Some are goldish, some are black, most are silver. Some, like the ones on the nissan are fat and gentle to look at while some like the ones on old cars are spindly and spidery and hurt your eyes almost as much as a sharp face. Some are highlighted by neon lights that blur your vision until you stare and stare and all you see is bright purple haze. Some are big an pompous and shove aside small meek ones on the streets. Some are dented, some are patched. Some are broken, some are new, some are old. While Crystal talks to me about her book I turn my head off and I look out the window at hubcaps, millions and millions of them, all rolling in foursomes on their way to nowhere at all, their people lost or found or happy or sad and always so decisive.