hell, my dad had a '74 Charger from before I was born, so those were some of my first memories – cruising in the passenger seat, listening to that boat anchor 400 under the hood."

Midnight cocks her head, her brow furrowed in confusion. "'Boat anchor'?" she repeats back with unease.

"Yeah. Basically, their best use was tying em to a chain and throwing the fuckers overboard," I quip, trying my best not to crack a smile.

Midnight continues to stare back at me, though one of her brows raises after my brief and unsatisfactory explanation.

"Hey, I didn't come up with the term, I just always heard it in the automotive circles," I defend myself. "It wasn't necessarily a bad engine, it just came at a time when compression was getting lowered in all production cars to accept unleaded fuel. There was decent low-end torque out of em, but anything above about 2000 rpm, it just felt gutless. That's what's in the Trailduster, which suits my use for it to a T. Just need the low end torque – not a dragstrip screamer."

"Okay, but back to my question – why a junkyard?" she huffs, growing impatient with my derailing. "Why a place where the things that you like are here to be taken apart, left to rust, and ultimately crushed?"

"There are two sides to that coin, and you're seeing the side that I don't," I clarify, turning my body a bit more toward her as I can't help but feel invested in the conversation. "First off, I've actually sold more than a few whole chassis or bodies. But I buy whatever someone is selling, whether it be a true basketcase that's only good for parts, or something that can be saved. Sometimes, people are just trying to offload something as quick as they can."

"You still cannot deny you are tearing apart other cars," she counters, her voice cold and unflinching in conviction.

While I can't say I'm surprised by her pessimism, I also feel like she's trying to project her feelings onto me at this point.

"I'm not denying that, you are right in the black-and-white image of it," I yield to her point. "But consider this – every part that I take off is going to a person that needs it to complete their vehicle. Everything out there in the yard has something it can still offer; it isn't just useless junk, even if it seems that way."

As I finish my counterpoint, Midnight recoils back as if something just threatened to hit her in the face.

"What?" I ask, stunned by the sudden movement.

"Nothing," she barks back, hardening her resolve again. "I just didn't expect you to be so damn sappy about a scrapyard."

I have to shake my head at the minor outburst, turning away from her and staring at the TV. "I get more than a few people that show me pics of what they're working on, or before and after photos, and it always impresses me. Sort of always wanted to go through and do a project like that myself."

"Then why don't you? You have a whole yard full of parts, what's your excuse?" she presses.

"Aww, look at you trying to be a motivator. That's so sweet," I can't help but tease.

"I don't care what you do - I just asked why you don't take advantage of your situation," she mutters, rolling her eyes at my jab.

Letting out a chuckle, I point at the clock mounted on the wall ahead of us, just above the TV. "Does it look like I have the time to do a project car?"

Midnight's face contorts into a bit of a scowl at the answer I provide. "And yet you spend all day screwing around on your computer, even when you aren't going through orders," she protests.

"Yeah, and I gotta be here if someone calls or comes in to go through the yard," I counter with a shrug.

"Uh-huh. How about you at least make the truck a bit less miserable to ride in? You should be able to do that."

"You're going to bitch about that until I do something about it, aren't you?" I'm tickling the dragon's tail at this point, but I can't help myself.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize you had an affinity for spinal damage," she shoots back. "I sure as hell don't enjoy it."

"Do you even have a spine?" It's a question with some honesty underneath the bit of sarcasm I provide on top.

Midnight growls quietly upon hearing that, making me keenly aware that Ive finally crossed a line. Not content with an audible warning, she proceeds to bare her teeth like a dog readying for an attack.

"Alright, sorry. Chill out," I back down, putting my hands up in surrender.

"Then stop making retarded excuses," she belts back.

"If I was retarded, I would take offense to that."

"Yet you're taking note of it. How odd."

... fuck. I'm not surenhow to come back from that one. It's impossible to say whether she set that up or I backed myself into the corner. Regardless, Midnight looks as if she's ready to gloat over my hesitation.

"Tell you what – I'll buy new shocks and leaf springs for the Trailduster, you can suffer through putting them on," I offer as concession.

"Fine. If it means eliminating the danger of biting my tongue or chipping a tooth every time we hit a bump, I'll gladly do it," she agrees, sticking her nose up in the air.

"Do you have a backup plan if you don't get it done before we have to make our evening parts run?"

Midnight stays silent, though her gaze falls back onto me as it hardens for a moment. Im expecting some sort of vitrolic response considering aim questioning her abilities now, but that never comes.

Without another word, she turns her attention to one of the shop manuals sitting on the coffee table in front of her. It opens and begins to flip through pages, aided by scrap metal.

The sudden silent treatment makes it unclear to me whether Midnight is still for this plan or not; I'll just let it go for the time being. It will more than likely get brought up tomorrow while I'm messing with the computer.

Since she's done sparring, I start flipping through the channels on the television to find anything remotely palatable to watch for a bit. I have to question myself from time to time why I keep paying for cable. There's never a good answer – I just keep holding out that there's something worth my attention.

The couch shifts in sequence with a book being dropped back on the coffee table. Turning my head to see what's up, Midnight is already out of the living room and shuffling toward the door leading downstairs. She doesn't walk with any sort of enthusiasm in her step, her head held relatively low.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm going to take a shower," she mutters quietly.

While moodiness comes with the territory, I've not seen her look so...

Sullen. Defeated.

"You okay?"

The knob on the door is twisted slowly by the unseen force of her ability as her forward progress briefly halts. "I'm fine. Believe it or not, I'm tired," she answers, unwilling to look back at me.

With that brief deflection, she slips out of sight through the narrow crack she allows the door to open. It closes behind her, barely allowing enough time for her tail to make it out.