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The pickup truck wheezed with the effort of Obasanjo sliding into the driver's side.
He closed his door with a sense of finality, blocking out the groans of the outside world. Along the street, a garbage truck was ground to a halt, its mechanical arm sweeping through the amber of the afternoon sky. From the passenger seat, Clay watched the truck through Obasanjo's water spotted window as a stream of garbage emptied into the truck's open mouth.
Clay hugged his backpack to his chest.
He was grateful that Obasanjo had offered him a ride without comment towards his car. The atmosphere in the shop had been tense since Kinga's departure and no one had wished to address any of the events that had unfolded earlier in the day. Obasanjo lingered as Clay closed up, the end of his lit cigarette glowing amber against the dark shade of his lips. With a nod, he signalled and that was all Clay had needed.
Much went unspoken between the two men. Oftentimes Clay had felt the shop was the length of a football field to make room for all of their shared histories — himself, Obasanjo, his father. Now everything that had gone unsaid was cramped in the front seat alongside them. Clay felt claustrophobic, his breathing forced shallow. Thankfully, Obasanjo started the car in silence, reversing before he guided them towards the road.
Minutes spanned before either spoke. It was Clay who cleared his throat first.
"Thanks." His voice was stiff. He had not spoken a lick since the incident with Rolf. Obasanjo nodded in response.
"No need to thank me. Just doing the right thing."
This struck a strange cord in Clay's chest. It was not lost on him that Obasanjo had stuck around despite Rolf's glaring flaws. He had managed to not hold it against him, it felt like something of a universal truth that Rolf was the way he was and Obasanjo looked the other way. Yet with their proximity, this logic fell short. Clay's brow tensed.
"Yeah. Still, thanks." He said. His voice rang hollow. "Guess I know what I'm doing tomorrow morning."
"Russo and Costa said they would handle it." Obasanjo replied. His voice was impassive as he lightly gripped the wheel. As they slowed in front of a red light, he wound down the window. It squeaked with the effort. "You mind?'
