Manny Ruiz, 59, makes his living restoring antique typewriters out of a cinder block shop in west Asheville, and he’s held the same grudge against Carl Hale for 41 years. Carl beat him out of a full-ride woodworking scholarship back in 1982, and Manny never let himself forget it, even when Carl moved 30 minutes outside town to raise a family and never spoke to him again. He only leaves his shop three times a week: for supply runs to the hardware store, for Sunday brunch at the diner on Main, and for Tuesday trivia at The Rusty Spur, the dive bar where the beer is cold, the bar stools have torn vinyl, and no one bothers him unless they want to argue about 90s country music facts.
He’s perched on his usual third stool from the end of the bar nursing a PBR when she walks in, index cards stacked under one arm, a neon pink “LILA” name tag pinned to the front of her worn denim jacket. The bar is loud, the jukebox blaring Merle Haggard’s “Mama Tried” over the chatter of 12 trivia teams, but he notices her immediately, the way her scuffed work boots thud against the sticky linoleum, the way she tucks a strand of chestnut hair behind her ear when she leans over the bar to order a seltzer. She smells like jasmine and citrus when she steps next to him, her shoulder brushing his flannel sleeve as she asks if the empty stool to his left is taken. He nods, grunting a yes, until he sees the last name scrawled under her first on the name tag: Hale.
The grudge flares instantly. He goes quiet, staring at the condensation dripping down the side of his beer can, even when she starts making small talk, pointing at the tiny vintage Underwood pin he wears on his shirt lapel. He gives her short, one-word answers at first, half waiting for her to say something smug, something that proves she’s just like her dad. She doesn’t. She teases him about the fact he’s wearing a typewriter pin to a bar, laughs when he admits he once drove three hours to a yard sale to pick up a 1950s Royal that only needed a new ribbon. When she announces the first trivia question, she winks directly at him from the podium, and his chest feels tight, a weird mix of irritation and something warmer he hasn’t felt in years.
Midway through the second round, she asks a question about the most popular portable typewriter model sold between 1972 and 1976, and no one in the bar yells the right answer except him. She cheers, loud enough that the whole room turns to look, and gives his team an extra half point for “obscure, incredibly specific expertise”. During halftime, she brings him a free shot of bourbon, sliding into the empty seat next to him, their knees brushing under the edge of the bar when she leans in to be heard over the noise. She tells him her dad has talked about him for decades, how Manny was the only person who ever beat him at woodworking competitions, how he still keeps the hand-carved chess set Manny made for the 1982 state fair on his kitchen table, even after his stroke last year left him partially paralyzed.
The grudge dissolves so fast he almost feels silly for holding it for so long. They talk for the rest of the break, her hand brushing his forearm for half a second when she laughs at his story about the customer who brought in a typewriter that had been used as a cat litter box for six months. He forgets to check his phone to see if his trivia team buddies are ever going to show up. He forgets that he told himself he’d never get close to anyone again after his wife left for a travel nurse eight years prior.
Trivia ends at 10, and her beat-up Honda Civic won’t start in the parking lot. He offers to jump it, grabs the portable jump starter he keeps in the back of his F-150 for trips to yard sales. When the car still won’t turn over, he offers to drive her home, and she agrees. They stop at the 24/7 taco stand on the edge of town on the way, sitting on the tailgate of his truck eating carnitas tacos, the night air cool enough that he hands her his extra flannel, the one he keeps rolled up behind the seat. She steals a bite of his pineapple habanero taco, their fingers brushing when she hands it back, the spice making her eyes water.
He drops her off at the small ranch house she’s staying in with her dad, the porch light glowing warm against the dark. She leans in to hug him before she gets out, pressing a quick, soft kiss to his cheek, and tells him she’s bringing her dad’s old Royal typewriter by his shop first thing Monday morning to get it restored. He drives home after she walks inside, the faint smell of jasmine still clinging to the collar of his flannel, and he turns up the old George Strait cassette he keeps in the tape deck, smiling for the first time in months at the thought of Monday.
