Butch... (the start)

He sits in his chair, not muttering a word as he looks out of the window, tinted from the years of dirt and grease funneling throughout the front office. His chair squeaks slowly as he leans from side to side, but the sound gets lost and goes unheard amongst the rest of the noise in the shop. The drop of a wrench is loud and dominant, but Grandpa doesn’t turn a cheek. He continues to stare off into a place that only he knows. I ask him what he is thinking about. With the shrug of his shoulders he replies, “nothin’ kid.”

Next to him sits Axel. Axel’s head sits as high as the arm of Grandpa’s chair and he too consumes the hours of the day by watching the events from this room. His paws are black from stepping in oil and gas, and his fur has an oily texture to it that leave the hands feeling slimy, almost buttery.  The two of them are posed as almost a hood ornament for the business. Together they have branded their seats and their faces through the dingy front door as, “Hasse’s finest.”

“He comes everyday, but it’s gotten progressively closer to noon over the last few years,” says Steve, his son and the current business owner. It’s all he’s known for 53 years. Although the task of coming to sit in that chair each morning seems monotonous and almost pointless, it still remains as a stagnant portion of his daily routine. It’s as if he leaves his heart there overnight, and he must come back for it the next day, and sit with it for a bit.