I was living in the mountains above Denver when my college buddy, Gary, arrived in his ancient Maserati sports car. He had just driven it from Ohio, and as he pulled into my driveway, the car broke down.
Calls to auto-supply houses and garages in search of replacement parts proved futile. The 1962 model was simply too rare. Responses ranged from “Mas-a-what?” to “You’ve got to be kidding.”
One guy just laughed.
I was at the end of the listings in the Yellow Pages when I dialed Victor’s Garage. “Vic,” I said, “you’re my last hope. Do you carry any parts for a 1962 Maserati?”
There was a long pause. Finally, Victor cleared his throat. “Yes,” he replied. “Oil.”