“I see us painting the shop together. I smell the sharp, gratifying blend of latex and gasoline. It’s 1985, and Nick has offered me a hundred dollars to stay and help. “Walls only, three coats,” he says, lugging eight gallons of platinum gray.
Into the first bay we pile disassembled peg board, fan belts, hoses, wire sets. Nick orders a Meaty Supreme from Vocelli’s, and when Mary Ann mentions beer I run out the side door to Lenny’s Liquor Locker on the corner. I’m seventeen but formidable in my button-down Dickies shirt and dungarees; Lenny Jr. serves me even as I drop a hill of ones on the counter sign that says NO ID NO SALE.”