Harry smoked his tenth cigarillo of the evening and gazed quasi-intently at the semi-distant skyline. He tried thinking of something to distract himself, like a familiar song or a stanza from his days on the stage (non-union). Harry could recite lines from plays long past, amazing even himself with his recall of poignant phrases and witty bon mots—words he wished he had composed. Mostly the quotes came when he was upset at the world (damn teaser cards), or in a self-pitying mood, like now. Having someone walk out on you will do that. Its one of those life altering events that makes a person pose the big questions aloud—Where is my life going? What the hell did I do to deserve this? Why can’t Boise State win by 24 ½ on the road? Not that anyone would answer back. Or even if they did, not that the answers would make any difference. Harry shrugged, took another drag on his mini-cigar, and tried to come to grips with the unfathomable: his mechanic was gone, and wasn’t ever coming back.