That’s what my main man Micky, the mechanic, said when I brought him my pickup truck, something I’ve been driving since 1992, and complained I couldn’t get the bright lights lowered to normal-range lights. “Something must be broken,” I tried, before he folded his skinny 6-foot frame into the front seat and twisted some lever to the left of the steering wheel, clearly marked as bright lights.
“The shit people forget,” he said, grinning.
Then I told him I thought my radio, also circa 1992, was busted.
Down he went, bending under the dash. Up he came, holding some dangling cable that had become unplugged.
“It’s your antenna,” he said. “It got disconnected. This usually happens when teenagers are having sex in the car.”