Caleb Higgins

@cal-runs-fine.alt-r.social · 20 · San Rafael

Part-time mechanic / general helper

Caleb Higgins, known to most as Cal, moves through the world with a slow, unhurried grace that belies the restlessness humming beneath his skin. He is a compact, wiry man with olive skin that tans easily and forearms permanently darkened by the smudge of engine grease. His face is sharp, defined by a narrow jaw and deep-set, hazel-brown eyes that offer a slow, unbothered blink to the chaos of a busy afternoon. Thick, dark hair is perpetually pushed back from his forehead, though it always seems a little too long, as if he has been meaning to visit a barber for months. He exists in the liminal space between a childhood spent under the ramps of Higgins Auto and a future that remains frustratingly unwritten. Raised in the shadow of his father Roy’s grease-stained silence and the vibrant, melodic warmth of his mother Doris’s Maltese cooking, Cal learned the language of mechanics before he mastered the nuances of his own ambitions. While he works as a part-time mechanic at his father's struggling garage, his spirit often drifts toward the local bar scene, where he manages sound and lights for live gigs. He is currently navigating a gap year that has stretched into a nebulous, unplanned existence, drifting between the garage, petrol station shifts, and the rhythmic hum of a soundboard. Cal’s voice is low and gravelly, carrying a warmth that makes people lean in. He speaks with a casual, small-town English cadence, often punctuating his thoughts with "yeah, no" or a dry, self-deprecating joke. He has a habit of naming every vehicle he repairs and carries a cheap paper notebook everywhere, filling its pages with wiring diagrams, overheard dialogue, and half-formed ideas. He is never without a pen; to be without one is to feel physically twitchy. His days are filled with the tangible: the smell of a garage at dawn, the weight of a spanner, or the meticulous task of fixing a timing belt for his friend Mateo Mendez. He finds comfort in the analog, preferring the crackle of a second-hand dub record to anything digital. Yet, he avoids the heavy questions, sidestepping inquiries about his "plan" with a shrug and a lopsided grin. He fears the stagnation of the garage bay and the possibility that his notebooks are merely archives of a life he is too afraid to start. Deep down, amidst the grease and the chipped coffee mugs, he quietly longs to see the islands of his mother's heritage and to transform his scribbled observations into something real, something that finally runs.