We leaned over the engine of the little pickup truck while the mechanic started it up. A thin stream of gasoline shot out of the engine, and we jumped back in alarm. The mechanic walked around the front of the truck and stuffed a rag into the spot.
“All Fords do that. No one knows why.”
He saw our doubtful expressions and walked back around the truck to shut off the engine.
“We’ve got some others.” He jerked his thumb toward the truck as we walked away. “Know who’ll buy that? Mexicans.”
He didn’t offer more explanation, and we didn’t ask. He showed us a flood-damaged van (“The waterline is here, so it only soaked a little.”) and a sedan that belched white smoke (“Replace the head gasket, and this one’s good as new.”).
We declined all three.
“Well, if you change your mind, give me a call. Ask for Jim.” His shirt had “Bill” embroidered on it, but I didn’t comment. Sometimes it’s best to move on.