His Uptown Girl

Falling backwards onto the worn couch, Bob stretched out his aching feet. “I know. It’s great that business is picking up, but I’m exhausted.” He extended one arm toward the unfinished work orders lined up on the board. “No matter what time we get out of here, we’ll have to be back at five in the morning.”

“My wife isn’t very pleased about these long hours. At least you’re still single,” Bart retorted.

“Maybe this is why I’m still single.”

Bart turned to look outside at the row of cars they had promised their customers they could pick up sometime within the next twenty-four hours. “We have to hire some help.”

The growing pile of invoices and purchase orders on the counter, spurred Bob’s reply. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

Bart turned and walked behind the counter. He grabbed a blank piece of paper and pulled a pen out of his pocket. “The newspaper charges by the word, don’t they? What should I say? Wanted. Light-duty mechanic?”

Without leaving the couch, Bob scanned the boxes of orders, requisitions, receipts and charge bills to be submitted, as well as deposit slips from the bank. “We’re busy, but we’re not busy enough to add another full-time mechanic. If we hire a bookkeeper, then that frees us up to get more done in the shop.”

Bart scratched his head, pen in hand. “But there are decisions a bookkeeper can’t make, stuff one of us would have to decide. Besides, we don’t have enough paperwork to keep someone busy full-time. When all this stuff is caught up, we can’t afford to pay someone just to sit here and answer the phone.”

“We’re nearly a week behind even on the small jobs,” Bob said, gesturing at the work orders piled under pushpins on their work board. “I’ve got an overhaul that’s been waiting three days. I guess you’re right. We need a mechanic.”

Bart stuck his hand in the closest box and lifted out a handful of papers. “It’s almost our fiscal year-end, time for our corporate taxes. Your friend Adrian always needs everything balanced, reconciled and printed out so he can file for us. You’re right. We need a bookkeeper.”

The two men stared at each other in silence.

“We need both,” Bob mumbled, “But it would be too hard to hire two part-timers. I don’t want to invest all our time and money to train someone, then have them quit for a better job elsewhere that can give them more hours when they get enough experience. Maybe we should forget about it.”

Bart shook his head. “The baby is three weeks old. I never see her except when she’s up in the middle of the night crying. And that’s when I should be sleeping, too. I can’t keep this up.”

Bob felt his whole body sag. Neither of them could continue working eighteen-hour days, six days a week. Lately, the only time Bob wasn’t working was when he took off a few hours Wednesday evening to practice the songs he would be playing on Sunday with his church’s worship team. Up until recently, he refused to work Sundays, but they were so far behind, he’d started to work a few hours on Sunday, too.

He didn’t know when control had first eluded them, but they’d reached their breaking point. Soon they were going to start making mistakes, which, where cars and people were concerned, could not happen.

It had to stop.

“You’re right. We both need to slow down. Let’s hire two part-timers, a mechanic and a bookkeeper, and we’ll see what happens.” The stack of work orders lined up for Saturday, was well beyond what they could accomplish, even if both he and Bart worked twenty-four hours nonstop.

Dropping his pen suddenly as if at a thought, Bart turned to the computer. “I just remembered something. I don’t have to write out that ad. I heard that you can do it online. I can even put it on my charge card.”

Bob stood. “You’ve probably missed the deadline for tomorrow’s paper.”

Bart found the right Website, and started typing in his usual hunt-and-peck, two-finger mode. “Maybe I haven’t.”

Suddenly Bob’s head swam as the magnitude of the process hit him. “I just thought of something. What about all the phone calls, and the time it’s going to take to set up and do interviews?”

Bart’s fingers stilled. “What are you trying to say?”

“We don’t have that kind of time. People are going to start taking their business elsewhere.”

“Have you got a better idea?”

Bob walked to the counter, and reached for one of the boxes containing incomplete purchase orders. He tore off the flap to the box, picked up the black felt pen, and began to write.

HELP WANTED—APPLY WITHIN

Part-time light-duty mechanic

Part-time office assistant

Hours and wages negotiable.

He dug a roll of black electrical tape out of the drawer while Bart watched, and taped the cardboard to the window.

“What are you doing?”

Bob turned around. “Saturday is our busiest day, and lots of people come in. If any of them are interested, we can take care of interviewing right there. We should forget about the ad.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

Bob raised his hand toward the sign, which was slightly crooked. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

“I guess you’re really not kidding,” Bart mumbled.

Bob sighed. The business had supported both him and Bart for years, and now there was also Bart’s family. They couldn’t fail now. There was too much at stake.

“God will provide,” Bob said softly. I’ve always believed in God’s timing, and I still do.”

Bart resumed his typing. “You’re crazy. Certifiably crazy.”

Bob spun around. “Don’t you believe God can send us the right people?”

“I doubt God will have the right people simply fall from the sky. But I do know one thing. If we don’t get McTavish’s 4X4 finished, we’ll be in trouble when he comes to get it at 7:00 a.m. I’m putting this ad in the paper. I’m sure God will have the right people fax in their résumés.”

“I still think we’ll do better with the sign in the window. We don’t have the time or the energy for millions of faxes and phone calls. Besides, there’s more to hiring than just looking at résumés.”

“But that’s where we have to start, and the only way we’re going to get qualified people to send us those résumés is through the paper.” Bart hit Enter. “Done. The ad’s in.”

Bob crossed his arms over his chest and turned his head to look at his sign. “And the sign is up. It looks like the battle is on.”

Bart killed the browser. “Yeah. May the best man win. Now let’s get back to work.”

“Daddy! This dress is horrible!”

Georgette Ecklington’s father flashed her a condescending smile. “The girl at the store told me you would look great in it.”

Georgette gritted her teeth and pressed her lips together so hard they hurt. The “girl” in question was thirty-five years old. Because her father was one of their best customers and always paid full price, the woman happily told him anything he wanted to hear.

Still, the woman was probably right. Georgette knew she would look “good” in yet another overly frilly, fussy, pink dress with enough lace to choke a horse. If that was the way she wanted to look.

Which she didn’t.

“Don’t disappoint me, Georgie-Pie.” Her father’s stern gaze belied the familiarity of the nickname.