"Gimmie the good news."

  Hobards took his sweet time making one more lengthy pass around the car's accordion-shaped nozzle.

  "Good news is she's salvageable," he said, wiggling a toothpick between tooth and tongue. Marve was disgusted.

  "Okay. Now hit me with the bad news."

  Another long pause followed as he came to a complete stop directly in front of him.

  "Bad news is you should scrap her. Start from scratch." To which Marve succinctly replied with a sign of defunct resignation. Hobards continued, unabated. "Even if I could get her into game shape for North Carolina, she'll never run near like she used to."

  Marve took a step back to absorb the bleak assessment.

  "Damn that kid," He murmured under his stale cigar breath, then turned his back on the tobacco-ripe grease monkey, who knew more about cars than both Ford and Ferrari put together. "All our best laid plans, up in smoke."

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  Hobards permitted his friend his moment of reflection behind the drilling whine of tightening lug nuts behind them. Eventually he stepped forward to speak:

  "He's awake, I hear," and when met with more silence, he kept right on inching foward. "Crash like that should'a killed about anyone." Marve looked up but said nothing. "On the bright side, a'course. I mean, all you lost was the car."

  "Yeah," Marve finally acknowledged him. "And gained a driver who's no good to me. Man can barely pass wind under his own power, let alone the competition."

  Hobards mustered the steadfastness to dig deeper. "So whats'yer plan goin' forward?" he asked.

  Marve's face slowly crinkled into a downtrodden, lost puppy-dog expression. It was hardly befitting a grown man.

  "I'm still mulling my options." His eyes fell to his ratty workman's boots.

  "Naturally." Hobards took his cue like the loyal mechanic he was. An old timer from the old school, his ilk had more in common with priests than psychiatrists. Ever ready to dispense wisdom, and offer a non-judgmental ear. He took an uncomfortable step backward. "So um, what's that mean for Mikey, you figure?"

  Marve kept his eyes on the cold hard floor.

  "Mikey's a fuck-up."

  Hobards nodded quietly. On that, there could be no argument.

  "Hobards, you got a call on line two!" The girl shouted across the noisy garage from the office.

  Marve kept right on talking, oblivious to her interruption. "Between you and me, I'm not too quick to dismiss going forward without him."

  Hobards took the winding turn like an old pro who could see it coming a mile away. "You mean get a new driver?" He asked, one bushy eyebrow raised tentatively.

  Then outta nowhere, a hairpin detour.

  Marve looked right at him. "I mean drive'er myself."

  Hobards thought he might have to turn up the dial on his hearing aid.

  "Hobie's, its your wife!"

  "Okay goddammit!!!" The old codger breathed fire, shaking his head before shuffling off without further fanfare to leave his friend and long-standing employer alone with his car - and his notions, erroneously-conceived or otherwise.