It was seven a.m. and the horn honk woke me up again. I would likely get another one around the time I was pulling on my shoes, then again as I angrily brushed my teeth and looked into the mirror at the reflection of the dry shower enclosure.

By the time the fourth honk came it would be 15 past the hour, and I would either be sitting in the passenger side of Joe’s white box truck or I would be watching his tail lights bounce down Montgomery Street.

While passing through the living room, I paused and leaned over my wife Jennifer’s bed, brushed aside her auburn hair, kissed her forehead, and told her that her dad was there to pick me up. I was out the door at ten past the hour.

Still trying to shake last night’s dream out of my mind, I climbed into the cab at exactly 7:11. Ironic. There would be no stopping at any convenience store for coffee, as I well knew.

Joe said, “Is that woman coming?” He meant the nurse.

“Just like clockwork.” I smiled and turned to him as I said ‘clockwork’ to see if he understood the dig. His face betrayed nothing. Joe’s jaw was clenched and the brim of his hat met the top of his sunglasses.

We were listening to WBUF, Buffalo, New York’s conservative talk radio station.

I flipped down the visor and opened the mirror. I considered showing my face to customers that day, but my vampire skin, zombie mouth and sunken eyes recommended that I stay hidden. The reflection was a wake-up call: stop drinking, sleep more, eat better. Relax.

“Damn,” I said.

Joe was lighting a cigarette off the car lighter. “Forget your eye cream this morning?”

“Let me know when we’re getting that coffee already.” I pulled my own hat brim low, slid down in the seat, and made up my mind to let sleep happen, or to at least pretend.

***

The dream begins as mine often do with a pair of headlights illuminating a road sign that reads ‘Two Ways’ with an arrow going in each direction. I am driving a white rental car on a dirt road in a wooded area. I stop in front of this sign because I can’t decide which way to go. To the left I can see a circus tent, and I hear a calliope playing the theme to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. To the right there is a pool table set up in the middle of the road. Teddy Roosevelt is playing Albert Einstein. The president is playing with a billy club rather than a cue, while the scientist is playfully slapping the balls with the back of his hand and observing where they move with great interest.

I drive straight through the Two Way sign into the woods.

I am at a wedding reception. I look at the table for my seating card, but I can’t find it. I watch the guests pick up their cards. As is always the case in my dreams, people are called something else – my aunt Sue is now ‘Norma,’ my uncle Will is called ‘Nicholas Cage,’ and Nicholas Cage is called ‘Shi Kwon’. Theodore Roosevelt walks over and scans the cards for his name, which is ‘Samuel Clemens.’

But my name isn’t there. I look at the wedding table. The bride is my wife Jennifer and she is waiting for me to join her. I stride across the dance floor and rehearse her name in my mind, but when we embrace and kiss, I call her the wrong name.

I am still Dean. I am always Dean.

It is now our honeymoon. We are at a casino inside a circus tent. We are taking spins on the roulette wheel. I turn to Jennifer and see that she is seated. I beg her to stand and she does, but she has to put her hands on the table to steady herself. She has blue eyes and blonde hair. Full red lips. I lean over with the roulette ball in the palm of my hand. She blows on it for luck. I hand it to the roulette dealer, Theodore Roosevelt, who gives the wheel a spin and lets the ball go. He leaves and Albert Einstein takes over the table as the ball settles on 21 red. “Red 21!” the physicist says. I look down and see that on the 21 red spot there is a miniature black hole. “Did I put that there?” I say. Jennifer says, “What does this mean?”

I am riding in a red sports car at night in the woods. I am in the passenger seat of the car. I look to my left and see a black hole in the driver’s seat. “Slow down,” I try to say, but my words are sucked into it.

By the time I turn my head to face front the car is already colliding with Jennifer. She had been standing in the road screaming to me to stop the car, but her words were sucked into the ether.

***

A sharp pain snapped me out of thoughts of last night’s dream and into the present. Something had hit my left knee. Joe had slammed the long gearshift of the truck into fifth, an area where my left leg had taken up residence. The guy on the radio was talking about the good old days when presidents knew how to lead and brilliant minds were working for our country’s benefit and blah blah blah.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” Joe was checking his mirrors carefully before merging onto the interstate. “I hope work isn’t going to bore you today.”

I said, “How many Tim Horton’s did we pass already? Must have been at least four.” Joe liked the Canadian version of Dunkin Donuts for coffee. It was Buffalo approved.

“I don’t have any damn cupholders in this thing.”

I held up my hands and said, “What are these things I have at the ends of my wrists here?”

“Is that what you use them for?” he said, shooting me a dismissive look.

I wanted to tell him about the dream. About how Jennifer was walking. How the redness of the sports car was as vivid as the night of the accident. How I could almost make out the face of the driver this time.

But Joe, with his analytical, Mr. Fix-It brain, would remind me of the facts: Had we not chosen to move to Los Angeles, out of wedlock, pursuing dreams that never came to be; had we not been married by the justice of the peace at the LA County courthouse; had we not been driving from the Buffalo airport late at night, some pathetic attempt at a surprise; had I kept my eyes peeled for trouble …

Had everything gone a different way …

***

There are many people who know Joe. His reputation, as the man who can fix anything, shows up first. Unlike the small businesses that wrap their names and advertising on their vehicles, his box truck is blank white like the snow that falls in Buffalo from November to April. He doesn’t need the fancy stuff because the city knows his name.

Our first customer that day was Edna Pierce in Cheektowaga. Her husband had passed two years prior, and the neighbor kid who took care of things really did a number on her snow blower. “My nephew tried to get it started for me yesterday …”

Joe was polite to Edna but gruff with the orange beast in the driveway. He lay on his side in his canvas work jacket, his sausage fingers poking and prodding. “It’s gotta be the carburetor, and maybe the fuel line,” he said to neither of us. “This thing will still work.”

For my part, I nodded to whatever Mrs. Pierce was saying while I anticipated Joe’s needs. When it was clear that the carburetor needed to be removed and cleaned, I quickly had the ratchet with the 5/16^th bit ready for him. Not because I’m handy – I only have this job out of necessity. Not because I want to impress the guy. And not because I’m supposed to feel guilty.

***

We had an office client that needed his vending machine fixed, and the owner of the vending machine, Tom, was on vacation in the Bahamas. Vending guy Tom, who was sipping a piña colada on the beach in the Caribbean, was giving repair instructions over the phone to me. I was relaying the instructions to Joe, who was ignoring me. Once it was fixed we were offered some of the items from the machine and twenty bucks. That was lunch.

***

The last one of the day was a plumbing job in Akron. An old friend of Joe’s, Kevin Doughty, had a leak in his bathroom that was running into the basement. Joe was upstairs tinkering around, and I was in the basement to watch for any pronounced increase or decrease in the stream of water pouring down the outside of the drain pipe.

I was consumed in thought — primarily how little I was needed on these jobs and how little they paid — when I realized I could hear parts of the conversation upstairs.

Joe was saying, “… the same old stuff since I’ve been retired. Fixer-upper jobs, and hauling stuff people don’t want.”

“What? Junk?” Kevin said with a gruff voice almost indistinguishable from Joe’s.

“Nah… well, what other people see as junk. I can just tell when something is still good as new, ‘cept for elbow grease and a fresh paint job. I tell ya, these young people … how are they going to know what to do in the future? Where is this country headed? They seem to just throw things away when they’re done with them. Don’t know the value of things.”

“Sure. And the kid’s helping you out?”

There was a brief silence before they both laughed. “Dream on,” Joe said.

Another silence. The water moved silently downward without stopping.

I heard footsteps overhead followed by Kevin’s muffled voice. I couldn’t make out what Kevin had said, but I heard Joe’s response. “Jennifer? She’s working at it. One day at a time.”

Something else was said by Kevin.

There was the sound of a wrench being dropped, or thrown. After a moment, Joe said, “Drunk driving situation. The kid down there was at the wheel.”

There was a muffled voice, Kevin’s probably, followed by the sound of vigorous metal on metal scraping. The water flow diminished to a trickle that slid cautiously down the pipe. I craned my neck up to try to hear.

Finally, Joe said, “Nah. Hit and run. Cops never found him.”

Muffled sounds. The creak of a valve being tightened and the groan of pressure being equalized. “Some shithead in a red sports car,” Joe said.

The water had stopped flowing down the pipe, but I didn’t bother shouting up to Joe. He already knew it was fixed. I walked out to Kevin’s garage and down to the truck. I had had enough.

On the ride back to Joe’s house, we were both silent. The way he likes it.

***

“Do you have something you need to get off your chest?”

I must have been slamming things around. I do that when I get angry. We were in Joe’s workshop moving his tools and loading in the junk treasure he would fix up when he had the time.

I couldn’t turn to face him right away. My breathing was heavy, my face was getting hot. I realized my hand was still gripping a hammer, and I wasn’t sure whether I would throw it or place it on the peg board.

When I finally turned, I saw Joe on the opposite end of the garage leaning up against the shelves. His eyes were as dead as mine, the remnants of his hair were slicked together with grease, and his hands were the kind that never gets completely clean. Over his shoulders, scores of spare parts from forgotten machines collected dust and cobwebs.

I finally worked up the nerve to say it. “I feel guilty about it. I tear myself up every day even though I wasn’t responsible.”

“Are you saying I am?”

“Of course not. Are you saying I am?”

Joe didn’t answer the question. He just stared at me. His breathing became more labored, and his face began to draw more color. Softly, he said, “You’ve had a few happy years and six months of hell.” He had to clear his throat, like he was trying to force something to stay down. “I’ve loved her all of her life. I never had a choice in the matter. I wouldn’t want one.”

For a brief moment, I wondered if he was telling me to make a run for it. For something else. Live my dreams. But I couldn’t. “I did have a choice. I made it the day I met her.” I turned back to the tools and put them away.

When I looked back over my shoulder I saw Joe working on a new project. It was a sturdy-looking black wheelchair. He mumbled something about finding it at a church fundraiser. About how he wants to check it out, make sure it’s perfect, and get it done by the weekend. I couldn’t really make out what he was saying. I was unsteady on my feet, disoriented, either from hunger and fatigue or by what I was seeing.

Joe brought a stool for me, and I took it. We passed tools around, and disassembled and reassembled the whole thing. At the end of the night, it was clear that, aside from a new paint job, the project was done. We slowed our pace.

Joe said, “How come you never say anything hardly?”

“I think about talking to you. But those radio guys get me thinking about the economy, people saving their money instead of buying new things.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Then I look at you and I think to myself, ‘The economy is so bad, I bet I can’t even get this asshole to pay attention.’”

There was a rumble in Joe’s chest. He buried his mouth in the sleeve of his jacket, and his body spasmed. At first I thought it was a cough, and I considered chastising him for smoking so much. But I realized it wasn’t a cough. It was the other thing, and he wanted to hide that from me. And I knew I was right when he picked his head up again and gave a brief, involuntary snort.