The Only Fixer

I was laid off.

Having reached middle age and lacking any special skills, I could only work as a warehouse manager in a private company.

On the first day of work, I saw a large, dusty object in the corner. An imported precision instrument worth four million dollars sat there as scrap metal.

My new colleague scoffed. "Stop looking. The boss spent a fortune on it. Even ten experts couldn't handle it. It's just a decoration."

I walked up and touched the familiar body of the machine. "I can fix this."

The entire workshop fell silent.

My boss came upon hearing the news. He looked at me with contempt. "If you can fix it, I'll give you half of my shares. If not, you'll pay with your life."

The entire workshop was filled with the hot, smoky smell of engine oil and metal dust.

Everyone focused on me with astonishment and contempt, as if looking at a lunatic.

Our boss, Bill Lamar, was in his 40s. He was a chubby man who wore gold-rimmed glasses. At that moment, he emerged from the crowd. He surveyed me from head to toe, his gaze like a surgical knife, moving from my faded old work clothes to my dusty boots.

Finally, his gaze rested on my hands, which were covered with calluses and small scars.

"You?" he snorted, filled with undisguised mockery. "Shaun Zigger, right? HR said you used to work as a warehouse manager of a state-owned enterprise?"

"I'm a senior maintenance technician," I corrected him. My voice was not loud, but each word was clear.

"Senior maintenance technician?" Bill seemed to have heard the biggest joke as he burst into laughter, his protruding belly quivering.

There was immediately a chorus of chuckles throughout the workshop.

"A senior maintenance technician now working as a warehouse manager? Mr. Zigger, your joke isn't funny at all."

"I'm not joking." I looked him in the eye and repeated, "I can fix it."

My gaze passed over him and landed on the massive machine lying quietly in the corner. It was a Gorman DMG five-axis machining center. Its ivory-white painted exterior was covered with a thick layer of dust, like an abandoned work of art.

My heart skipped a beat at an inopportune moment; it was a bittersweet feeling of reuniting with an old friend.

Bill's laughter abruptly stopped. His fat cheeks twitched as his gaze instantly turned sinister.

"Alright, very well." He clapped his hands. "We have over 20 engineers in our factory, and I spent half a million to hire eight so-called experts, and not one of them said that."

He walked up to me, his short, stubby fingers almost poking my nose. "You're a new warehouse manager, yet you said you can fix it?"

"I did." I did not back down.

"Fine!" He waved his hand sharply. "I'll take this bet with you today! If you can fix it, I'll give you half the shares of this factory! It'll be written in black and white and fulfilled immediately!"

A wave of gasps swept through the crowd.

Half the shares were worth tens of millions of dollars.

Bill's eyes suddenly turned fierce. "But if you can't fix it or destroy it..."

He slowly and deliberately uttered with clenched teeth, "This machine is worth four million dollars. You'll pay with your life!"

A deathly silence fell over the workshop; even the hum of the fans ceased.

"Boss, why bother arguing with this idiot?" A workshop supervisor-looking man quickly stepped in to smooth things over.