I stopped to chat with my friend’s friend who is “not long for this world” when I went up to see my friend yesterday. He had his head under the hood of a vintage pick-up truck he is working on for the owner who lives in a nearby mining town. I asked him how his day was and he said, other than waking up feeling lots of pain, depressed with suicidal tendencies, not that great. I said, not good. He explained that he had been all over the nearest mountain town looking for a copper part to the engine he was working on and no one had it until next Thursday. He said he tried to call my friend to ask if he could stop in Colorado Springs on his way home from work and pick the part up, but he hasn’t heard back from him. So I called my friend and we went in and out on our cells. He did hear that I was at his friends. So he called his friend on his garage phone and they talked and he said he would get him the part. His friend was THRILLED because he said that he would finally get the engine to start with this part. His mood lifted 100% and twinkle returned to his tanned crowfoot eyes. He showed me a picture album of all the cars he had restored in Hawaii and Colorado and a picture of this bright silver awesome engine he’s working on in his living room. The sun was beating down hot at about 80 degrees at this 9000 foot elevated location and I was feeling a little faint, remembering I hadn’t eaten lunch. I went to lean on a car in the shade while I mentioned his fishing poles hanging above his buxom bikini clad calendar girl posters. I told him I was a fisher woman and we shared some pretty good tall fishing tales. He then showed me a 1930 something Ford of his that he said he wanted to get to before he died. He said that he will paint it black and take it to all the drive-in vintage car shows when it is finished. He will hire a 21 year old blonde beauty to sit in the passenger side. But that’s all she will have to do, he re-assured me. He then said, with his luck he will finally get behind the wheel and die of a heart attack. I said he should take his black and white dog, Shortstack, instead. While I was petting Shorty, who he says sleeps with him with his head on a pillow, he told me about Ivan (Ivan the Terrible) who had died before he got Shorty. He pointed to the picnic table and said Ivan, the sweetest dog ever even though he’s named Ivan the Terrible, was buried under the table and his head is pointing to the house. He said see that window over there? I have the blinds opened for Ivan so he will know that I am there. Ivan had separation anxiety and he just wanted Ivan to know he’s home. Damn, I was almost in tears. Remembering why I was feeling faint I said I needed to go. We had stood up talking in his front yard in the bright mountain sun for 2 hours. It was almost 4 o’clock and that’s when he takes a Corona break. My friend should be coming down the dusty dirt road soon with his part. To think I almost didn’t stop by because I was hungry and tired.