I once found Whitey out in his pop’s garage, just standing there, eyes closed. The garage was kind of a monument to good intentions.
Whitey’s pop was a collector of old cars. More than a collector. An enthusiast. When he’d get to talking about them, his eyes would go funny.
“Found me a ’02 Wheeler Runabout rotting away in a barn outside of Sasabe,” he told me once. “I get her fixed up, we’ll put on driving togs and take her out for a spin.”
It never happened, of course. Gin-fueled dreams aren’t worth the time it takes to hear them.