Two of the G Street regulars sat on their plastic milk crates on a summer afternoon, sipped from their cans of Budweiser, and watched an old Buick pass by. The engine sputtered, the car lurched, then died. The driver got out, one of those tiny ball-pene hammers clutched in one fist. He hiked the hood, peered into the engine well for a moment, and then—with a big overhand swing—gave the engine block a mighty lick with the hammer. The driver closed the hood, got back in the car, started the motor, and pulled off. He went about a half a block before the engine sputtered, the car lurched, and then died again. The driver got out, lifted the hood, and gave the engine block another whack with the hammer. As the driver was getting back in the car, one of the streetside observers took a sip of beer, sucked his teeth, and muttered, “Lookit that ass-backwards son-of a bitch. He’ll never get it fixed, that way.”
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