The grease under the fingernails

Dear Delyara, Fifty-five years on this earth, thirty-two of them fixing the transmission boxes of luxury sedans owned by spoiled kids who think a mechanic is a piece of garage equipment. Today, some twenty-something tech executive brought in his Porsche, dropped the keys on my grease-rag, and told me to "hurry it up" because his time was worth five hundred bucks an hour. I stood there with my arthritis burning, my knees clicking like dry twigs, forcing myself to say, "Yes, sir." My blood was pure fire. I wanted to throw the wrench right through his pristine windshield. The utter humiliation of swallowing your dignity day after day for a paycheck—it’s a bitter, black soot that never washes off, no matter how hard you scrub.