After the storm.

My girl is on the sidewalk. She won't start. Trying to figure out why. You can only press the button so many times before the battery dies. I'm taking her apart to get the oil out of where it shouldn't be. Take off the seat. The tank. The Carburetor. The wind from the hurricane blew her over the day before. The guy who runs the hostel is harassing me about paying for tonight. I tell him that I tried earlier but it's cash only and they couldn't make change. He's an obnoxious jewish stereotype. The Chef assures me that he's a good man. Jewish but not a Hacid. Everybody hates the Hacid's here. A young man walks up. Asks the Jewish man for a job. He says no but the kid is persistent. His tone changes. Tells the kid to come back and ask again. I talk with him for a minute. Ask if he knows anything about engines and he nods yes. He's young. I can tell by the look in his eyes that he's ambitious. I set about my work. Opening up the carburetor to let the oil ooze out. I'm struggling with the carbs. Putting them back on. He's standing there. Watching me work. Silence other than my grunts. We're there for about half an hour. Me working and his eye's watching my hands. Learning their secrets.