Chapter 25: The Garage Brawl—Knuckles, Respect, and Rust

The shop smelled like motor oil, burnt cigarettes, and something heavy you couldn’t name. It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t polished. It was real—and real was sacred.

My dad ran that garage like a kingdom on jack stands. His employees weren’t just mechanics, they were Southside survivors—Ross Matthews especially.

Ross was trouble. A walking bruise with grease on his hands and fire in his eyes. But he could fix anything bent, busted, or broken, and that gave him his place. His brother Sean? That day, Sean was gonna fix me.

We fought to earn respect, or did we?

I was just a kid. But I wanted in—wanted to be more than just the son watching from the corner. I wanted belonging, and that came with bruises.

So they set it up. Sean vs. me. A shop-floor showdown tucked between dented fenders and the scent of yesterday’s sweat.

It started like play: Shoves, a slap, laughter from the crew. Then the dance turned ugly—knuckles flying, knees scraping, blood slicking my nose like war paint.

I didn’t back down. Sean didn’t either. But when it was over, we sat there—two busted-up kids breathing heavy and nodding in silence.

I had earned something. Not a title. Not a trophy. Just respect.

My dad looked at me different after that. Not proud, maybe, but present. Like I’d stepped into a shadow of the man he was—and survived it.

That shop? It was where I learned more than how to fight. It was where cursing wasn’t a crime, where dirty magazines were stacked like old tires, where fists were the currency, and grit was the graduation.

It wasn’t home.

But it felt like a club I finally punched my way into.

And that lesson? It didn't come from school or sermons. It came from blood, concrete, and chrome.