i want four tires

i'm at the auto center.

the family owned one with the

air balloon guy shaking 

spasmodically in the wind.

it's 7 am. i figure i can get in and get

out. the first one there.

i tell the kid with the hair bun,

i want four new tires.

all season,

all weather.

the ones in the paper, buy

two, get two free.

i shake the paper in front of him,

like the old man i am.

the first time

he's seen the inside of a newspaper

since he lined

the bottom of his mother's

parakeet cage.

we don't have those tires anymore.

we ran out two months

ago.

so why are you still running

the ad?

i don't know. Covid i guess.

he shrugs and scratches

his stomach.

what?

well give me the ones you have.

four, all season,

all weather, etc.  like the pictures

you have on the wall.

i point to the photo of a tire

in a large matted frame.

like that one.

okay.

we'll have to order them.

what do you mean order them?

aren't you a tire store, a garage,

with tools and lifts

and grease guns, etc. the name

of your store is

Springfield Tire Center.

yes. but we don't keep tires in

stock.

that's crazy. that's like dominoes

not having dough

to make pizzas. starbucks not

having beans to make

coffee.

he shrugs again. his face as blank

as a snow drift.

i'm giving him my best material

and i'm

getting nothing back.

do you want me to order four tires for you?

they can be here by Wednesday.  8 am.

sure. make my appointment.

i shake my head, then get on the phone

to rearrange my life

for new tires. 

(which takes about ten seconds)

8am. Wednesday.  i'm in line.

830 am Wednesday still in line.

9 am Wednesday i'm next.

do you have an appointment?

yes. for 8 am. today.

what's your name?  what are you here

for?

i mumble the Jesus prayer under my breath.

and snap the rubber band

on my wrist that my therapist gave me.

for tires. i'm here for 

four tires.  i almost

say four fucking tires, but don't.

although enjoying the alliteration. 

there's a pregnant woman with a stroller

behind me, holding a crying one year old,

a yellowish spittle on her shoulder.

oh, yes. here you are. Eugene spelled

your name wrong. he spelled it with an S

not a C.

are you going to wait?

yes.

okay, please have a seat over there.

he walks me over to the

the four foot square 'lounge', then

points to the bottles of water on the counter.

enjoy our selection of periodicals,

he says.

there's a tv near the ceiling playing

an episode of the golden girls,

fortunately with the sound turned down.

can you change that, i ask him?

i don't like that Bea Arthur woman.

ummm. sorry, no.

we lost the remote, he says, then goes away.

i slouch down into a plastic chair,

exhausted. i look in my pocket for some

gum, or something. nothing.

one old pistachio still in its shell.

i save it.

10 am.

excuse me sir. sorry to trouble you,

but we can't get your tires off the car.

do you have your lug nut lock with you?

my what?

you have locks on your wheels.

we need that specific lock to remove

them.  do you have it at home?

no. i go to my car and search for

locks. i have no memory

of locks or what a lock might look like.

we can cut them off. but

it will damage the old bolts.

okay.

cut them off. i don't care.

200 dollars more.

i don't care. cut them off. i want

my new tires and i want to get out of here.

by the way, he asks, how much does

your car weigh?

our lifts can only lift a certain weight.

i have no idea, i tell him. can you try to lift it?

i have a basketball in the trunk i can take that out,

and a picnic basket with a blanket.

i may have left some hard boiled

eggs in there too, so there might be a bad smell.

long story, but not much else is in there.

no worries. okay. we'll give a shot

and keep our fingers crossed.

thank you. i give him the thumbs up

and a churchill V for victory sign, or

peace, or something.

he looks confused.

11 am

the lug nut locks still not delivered from the

store fifty yards away from the garage.

sir, would you like some coffee?

i look over at the coffee machine, a cold

pot of mud, sitting next to dixie cups and plastic

spoons. the powdered creamer lying on its side.

no. i look up at the tv, the golden girls

marathon still on. the girls are arguing

over something. surprise.

12 am.  the lug nut locks have arrived.

the kid comes over to

whisper to me.

we have the lug nuts sir.

1245

i'm reading an Essence magazine from 2003

with Oprah on the front,

after finishing

reading three sports illustrated magazines

from 2010.

none of them the swimsuit issue.

excuse me, sir. but what air pressure do you want

in your tires?

the kid again, he's eating a sandwich.

smells like tuna, possibly

catfish.

what?

we can do 32 in the front and 30 psi in the rear.

or just go with 35 for all four tires.

a small piece of onion falls

from his mouth.

air is complimentary, unless you use the air

pump outside the garage.

okay then, 35, i tell him. let's go with 35 psi.

i take a deep breath, exhale. i stare

out the window

at cars riding by on tires. inflated tires.

1 pm.

excuse me sir, but i noticed your battery

has some corrosion, would you like us to .....

yes. replace it.

2pm

excuse me sir, just one more thing.

your power steering fluid is cloudy.

i reach into my coat pocket pretending

that i have a gun.

he backs away and hurries to my car,

pulling it out to the parking lot.

230 pm

i'm at the window.

trouble with the credit card system.

the manager comes over,

the owner walks in,

they shake the register, unplug 

and reboot it.

a woman i've never seen before comes

out of nowhere

and lies on the floor.

she gets a pinch out of 

an orange wire,

then slaps her hands together 

and says loudly, Men, before

disappearing again.

the credit card machine makes a buzzing noise,

then a long hum. all is well.

i rub my eyes and say the Jesus prayer

again. i cross myself.

i put my credit card in. scribble my

mark on the little window, then

pull it out.

all done, sir.

great,  i say, resisting sarcasm, but with

little luck.

they hand me my key, the nine sheets

of paper work and receipts.

stapled or folded, the kid asks me.

stapled, i say. or folded. you decide.

can you do both?

sure, no problem..

i watch him trying to fold the papers

together.

he's having difficulty with it.

just stapled is fine, i tell him,

reaching over to take them.

buttoning my jacket,

i take a long look around before

leaving.

the garage bays, the seating area,

the pictures of tires

on the wall. tires they don't have.

i glance at Bea Arthur on

the tv screen., sigh,

then head

for the door.

stay warm out there, sir.

have a nice day. and if you decide on

that power steering fluid

give us a call.

you bet. i yell back. you bet.