Write Off – Male vs. Female POV Part 1

Write Off Series: Male vs Female POV

Hello dear reader. This post kicks off a feature where we have two or more authors write off against each other.  Today and tomorrow we’re using the same scene from different points of view. Our goal is to show what people’s of different perspectives notice and what they comment on. We’re going to present this in the form of narrative so it’s more organic to writing. Don’t be too hard on the story, we’re after showing what our character’s notice more than setting a strong plot. (At least that was my excuse until I read Jennifer’s masterpiece).

Today’s post starts with the male POV (written by the Wench’s barkeep Michael Simko). Tomorrow the same scene is from the female POV written by Jennifer Ray.


The setting used for both posts:

Setting:

Jack. 32, caucasian, tall, strongly built.

Mya. 28, asian, average height, curvy.

Both pull into Bob’s Auto Service, a full-service repair shop. Both are in need of work on their vehicles.

Inside the shop is a teenage clerk (Hailey), and in the back is the mechanic (Sam).


Image curtesy of Morguefile

The gal pulling into Bob’s Auto Service ahead of me takes her sweet time parking her black Yukon. Judging from the wide turn and slow speed it must be way too big for her to handle. She blocks the parking lot while trying to take a spot near the front — not once — but twice.

“Sheesh lady, park that thing out in far lot where there’s room,” I say. Too bad the windows are up.

I tire of waiting on her. I back out and park in the drop off lot.

The gal is slow getting out of her car. I beat the other driver to the door, but memories of pops yelling at me to always hold the door for ladies makes me pull it open for her. At least the view is good. She’s got hips that sway, and a hell of a chest sticking out of her pink business-lady outfit. Her skin has a dark tan like she’s Hispanic or Asian. Her left hand is ringless. Not that she’s fantastic, but dudes always look for the ring. Her neck is smooth (that’s the secret give away on women to see how old ladies are).

She gives me the nervous, almost loud-enough to be conversational, thank you as she steps through. There’s no way she didn’t catch me looking at those tan boobs as she walked by.

Great — I creep her out. There’s a feeling women project when they don’t want you there and this lady is giving them off in buckets. I follow her as she struts up to the counter where a bored looking girl asks the business lady what she needs.

I half listen in while the girls talk, instead I’m checking out the facility. The back wall of the room has row of different oils. Most are brand names that I recognize, but there’s a few that look like dollar-store brands. Oil matters, stick to the good ones. Most of the wall is a row of oil filters in their orange packaging. There’s the TG2 that I use. Of course I change my own oil, but it’s comforting to see that they use good parts.

I fade back into the conversation to hear the business lady says, “My truck is making this sound. It clunks and the wheel feels wrong.”

First, you drive an SUV, not a truck lady. Second, you told the repair shop that it feels wrong? All they heard is that you are clueless and have money.

No one else is in line so I lean my head into the repair shop. Real tools line the wall, different types of pullers, cutoff tools, pullers, and wrenches of all sorts. There are several tool chests, all are old and look solid. Rows of tires line the shelves near the ceiling.

Everything has the stain of grease. The mechanic has an old pair of overalls on with oil stains. He ducks under a rice burner that’s up on the lift like a pro. He uses an impact wrench to drop the gas tank. The vrrrm vrrrm of the wrench reverbs across the concrete floor.

I hear the door start to open so I jump back into my place in line. The clerk takes the lady’s keys and runs out and drives the Yukon into the second bay in their shop. Five bucks says they’d have me pull my own in.

The business lady flips through a stand overpriced air fresheners. She keeps thumbing different “white scents” — the ones that smell like a wedding or laundry.

The clerk skips back in, her youth both infectious and annoying. She’s in a pink T-shirt that doesn’t show off her look. Her face is so young that I feel dirty for peeking.

“What can I help you with?” she asks.

“The driver side front tire is swaying. It feels like the sway bar is going, but I wasn’t able to spot it when I crawled under.”

The girl’s dimples flare. “Sam can take a look at it, but it might be an hour. Do you want to wait?”

I peek out my peripheral to make sure the business lady is waiting. “Yeah, I can wait.”

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