Walking down the street the other day, I pass a mechanics shop. Sitting in the open doorway is your typical mechanic. His greasy hair is not entirely pulled back by his baseball cap. His once-white wifebeater is a kaleidescope of filth, brown worn deep into the fibers of the fabric, peppered with smudges of oil to match his face. A cigarette with a long tail of ash dangles from his lips, and he occasionally puffs through it without the need to lift his hands to his lips. His hands have so often been stained with grease over the years that it seems to have seeped into lower layers of his flesh. His long gnarled fingers, covered in stains, callouses and smears of blood, tap furiously on the gleaming silver MacBook perched on his lap.