Mav And Joey -

They pushed the Blazer to a gravel shoulder. Mav diagnosed a faulty alternator. Joey held the flashlight. By the time the tow truck arrived three hours later, they had discovered two things: a shared obsession with the obscure B-sides of 1970s rock, and a mutual distrust of the interstate highway system. What makes "Mav and Joey" work is the friction.

Joey nods. "Also, we hate the same things. People who speed up at yellow lights. Celery. And anyone who says 'it is what it is.'" mav and joey

They are currently parked on the edge of the Great Basin, watching the stars bleed across a sky with no light pollution. Mav is sipping his thermos. Joey is strumming a chord that hangs in the cold air like a question. They pushed the Blazer to a gravel shoulder

If you enjoyed this article, check out our other profiles on modern-day platonic odysseys. By the time the tow truck arrived three

"Mav yells at me when I leave the door open because of the 'climate loss,'" Joey says, using air quotes. "But last week, when a tire blew out at 2 a.m., he didn't yell. He just handed me the jack and said, 'Turn left to loosen.' He trusts me with the heavy stuff."

They don't know where they are going. For the first time in a long time, for both of them, that is the point.

"He didn't look like much," Mav recalls, wiping grease off his hands. "Baggy hoodie, looking at his phone like it owed him money. But I needed a push, and he had two working arms."