Oh, you certainly wouldn't have befriended *me* to fix your car unless you wanted to hear *how* to fix it more than actually seeing it fixed - there were lots of greasers for that  - both the sincere nice guys and the outta control bad boys, but around the block everyone had their car up on blocks 'ceptin me - I had the old junker that'd just keep running no matter what (though at 110 it'd be bouncing all over the road like a balloon on 4 wheels, almost a feature to spice up the drive to the lake.

I remember pulling into the driveway once, needed something inside, heard someone outside honking, looked out and saw this eery glow from under the front two wheels, reflection off the pavement - car block so dirty and rancid from backfiring and leaks, had caught on fire and fused the horn leads as a blowing glowing tribute on its way out - and that was the end of my Olds 98 that'd seen me to New Orleans to see the Stones and a year of pizza delivery and through the valley I'd biked to school the years before and out to rivers and lakes and just... freedom, AM radio blasting loud, taking the train tracks at a hop, just 16 and that's the way we do it, unh-huh, unh-huh, until Radar Love comes on, and then you know of a few red lights that won't be missed... and I suppose it knew i'd be going off to school soon and didn't want to be left behind, so like those Indian brides that self-immolate, my car did much the same. Sayonara, mon amour.

Remember another time pissed at some lousy gas station attendant, insulting or something, so hit the gas and peeled out squealing, hit the curb and popped both left tires, pop-pow, coasted across the main road thwop thwpp thwop thwop, and sat there like an idiot wondering how I was gonna change 2 tires with one spare. A metaphor in there, no doubt.