I Have Signed My Name at the Bottom of the Receipt
A poem. "Yes, the cost of labor is 120 dollars an hour"
My name is ink now and agrees: Yes, the cost of labor is 120
dollars an hour, and yes, the serpentine belt with its idler pulleys
and tensioner blew out crossing the Tehachapi Mountains,
causing the power steering to go and the water pump to stop
moving coolant through the engine block which caused it to
overheat, and yes, it will all need to be fixed since I
am headed down from the East Bay and will need to return — so
what needs to be replaced will be replaced as I sit in the lounge
of the mechanic’s, watching the American League Championship
Series, wondering how many vans have overheated going through
those hills and had to coast down their grade and limp into this same
shop, saying the same thing I have said—saying yes. And I realize the
MB Auto Center in Castaic will forget me because I am made up of
original parts, which means I’ll be replaced, and as I give back
the receipt signed with my name the mechanic tells me that he
too is from the Bay, near Colma, and I say my great-grandparents
are buried there, and he says that is where everyone is buried.
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