“Cool,” he said. He didn’t leave. He pulled out his phone.
“Calling a tow truck?” I asked. “Don’t bother. I can’t afford the rates these days.”
“No. Checking the specs.” His thumbs flew across the screen. “Yeah, look. This forum says for the ’78 model, if the choke plate sticks, you gotta hold the gas pedal to the floor—wide open—and crank it for five seconds. Clears the airways.”
I stared at him. “You a mechanic?”
“Nope. Just good at finding answers.” He looked at me, rainwater dripping off his nose ring. “You want to try, or do you want to stand in the rain?”
I hesitated, then grunted. “Get in. Passenger side.”
We climbed into the cab. It was dry inside, smelling of old leather and stale tobacco. The rain hammered against the roof. For a moment, it was just the two of us in that small, suspended space.
I looked at him closer. Up close, the “style” didn’t look like a fashion statement. It looked like wear and tear. His hoodie was frayed at the cuffs.
“Why the black nail polish?” I asked, unable to help myself. “Is that some kind of statement?”
He looked at his hands, embarrassed. He curled his fingers into his palms. “Not really. I work the night shift at the mega-warehouse down on Route 9. Moving crates. I’ve smashed my fingers so many times the nails are all purple and bruised. The polish… it just hides the ugly. Helps me look presentable for the delivery gigs.”
