The screen with the sound off

Hold music fills a silence with something. The muted wall mounted television bolted above the parts counter fills it with nothing but color: a game show, a courtroom rerun, or midday local news playing to a room that has agreed, without discussion, not to listen. Closed captions run along the bottom in white block letters, usually a beat behind whatever is actually being said, so that punchlines land after the studio audience has already moved on and weather forecasts describe a front that has already passed. The remote has not been seen in years by anyone still employed at the shop, and the channel is set by whoever last worked the front desk with the code for the box memorized. Chairs in the waiting area face the counter rather than the screen, which means most viewers watch at an angle, necks turned, for however long an alignment or a brake job takes. Afternoon sun through the front windows washes the picture to near invisibility between one and three, a stretch of hours during which the television plays entirely for itself.

H. G. Plimsoll