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.
There are friendships born out of convenience, and then there are the ones forged in fire—or in this case, rain, static, and a cracked tail light on a desolate stretch of Highway 50. mav and joey
Meet Mav and Joey. To an outsider, they seem like an odd couple. Mav is a retired software engineer with a meticulous love for order, vinyl records, and coffee brewed at exactly 200 degrees. Joey is a 22-year-old drifting through life with a skateboard under his arm and a guitar in the back seat held together by duct tape and hope. They pushed the Blazer to a gravel shoulder
"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." By the time the tow truck arrived three
They don't know where they are going. For the first time in a long time, for both of them, that is the point.