Javi Mendez, 57, has restored over 400 vintage neon signs in his 22 year career, and he’s never once taken a meeting at a block party. The air smells like hickory smoked brisket, burnt sugar funnel cake, and the sharp, earthy crunch of fallen live oak leaves under steel-toe work boots as he hefts the last wiring crate off his flatbed, a smudge of phosphorous dust streaked across his left cheek. He’d only agreed to hang the restored 1950s malt shop sign for the downtown revival event as a favor to the old bar owner he’s known since he was a teen, and he’d planned to be gone before the crowd thickened, back to his workshop with a six pack and a John Wayne western before 8.
He turns too fast, slamming his shoulder into a warm, solid weight, and hot spiced apple cider sloshes over the rim of a paper cup, soaking the cuff of his gray flannel shirt. He’s ready to snap before he looks down, fully expecting the frumpy cardigan-clad historical society director who’s left 12 unreturned voicemails on his cell over the past three weeks begging him to take on the old downtown theater marquee restoration. Instead, he’s staring at a woman in high-waisted raw denim jeans, a scuffed cream turtleneck, and a black leather jacket with a faded 1969 Apollo 11 patch sewn to the left sleeve, her dark hair pulled back in a loose braid, a streak of cinnamon in the corner of her mouth.
Clara Bennett, she says, holding out a hand to shake, her palm warm and calloused at the fingertips, not soft like he’d imagined. She dabs at his soaked sleeve with a crumpled napkin from her jacket pocket, her knuckle brushing the faint scar on his forearm he got when a glass tube exploded on him three years back, and he doesn’t flinch. She teases him for dodging her calls, says she’d heard he was stubborn, but she didn’t think he’d resort to hiding in his workshop with the blinds drawn. He huffs a laugh, the first genuine one he’s had all week, and admits he’d written the historical society off as a bunch of stuffy retirees who’d nitpick every choice he made on the marquee job.
She buys him a cold lager from the beer tent to make up for the cider, and they perch on a splintered picnic table set back from the main drag, a cover band playing old Johnny Cash cuts loud enough to drown out the crowd chatter a few feet away. She leans in when he talks about bending neon tubing over a 1200 degree flame, her knee brushing his under the table, the faint smell of jasmine perfume mixing with the cinnamon on her breath when she asks follow up questions, no blank stares, no bored nods. He finds himself telling her about his ex-wife, who left him 8 years prior for a dental insurance salesman who’d never had a speck of dirt under his nails, how he’d stopped taking long-term jobs after that, liked being able to pack up his fishing gear and drive to the coast at a moment’s notice no questions asked. She nods, says she gets it, she quit a six-figure corporate non-profit job in Chicago 6 months prior to take the historical society gig, got sick of spending 12 hours a day in meetings about work she never got to actually see finished.
The sun dips below the oak trees as they talk, and Javi stands, wiping beer foam off his jeans, to flip the switch on the malt shop sign. The pink and blue neon flickers once, then blazes to life, painting the surrounding faces in soft, glowing color, and when he turns back to Clara, the light hits her eyes, turning them a bright, honeyed amber. She leans across the table, her hand covering his where it rests on the splintered wood, her thumb brushing the callus on the side of his index finger, and asks him again about the marquee job, says she’ll pay 20% over his usual rate, no micromanaging, no stuffy board meetings to sit through. She pauses, then smirks, says she’s got a pot of brisket chili simmering on her stove back at her cottage, if he wants to come look at the initial blueprints tonight instead of scheduling a stuffy meeting next week.
He thinks about the six pack in his fridge, the half-watched western he left paused on his TV, the empty house he’s come home to every night for 8 years, and for the first time since his ex left, none of that sounds appealing. He slings his tool bag over his shoulder, nods toward the parking lot where his flatbed is parked, and says he’ll follow her back. Her hand brushes the small of his back as they walk past the funnel cake truck, the neon glow streaking the sidewalk in bands of pink and blue, the sound of the band’s cover of Folsom Prison Blues fading soft behind them.
