had the AC/DC cranked up, as he tried like hell to get his van to start. I was watching, sitting on the hood of an outof-commission Chevy, its black-and-chrome nose peeking out from under the dusty beige tarp. It was around eight at night, still real warm, Indian-type summer and all, but getting dark quick. Bobby B. had a work light hung from the lip of the garage and it made long, weird shadows on the empty white garage walls around me. “The fucking radio’s working,” Bobby B. mumbled, scratching his head, “so it’s not electrical. Maybe the alternator?” He had the front end of the purple wizard van edged beneath the open door of the white aluminum-sided square garage. His brown hair was raggedy and was hanging in his face as he wiped his hands on his gray Megadeth shirt, which was cut at the sleeves to reveal his muscular arms. He turned and picked up a screwdriver and began jabbing at the battery. “Start, you fucker!” he shouted. “Just fucking start.” I gave a little laugh and he glared over his shoulder at me.
