Return, out there, rough, honest, mean

The dashboard is dusty, flecked with green bits. The windshield is clean though, without even bits of paper towel stuck to the rubber edging. A big black van with jovial suspension.

Driving slowly through a residential area but with both hands on the wheel (2 & 10). His shirt doesn't have the crease down the sleeve but it's new. It doesn't match the state of the van, he's too tidy. There is drum gear in the back but he's not looking. After turning a corner he leans to lift a small duffel bag onto the passenger seat, away from under his feet.

Up ahead a porch light comes on, girl shape coming down the steps. He actually starts to look under the dashboard, feeling for the pedal, unfamiliar with these particular gears. Down-shift. She's just ahead now, having crossed the street. He presses the gas harder and turns away as though she could see his face in the dark (He can't see it but she smiles after him for that burst of speed). She wasn't supposed to be there. The unlikelihood of her being there was incalculable.

'If I don't accept the problem, I can't fix it.
If I deny the problem, no one can help me with it.
What is wrong with this thing?'

The gear stick is easy to toggle around but makes some awful pained noises. He's parking anyway, near other cars, a well lit house.

'Down for reverse,' remembering what he's been told. Stepping out, one hand rests above the door for a moment; clean fingernails on dusty black frame, paused on the raised roll bar.

'The real problem is...' bending a little, as though planning to look underneath. And laugh, because it's almost a joke, finding the real problem in a beat up machine. 'Clutch is getting loose.' The last few words come out louder as he sees a familiar face heading for the house and he takes a step that way, waving like a guy, with his chin.