Zeno

Excerpt

Zeno
Gene Gant © 2025
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

“Are we ready, Zeno?”

I looked up, the smile automatically spreading across my face. Mrs. Herron stood in the middle bay of my dad’s auto shop, smiling back at me. For a thirty-something sister, she was really pretty. And hella hot in her tight jeans and blue turtleneck.

“Sure thing, ready to rock,” I replied in my most upbeat, customer-friendly tone. For the record, the “we” she was referring to didn’t include me. She meant herself and her baby, the cherry-red Lexus NX 300 whose hood was currently undergoing a power-buffing at my determined hands.

This was my quasi-new hustle. Almost a year ago, in April, I started working part-time at Dad’s shop doing janitorial work—dumping trash cans, cleaning bathrooms, sweeping and mopping, that sorta stuff. Four months later, a dude brought in his muddy pickup for a new transmission and offered to pay extra for a wash and shine. When Dad turned him down on the cleaning, I volunteered my service, accidentally starting my own car detailing business. After scrubbing abused toilets and emptying absolutely unholy garbage cans, this was definitely a less disturbing and more lucrative livelihood.

Mrs. Herron, one of my best customers, was a corporate attorney who could’ve easily passed for a Memphis Grizzlies cheerleader.

“Well, let’s see about that.” She stepped from the shaded opening of the bay into the afternoon sunshine. Her short black Afro sparkled in the bright yellow rays. So did her eyes as she angled her way between me and the right front fender of her car. With blue microfiber towels clutched in both hands, I moved back to give her room.

I smiled, aglow with pride as she inspected my handiwork. The car interior had been thoroughly vacuumed and dusted, the leather seats and trim wiped down with honey-inspired leather conditioner. The windows had been polished inside and out, totally free of streaks. And the exterior, tires and rims included, bore a super shine worthy of a new car fresh out of the dealership.

“Well,” Mrs. Herron sighed when she completed the circuit of her car and stood next to me. The citrusy smell of her perfume tingled in my nose. Man! Mr. Herron was one lucky dude. “Baby looks like she just rolled off the showroom floor.”

See? I wasn’t exaggerating.

Mrs. Herron lowered her chin, looking directly into my eyes. The smile she gave me now was quite pleased. For some reason, my whole face suddenly flared hot, and I had to look away for a moment. She opened the little black purse she carried, pulled out a neat green roll, and handed it to me. “Great job as usual, Zenie. And you got Baby ready in time for me to make my meeting downtown as promised. Thanks. See you in two weeks.”

“Sure thing, Mrs. Herron.” I opened the driver’s door for her. She slid behind the wheel, fired up the engine, and backed carefully into the street. With a casual wave, she took off.

I’d put away the hose and bucket after finishing the wash and rinse. Humming, I tossed my buffing towels into the old toolbox with the rest of my detailing supplies, grabbed the box, and walked into the service bay.

Bobbo, one of my dad’s mechanics, got in my face right off. He was, like, in his forties with a thin body, a bald head, and a wiry black whisk broom of a goatee. His dark red coveralls were so smudged with grime they looked black. After my last growth spurt, he was now maybe five inches shorter than me, which meant we stood with his nose about level to my chin. He still managed eye contact. His smirk was the kind you’d probably see on an anthropomorphic cat who’d just left a fresh hairball in one of your shoes.

“You don’t count your money, kid?” he said. “That ain’t good policy.”

“I trust Mrs. Herron.” I tried to step around him.

He got in my way again. “Don’t let the pretty faces make you stupid. This is business. Even if they ain’t cheats, people make mistakes. How do you know your customer didn’t accidentally shortchange ya?”

“Uhm?” Okay, he had a point. I unfolded the roll of bills Mrs. Herron had given me and counted them. My mouth dropped open. “Dang. She paid in full and threw in a fifty-buck tip!”

That smirk on Bobbo’s face turned evil. “Hell, I got it all wrong. Lady Law wasn’t the one who played on pretty, huh, ‘Zenie’?” He tweaked my nipple.

“Ow.” I jerked away from his pinching fingers. “What’re you talking about?”

“Yeah, right. Like that tight-ass T-shirt of yours got wet by itself.” Bobbo shook his head, chuckling, and turned away.

“You got it wrong, Bobbo,” I protested, but he waved me off as he went back to work on the car he had hoisted in the air. I felt stung. Let it be known that I’m not a tease, especially when it comes to grown-ass married women who happen to be customers of mine. My T-shirt was tight because I’d been working out a lot over the past few months, bulking up, and neither Mom nor I had gotten around to buying bigger shirts for me. My T-shirt was wet because I’d just finished washing two cars, and I was kinda sloppy when it came to water hoses. Any tips I earned were for doing a thorough, most excellent job and not because I showed off my muscles.

I worked hard and gave my best, principles Dad had drilled into me all my life. There was no reason for me to feel ashamed. Still, I couldn’t shake the guilt that pulsed in my face. I hated for people to think badly of me, especially when I hadn’t done anything wrong.

There was no time for me to freak out over my besmirched reputation. In the employee dressing room, I stashed my toolbox in my locker and stripped off the embarrassing T-shirt, which I left hanging on a hook to dry. I pulled on my blue University of Memphis sweatshirt, grabbed my backpack, and shut the locker. I was heading out in a rush when the door swung in suddenly, and I almost barreled straight into Dad.

“Watch out now!” he said, laughing, and faked a couple of jabs, making me flinch. Forty years old, and the man behaved like a happy kid most of the time. When I was a little guy, his six-foot frame seemed giant-sized to me. At six-three now, I’d overtaken him.

“Yeah, okay. Sir.” Stepping around him, I dismissively gave my dad the same calm-down-little-dude pat on the head he used to give me when I was in my tantrum-throwing phase.

“Boy! Who’re you short-shankin’?” In a flash, he caught me by the ear.

We were both laughing as I doubled over and stumbled back, my head crashing into his chest.

“Okay, okay!” I said. “I’m kinda fond of that ear. Let go, please.”

“I made this ear, and I can take it back. Better recognize.”

“I recognize, Dad! Okay? Now leggo, or I’m gonna be late getting back to school.”

He released me with a tender flick to the side of my face. “Back to school? I thought you were done for the day.”

“Not really.” I finger-combed my curly hair, trying to make sure my ‘do was fresh after suffering Dad’s abuse. “I’ve got a Film Club meeting in thirty minutes. And no, I can’t skip it. We’re making a movie that’s also gonna be our senior project.”

Dad’s smile vanished completely. “Zeno, aren’t you spreading yourself a little thin these days?”

I hesitated a moment, watching him carefully. My dad and I had the same warm, medium-brown complexion, the same friendly hazel eyes, and the same radar for picking up on each other’s moods. It had been a long day, and honestly, my ass was dragging. More than anything, I wanted to go home and sleep for an hour or two. But I didn’t have that kind of time to spare.

I puffed up my chest and widened my smile. “Just doing what I gotta do, Dad.”

He looked so worried I wanted to hug him. “Zeno—”

“Gotta bounce.” I gave his shoulder a squeeze and then backed away quickly.

Dad backed up, too, tacitly letting me go. Never one to go home dirty from work, he unzipped his gray coveralls as he moved toward the showers. “I’m cooking a good dinner. Chicken burritos and corn on the cob. It’s going on the table at seven. Be there, Zeno.”

“I will.” Backpack slung over my shoulder, I retrieved my bike—shiny black frame with yellow seat and handlebars—from the service bay and rode off.

It was a gorgeous day, thank God. Or thank climate change. Blue skies, scattered white puffs of cloud, and an unseasonably hot mid-March were much appreciated but alarming. There’d been no dreaming of a white Christmas this past time around. The winter solstice had announced itself in Memphis with a summerlike eighty-nine degrees. Last-minute Christmas shoppers descended on stores in cutoff jeans and flip-flops. On New Year’s Eve night, Dad and I had stretched out barefoot on the roof in sleeveless tees and basketball shorts to watch the fireworks.

At the opposite end of the current weather extreme in my hometown, the upper Midwest was being treated to the most powerful blizzard in two decades. Parts of Kentucky were drowning in waist-high flood waters brought on by three days—and counting—of hellacious downpour. Scientists declared last year one of the three hottest years in recorded history. This year was already angling for membership in that notorious club. Or maybe it would take the crown. Keep pumping that soot in the air, world! We can do it! Yay!

Senior year, so far, had been a monster for me. I skipped a grade in elementary school, which made me sixteen, and I carried one of the graduating class’s higher GPAs. Still, I gave extra to the academics these days, hoping the additional effort would be taken as a sign of maturity. My parents were skittish that I’d be well under eighteen when I started college, so worried they might make me live at home freshman year. I was crazy about my mom and dad, but I didn’t want to stay under their roof forever. I wanted to watch OnlyFans and bring home dates late at night and cuss whenever I chose. You know. Like a man.

Keeping up a solid academic performance was important for any student at Memphis Technical Fine Arts High School, aka MemTech.

A particular focus of MemTech was to provide a diverse and inclusive learning environment, one that encouraged open-mindedness, mutual respect, and a willingness to compromise. Of course, that very attitude was one of the reasons the Tennessee state legislature had been trying—so far unsuccessfully—to strangle MemTech out of existence.

To achieve its goal of sending well-rounded, open minds into the world, MemTech required every student to participate in at least one group extracurricular activity for a minimum of one academic year. After a failed attempt as a freshman, I tried to satisfy that requirement sophomore year as a football player. I was good at the sport, having played in a peewee league when I was a little guy, and I’d bulked up some by working out and maxing on protein over the summer. I made the team easily. Once the season started, I played first string, racking up some pretty impressive stats.

That all came to a screeching halt in game six when I faked out the center and sacked the opposing quarterback. Doing what I was supposed to do, right? Yeah, but I wasn’t supposed to leave dude screaming on the ground with his right leg bent at a grotesquely unnatural angle.

To this day, I shiver when I remember that. The injured quarterback was really gracious about his broken limb when I visited him in the hospital, brushing it off as just one of those things. Didn’t seem that way to me. I quit the team, unwilling to risk hurting anyone so horribly again. It took a long while for me to stop kicking my own ass over that.

The notion of fulfilling the extracurriculars requirement had sorta leaked from my brain until I hit senior year, whereupon the guidance counselor sent an email reminding me I was running out of time. I chose Film Club for no other reason than I had to choose something. (Well, it helped that one of my best friends was already a member.)

So, after a 5:00 a.m. wake-up, a quick workout and shower and even quicker breakfast (an apple), I biked to MemTech for an hour-long session with my study group. Seven grueling hours of classes later—five of them AP—I biked to the auto shop for two carwash appointments, after which I, once again, wheeled back to MemTech. The fun never stopped.

With my bike secured, I scurried down the empty, echoing main corridor toward the Arts wing and a muted tangle of sound coming from that direction. Once I pushed through the insulated doors, the tangle swelled into a cacophony of voices, ticks, taps, claps, and at least three competing streams of music. Band practice was in full swing, the Glee Club warbling. Mr. Collinde’s theater students ran lines for their spring production, and the contemporary dance troupe stomped away to recorded jazz music. As I rushed to meet with my fellow movie clubbers in the classroom at the end of the hall, the door to my left abruptly swung outward, releasing an also rushing Jemma Haynes.

“Oop!” I pulled up short, avoiding a collision. Jemma jerked herself backward and lost grip on her backpack, which hit the floor with a thud.

Jemma immediately flashed an impish smile that lit up her blue eyes. “Sorry, Zeno. Thank God for my catlike reflexes, huh?” She started to reach down.

“Allow me,” I said in an awfully fake British accent. I scooped up her backpack and presented it to her with a bow.

“Thank you, kind sir.” Jemma’s voice had a snarky edge to it. I liked her snark. She wore some kind of dance getup—a black leotard and white ballet shoes. Appropriate for a ballet dancer just leaving practice. Her blonde hair was tied atop her head in a haphazard bun, and she was a little sweaty. Oh. My bad. Southern females “glow,” thank you very much.

I’d seldom seen this side of Jemma before, a little flushed, a little grubby. She usually kept herself polished and primed during regular school hours and when I visited her house for movie nights or to work on school projects. In addition to an athletic, curvy figure and a gorgeous face, this up-and-coming ballet artiste captained the girls’ swim team, carried a 4.2 GPA, and had already been accepted to her dream school, Juilliard.

Me, I still wasn’t quite sure what I wanted to be when I grew up.

Jemma’s eyes shifted to the top of my head. “I’m so happy. You finally started wearing a helmet on your bike rides.”

“What’re you talking about?”

She reached up, plucking at my hair. “You have a bad case of helmet head.”

Jeez! I didn’t wear a helmet when riding my bike for precisely this reason. I should’ve checked myself out in a mirror after my head got pressed against Dad’s chest. Given my family’s budgetary limitations, I accepted that I’d live out my teen years in a Walmart wardrobe. But dang if I’d ever accept jacked hair. I made a move for the restroom. “’Scuse me, Jem. I gotta fix—”

“Hang on.” Jemma kept finger-combing my hair. The fluffing felt really good, tingling over my scalp. Then she leaned back and assessed what she’d done. “Okay, you’re good.”

“You sure?”

“Zeno,” she said, one hand going to her hip, her tone reproachful. “Have I ever not done right by you?”

I smiled. “Thanks. Gotta go. Film Club.”

“I should go too. I have to pick up my sister. See you tomorrow.” She grabbed me by the bicep, gave it a lingering squeeze, and then slipped past me.

As we moved in opposite directions along the hall, I looked back at Jemma, just as she looked over her shoulder at me. She smiled. I gave her a wink. That seemed to put an extra pep in her step as she disappeared around the corner.