Amber's Don Mills Deck Journal

I was squatting on the curb outside the shop in Mount Pleasant, hands numb from the drizzle, watching a man with a headlamp trace the outline of my friend's bumper. It was 3:10 pm and we had been told the car would be ready by 2. I had actually hoped to be sipping coffee in Kitsilano by then, but life in Vancouver reroutes you sometimes - especially when someone insists on getting ppf bancouver and ceramic coating vancouver done on a weekday. The smell of vinyl and

I was halfway through a late-night text thread with my friend, sitting in traffic on the Granville bridge at 9:14 pm, when she finally admitted she wanted the car actually protected this time. Not the slapdash wax job her brother did in a parking lot, not the vague "ceramic spray" from some online store. She wanted a real ceramic coating vancouver job, and she wanted it done right in Vancouver. I hit the brakes metaphorically and promised to help. Then I remembered I knew v

I was hunched over the passenger seat at 10:15 a.m., rain splattering the windshield while my friend paced the sidewalk like he could will the shop open faster. The little storefront on Main Street had its fluorescent lights on, the kind that make everything look a touch too clinical, and a faded sandwich board that read ppf bancouver in a font that tried to be modern and failed. I had promised to help him check the warranty and ask the awkward questions about yellowing res

Rain hitting the windshield, me hunched over a crumpled estimate, and a guy from the shop saying "we can do it next week" like that's a simple thing. I had driven across town with a coffee that went cold, circling through Mount Pleasant traffic while the GPS re-routed me three times. I was late, my friend was waiting, and the car still had faint bird splatter from yesterday's Davie Street stop. That's where this all started. The weirdest part of the appointment T

I was kneeling on cold concrete at 9:12 a.m., hood up, phone flashlight doing the best it could against the shop's yellow fluorescents, while a guy from the shop named Marco watched me like I was auditioning for a CSI spin-off. Rain had been spitting all morning in Mount Pleasant, and the street outside still smelled like wet asphalt and sambal from the corner pho place. My hands were damp from the rain on the car and from leaning on a towel I forgot to bring. I had to remi

I was hunched over the hood at 10:17 a.m., rain still clinging to the edge of the windshield, watching a guy in a soggy hoodie point at a micro-scratch and say, "That's normal, you'll be fine." My friend sat in the driver's seat, arms folded, face doing that exact thing people do when they think they just got upsold. The shop smelled like wet towels and motor oil, and a traffic jam on Broadway added a low, persistent rumble outside the bay door. It felt like a small, import

I was hunched over the hood at 9:12 a.m., rain soaking through my hoodie, watching a guy from the shop wipe a soap line and shake his head like he had just found a loose tooth. My friend Marco was in the driver's seat, cheeks flushed from arguing about whether his 2016 Subaru needed paint protection or just a good wash. We had driven from Commercial Drive in a gray slurry of traffic, and the smell of wet asphalt stuck to the car's interior. The shop was a cramped place n

I was hunched over the hood at 7:12 a.m., rain flicking at my collar, squinting at a bead of water the size of a dime that refused to roll off the roof. My friend Marco was late, of course. He lives in Mount Pleasant and has a habit of thinking 8:00 means 8:15. I had agreed to drive his car to work because his scooter was in the shop, and the plan was simple: pick him up, take the car for a spin, and drop it off. Except the car had been ceramic coated three days earlier and