When the old lead painter had messed up, it was picking out the wrong color tone or not noticing that something had needed an extra coat of clear. Okay, it had never happened while Rip had been at CCC, and it had never been a mistake of this size.
The man who had taught me everything he knew had messed up all the time. How could I have screwed up like this? Realistically, I knew that people made mistakes. Maybe I could get him to talk to me in his office or in my room. It wasn’t unusual for me to come out on the floor, but it wasn’t that normal either. I repeated all those things to myself as I crossed between the cars, purposely ignoring the glances I got from the two guys still working as I made my way toward Rip. I couldn’t go back in time and change my mistake, as much as I would have wanted to. Why? Why had I screwed up today? Crap, crap, crap. Sure enough, most of the mechanics for CCC had left for the day, but I still spotted two heads on the floor that weren’t Rip’s brown and silver mix.Īt the lane furthest from where I stood, I could see him taking the seats out of a GTO that I hadn’t seen before lunch. One lane was always set aside for whatever car or cars Ripley happened to be restoring.
Three lanes were usually reserved for cars that were getting mechanical work done, usually a car involved in a collision. There were four “lanes.” Each lane had two cars on it. Don’t overreact, I told myself as I placed one foot in front of the other, heading to the main floor of the shop and looking around at the eight different cars parked inside at the moment.
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