16d • Shop Talk Stories
Chapter 4: Trent the Colour-Blind Mechanic
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.
Trent sprayed it evenly and hung the can up with pride.
By morning it had dried to something close — safety green, maybe lime if you squinted. Definitely not yellow.
Toby stared at it for a solid ten seconds before asking:
“Did we switch brands, or is the machine trying to glow in the dark now?”
Len just sipped his coffee.
“Looks bold. Almost… artistic.”
Trent didn’t say a word. He just nodded, peeled off his gloves, and walked back to the bench like he meant to do it.
And from that day on, nobody touched that fender. Not to repaint it, not to clean it. It became part of the shop.
A joke. A landmark. A little bit of Trent’s legacy — forever a few shades off.
Even so, when it came to feel — Trent had it.
He could tell a worn kingpin by the sound it made rolling over gravel.
He once caught a cracked injector line just from the smell.
And no one parked a machine tighter between bays — even with bad steering and one brake caliper hanging on by spite.
Later that week, Trent walked up to Toby’s office, wiping grease on his coveralls.
Toby looked up from the whiteboard.
“Green Western Star. Injector seals. Bay 3.”
Trent nodded without a word and turned back toward the lot.
Five minutes later, he rolled into Bay 3 in a blue Kenworth.
Toby stood there.
Trent climbed out, deadpan.
“This one’s leaking worse.”
Dale, laughing from above, shouted,
“Maybe we’ll fix the wrong truck before lunch!”
He couldn’t always grab the right wire.
And you’d never want him picking colours for a paint job.
But when it came to keeping the flow of busted iron moving through the bays — Trent was rock solid.
Even if the machines came out a slightly different colour than they came in.
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Chapter 4: Trent the Colour-Blind Mechanic
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