Paint, lacquer thinner, and cigarette smoke.
Oh, the smells of childhood.
Since before I was born, my dad owned a bodyshop. That shop has been a staple in my family for so long that my earliest memories are concentrated around it. I remember playing under my mom's desk there when I was too young to go to school. Every Friday my sister and I were babysat as she paid the bills and tallied the payroll. She would come home smelling of dirt and cold night air with a hint of Elizabeth Arden's Red Door, her leather jacket tucked about her and Raybans covering her eyes.
Muted blue button-up shirts with white stripes became common to me. My dad dressed in them everyday. On one side a patch read, "Chris," the other, "The Bodyman." My dad was the Body Man. The uniform was so much a part of him that when I dream about him, he's always wearing it.
For nearly 25 years I have come and gone through that place, and still I know very little of cars. I was never interested; never bothered to learn.
Now I work there.
When my dad was alive, I was too scared to consider working there. My dad was not what one would call diplomatic or tactful. He said what he wanted to say, when he wanted to say it, and most of what he wanted to say was insulting, offensive, or chauvinism disguised as a joke.
But he ran The Bodyman well. His personality allowed him to succeed there. He made friends. Too many of them. People respected him.
Now that he's gone, my mom is struggling to replace the gaping hole he left in the shop. Without the Body Man, what is The Bodyman? My dad had enough energy for three, maybe four, people. With shoes that big, it is taking too many of us to fill them. We don't have his knowledge or his charisma. We don't even like cars.
But we are trying. The Body Man left us a legacy, and it wouldn't do to disappoint - even if that displeasure would come from beyond the grave.
