The crippled piece of junk has decided it will no longer be touched. Scrapping it is out of the question: inside are old plane tickets and the answers to life’s great questions. After nightfall, the writer hauls it to a so-called PC expert with a dazzling website. He parks half on the sidewalk and rings the doorbell of a nondescript house. A wave of burger grease hits him; moped helmets litter the hallway, a fatbike glares at him with open contempt. The high school kid names his starting fee — a full tank of gas — while eyeing the writer’s SUV.
‘Sweet wheels, bro!’
Maybe, after exam week, he’ll take a look. If he remembers.