Manny Ruiz, 53, makes his living restoring vintage neon signs out of a cinder block garage behind his east Austin bungalow, the sides of the structure plastered with half-finished glass lettering and rusted marquee brackets he’s dragged home from junkyards across the Hill Country. Eight years prior, his wife left after a fight that boiled down to him spending more time hunched over a gas burner bending glass than sitting across from her at the dinner table, and he’d retreated into his work ever since, turning down all collaborative jobs, only leaving the garage three times a week for groceries, church, and a single Shiner Bock at the corner dive on Tuesday nights. He’s got a scar snaking up his left wrist from a 2021 electrical shock while fixing a beer sign above a honky-tonk’s stage, and he still flinches when he sees a digital billboard go up where a neon piece used to be.
He’s perched on the end stool of the bar on a crisp October Tuesday, the cuff of his frayed gray flannel rolled up to his elbow, calloused fingers wrapped around the cold condensation-slicked bottle of beer, when the bar owner slaps a flyer down next to his hand. Neighborhood historic district meeting tonight, the guy says. We need someone who knows the old signs on the drag to speak up if they try to tear the State Theater marquee down for a digital ad screen. Manny nods, even though he hates meetings, hates talking to strangers, hates the way people look at his scar and ask dumb questions about how he got it. He stays put, scrolling through photos of a 1950s motel sign he’s working on, the hum of the neon Coors sign above the bar thrumming low in his bones.
A woman carrying a stack of flyers trips over the leg of his stool ten minutes later, her shoulder hitting his upper arm hard enough to jostle his beer, her hand flying out to grab his wrist to steady herself before she faceplants into the peanut bowl on the bar. Her hand is cool, soft, scented like vanilla lotion, her chipped sage green nail polish catching the neon light, and Manny freezes, half annoyed that she’s in his space, half hyper-aware of the way her palm presses into the raised edge of his scar. She apologizes, breathless, as flyers scatter across the sticky linoleum, and he leans down to help her pick them up, their knuckles brushing when they both grab for the top flyer, which has a photo of the exact State Theater marquee he restored back in 2019 before the city shut the building down.
He learns her name is Clara, she’s the new city historic preservation officer, moved to Austin three months prior from Portland, and she’s been tracking him down for two weeks to ask if he’d lead the marquee restoration, if the neighborhood votes to save it instead of replacing it with the digital billboard. He starts to say no, says he doesn’t work with city teams, doesn’t deal with permits or red tape, but she leans in, elbows propped on the bar next to his, her knee brushing his under the counter when she shifts to get comfortable, her hazel eyes flecked with gold locked on his. I’ll handle all the red tape, she says, grinning, a dimple popping in her left cheek. You just bend the glass. The scent of her iced tea with extra lemon curls into his nose, and for the first time in years, he feels that tight, warm pull in his chest, half disgust at himself for even considering saying yes, half sharp, hungry desire to say yes, to not spend every waking hour alone in his garage with only the hum of gas burners for company.
The meeting starts five minutes later, Clara standing at the front of the small crowd, talking through the numbers, the pushback from the city council, the way the digital billboard company has been lobbying to put their screen up before the end of the year. She looks directly at Manny the entire time she talks about the marquee, like she’s only making the case to him, no one else in the room. When she asks if anyone with experience restoring historic neon would be willing to take on the project, Manny raises his hand before he can talk himself out of it. The room claps, and Clara grins so wide her eyes crinkle at the corners.
After the meeting, she walks over to him, leaning in so close her wavy auburn hair brushes his cheek when she tucks a strand behind her ear, and hands him a crumpled slip of notebook paper with her cell number scrawled on it, the ink smudged a little from where her fingers sweated holding it during the meeting. I’ll pick you up at 8 tomorrow, she says. We can walk through the theater, check out the damage to the marquee. He nods, tucking the paper into the inner pocket of his flannel, right over his chest.
He stays for one more beer after she leaves, the bartender teasing him that he hasn’t seen Manny look that alive since before his wife left. Manny smirks, doesn’t argue, finishes the last sip of his beer, and walks out to his beat-up 2007 Ford F-150, the cool October air nipping at his cheeks, the slip of paper warm through the fabric of his flannel. He turns the key in the ignition, the radio cutting on to an old Willie Nelson track his wife used to play on cross-state road trips to pick up old signs. He reaches up to brush the scar on his wrist, and pulls out of the parking lot, already mentally listing the glass colors he’ll need for the marquee’s faded red cowboy hat.
