I was surprised by the obvious difference in the way I was received at the gas station from previous visits. I knew it was the uniform, as well as the Saran treatment that kept me from looking like a weakened Hunchback of Notre Dame creature. Mickey’s friends, those who worked on the cars with him, who never spoke to me, or seemed to notice me in any way, smiled and nodded when I looked over at them.

Danny Ongais slouched against the side of the GTO, as I walked out toward him. Mickey had quietly gone back to work under the Mustang. I didn’t know what to make of the thin Hawaiian I moved slowly toward. He seemed like a typical Oahu local, or Kanaka, which I was not. He smoked a cigarette, glancing up at me as I approached. He didn’t smile, so I didn’t either.

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