I was up by 3:00 a.m. I had the Corvette loaded on the trailer and was on the road by 4:30 with a cup of coffee and a stack of buttered toast. It was a two-hour drive to the mechanic’s garage on Kenmore Avenue in Buffalo. While driving there, I drove past the Buffalo Psych Center and almost stopped in to ask them what’s wrong with me.
I arrived thirty minutes early to the repair shop, but that was fine. I did not want to be late.
“It looks pretty bad,” said the mechanic as he looked over the damage. His thick-muscled arms were like round, pale dumbbells splattered with freckles. “That’s my first impression.”
“When do you think it’ll be ready?”
“No telling. Several weeks, maybe a month. Depends on how much trouble I run into.” He scratched the inside of his nose with one of his sludge-
