Some shops run on diesel. Others run on coffee. Bay 2 runs on secrets. It’s the kind of bay where the lights flicker even when the power’s fine, and the smell of burnt wires lingers long after the job is done. Dean works there. Calm. Precise. But even he doesn’t stay after hours. The rumors started slow. Kade swore Bus #12 honked at him with no horn connected. Len claimed Bus #22 had rust that smiled. And Derek, fresh out of high school, once ran out mid-oil change yelling about phantom grease prints. Lars called it bad lighting. Toby called it “Dean’s problem.” But one thing was certain: Stuff went missing. 10mm sockets. Fluorescent light covers. A brand-new brake bleeder vanished before it ever touched fluid. Then came the wall behind the lockers. Tucked in a dim corner of Bay 2, there’s a steel panel nobody ever noticed—until Derek bumped it with a creeper and heard the click. It swings inward. Inside? Dust. Cobwebs. A smell like old paper and spilled coolant. Rick found it once while chasing a dropped receipt. Dean told him to leave it shut. They called it the junk vault. Inside: - An unopened can of Coke from 1999 - A photo of a dog wearing safety goggles - A cracked carb jet in a velvet ring box - A journal labeled “Bay Confessions” The last page reads: If you’re reading this, you’re not supposed to be here. The buses talk. The tools walk. And someone—someone—is hoarding all the missing 10mm sockets. But here’s the part no one talks about: Dean never said how deep that room goes. Derek’s sure there’s more past the back wall. And Lars once tapped on the floor and muttered, “That’s not concrete.” Toby’s ruled it a “no-go zone.” Ray just drinks his coffee in the upstairs office and pretends it doesn’t exist. Daryl once dropped off a water pump and said the air in Bay 2 felt “off.”He never went back. Rick? He delivers parts by tossing them in and walking away fast. Everyone laughs about it… Until the lights dim early. Until a tool vanishes mid-repair.

By Stephen Lavoie & ChatGPT © 2025 Stephen Lavoie All rights reserved. Part of the Mechanic Shop Series Trent had a way with machines. He could back a skidder off a tandem trailer, squeeze it into a bay with inches to spare, and do it without taking out a bench, a tool cart, or someone’s lunch. He just couldn’t tell red from green to save his life. Most days, he was the one climbing into half-dead bush equipment the moment it hit the yard — bent panels, weeping seals, a dash full of warning symbols. He’d fire it up, test what still worked, and line it up for teardown like it was nothing. But Trent was colour blind. The kind where wires were a gamble, and choosing the right can of paint was a full-time hazard. The real trouble hit during wiring. Kade was chasing a no-power issue on a forestry truck. “Pass me the green with black stripe,” he said. Trent handed him something that was… brown? Or maybe gray? Either way, he’d never make the cut for the bomb squad if the job came down to picking the red wire. Kade frowned. “You sure this is green?” Trent shrugged. “Felt green.” But the best disaster came during a quick service assist. Lars was replacing a return line on a forwarder — one of those wheeled bush rigs with a log bunk on the back and just enough cab space to lose your wrench and your sanity.Trent’s job was to cap the open port — basically just keep fluid from pouring out while the system was cracked open. In the bin were two identical caps. Derek, being Derek, had tagged them with zip ties — one red, one green. To Trent, that was just two medium-dark zip ties. He picked one, spun it on. Lars opened the valve. WHAM. Hydraulic fluid shot across the bay, slammed into Derek’s toolbox, and soaked the shop vac. Derek stood up dripping. “Guess we found out which one’s not the return.” Trent just wiped his hands and muttered, “Should’ve used numbers.” Len didn’t help. He once handed Trent a can labeled Fleet Yellow and asked him to touch up a grader’s fender.

By Stephen Lavoie & ChatGPT © 2025 Stephen Lavoie All rights reserved. Part of the Mechanic Shop Series At most shops, 20% of a car means it’s headed for the scrapyard. But not in Bay 1. Not with Len on shift. To everyone else, it was a rotted shell. No doors. No roof. Just the ghost of a frame and a VIN tag that barely clung on. But Len — paint-stained coveralls, coffee in hand — looked at the wreck and smiled. “Perfect,” he said. “She’s still got 20%. That’s a starting point.” Derek paused mid-step. “You mean a starting point… for what?” Len didn’t look up. “A comeback.” He fired up the old spray gun with a hiss. Dust settled. Primer floated. And slowly, steel started to remember what it meant to shine. By the time Toby walked by to “check progress,” the jokes had already begun. “Len’s building cars from imagination now.” “That thing’s got less structure than Derek’s sleep schedule.” “If you give Len a hubcap and a dream, he’ll give you a Camaro.” Toby leaned into the bay. “How much of that car’s actually original?” Len didn’t miss a beat. “About 20%.” “And the rest?” “Hope. Elbow grease. And parts Daryl swore we didn’t carry.” Two weeks later, the shop stood in silence. Fresh paint glowed like candy. Panels aligned like they were born that way. It wasn’t the same car. It was better. Derek ran a hand across the hood. “I don’t get it. It was a pile of nothing.” Len took a slow sip of coffee. “Was.” Since then, anytime something half-dead rolls into Bay 1, no one panics. They just say: “Len’ll probably call it a starting point.” And every now and then, if you walk past the bay while the radio hums and the air smells like fresh clearcoat, you’ll hear him mutter under his breath— “20% is plenty… if you know how to dream.”

By Stephen Lavoie & ChatGPT © 2025 Stephen Lavoie All rights reserved. Part of the Mechanic Shop Series No one really knew where Dean came from. Some said he used to rebuild Greyhound engines bare-handed. Others whispered he once pulled a seized turbo apart using nothing but a crescent wrench and a mug of black coffee. But at Ray’s Auto & Fabrication, only one thing mattered: If Dean said the bus would be ready before the next run… It was as good as done. Bus #12 rolled into Bay 2 just after morning break — smoke curling from under the hood, coughing like it had just run a marathon in reverse. The transmission wouldn’t shift, the engine sputtered like a campfire in the rain, and something metal clunked onto the floor halfway through the entrance. The new foreman, Toby, raised an eyebrow. “This one needs a full transplant.” Dean didn’t say a word. Just gave a nod, wiped his hands on a shop rag, and opened his toolbox. By the time the crew was finishing lunch, the hoist was already humming. At 4:42 PM — three minutes early — Bus #12 rumbled back to life. Not from luck. Not from miracles. But because Dean was in Bay 2, sleeves rolled up, face half-covered in soot, and eyes calm like a man fixing a coffee maker, not an entire diesel system. Lars peeked in from the main bay. “Didn’t think that crate had another run in it.” Dean just shrugged. “Runs fine. Just needed someone to listen.” Kade, still holding a clipboard, blinked. “You talked to it?” Dean didn’t answer. He just tapped the dash once and walked back to the parts room, like it was just another Tuesday. Later that evening, Dale (the retired foreman) leaned over to Toby at the whiteboard. “Still don’t know how he does it.” Toby nodded. “I stopped asking. I just make sure Bay 2 stays open.” Dean still doesn’t say much. Still shows up early. Still drinks his coffee like motor oil and fixes buses like they’re family. And as the sign above Bay 2 says (someone carved it into the wall with a grinder):“Don’t bother the bus — Dean’s got it.”

By Stephen Lavoie & ChatGPT Derek wasn’t just having a normal Tuesday. No — today was the day he became… The Shop Cop. Armed with a red-and-green blinking headlamp that looked more like a disco ball than a tool, Derek stepped into Ray’s Auto & Fabrication like a man on a mission. He clicked it on. It buzzed. It blinked. It immediately gave three people a headache. “I’m watching everything now,” he announced. “Tool thieves beware.” Sam, the welder, didn’t even look up from his bead. “Find your own wrench yet?” “Nope,” Derek said proudly. “But justice is about to be served.” Above them, like a boss-shaped gargoyle, loomed Dale, the retired foreman — still watching over the shop from the mezzanine with a coffee in one hand and authority he no longer technically had in the other. “Derek,” Dale said, his voice echoing through the bays, “That headlamp’s got more watts than your brain.” Derek didn’t flinch. “Gotta stay sharp, Dale. The shop’s a crime scene.” Dale took a slow sip. “Then solve the mystery of how you made it through Tuesday without a clue.” That day, everything was suspicious. The missing 10mm socket? “Definitely an inside job,” Derek muttered. Grease on the microwave handle? “Sabotage, obviously.” The broken tape measure? “Clearly tampered with.” He began issuing warnings — bright yellow sticky notes slapped on lunchboxes, toolboxes, and one unlucky mechanic’s back. Each one read: Under Investigation. —Shop Cop Lars finally had enough. “You’ve written yourself up three times, Derek!” “I’m being thorough,” Derek replied, adjusting his flashing headlamp. That afternoon, Dale came down from his perch holding Derek’s long-lost wrench. “Found this… inside the fridge. Wrapped in tin foil. Next to your sandwich.” The whole shop went silent. Even the grinder stopped. Everyone turned to Derek. He blinked. The headlamp blinked back. “…The real criminal here,” Derek said slowly, “is poor fridge labeling.” Dale handed him the wrench. “Case closed, Cop.”