Brother Bob’s 4th
Quarter 2013, Newsletter
Never let my son, David, look at your car tires.
Seriously. At first I thought he just had a sharp eye for
details, being able to spot the head of a nail on the surface of the rubber at
a glance. However, through the years the number of such occurrences has proven
too much for coincidence. Most of my relatives and some of my friends are aware
of it and they take pains to avoid his casting a fatal glance at their tires.
I’ve even wondered if David has developed some rare form of subconscious
telekinesis, unaware of his causing the destructive spikes of metal to
materialize, embedded in the helpless treads of rubber.
Out of necessity, I’ve learned to keep my son occupied with
conversation whenever we stop and get out of the car, distracting him with eye
contact to keep his dangerous gaze from falling where it shouldn’t. However, a
few days ago I must have let my defenses down. It was Monday night and after an
enjoyable though exhausting day, as I snuggled beneath the covers I heard a
soft knock at my bedroom door. It was David. “What is it?” I ask.
“Mom’s car is sitting crooked,” he said. “I think I saw
something in one of the tires.”
Begrudgingly, I got out of bed and tiptoed in my PJ’s into
the garage. Sure enough Kathi’s car was leaning hard to the left. I walked
around the car and found the rear tire on the passenger side half flat.
Deciding I was just too tired, mentally and physically to change the tire, I
thanked my son for his diligent observation and headed back to bed, telling him
and my wife that I would deal with it in the morning. If the tire was flat, I
would change it. However, if it still had air in it, I would drive it to QT,
put some air in it and deal with it during lunch break at work. The latter
proved to be the case.
Due to the sharing of duties in taking my son to work and
picking him up, Tuesday through Thursday I get up at the inhuman hour of 5:30
AM in order to get to work at 6:30. That morning, with Kathi’s car still
drivable, I headed for the nearest QT to air up the tire. Finding the air
machine I pulled up next to it, got out of the car, tripped over my own feet a
few times, but managed to find and push the red button, which starts the
machine. It’s quite dark at that time of the morning in October but I soon
determined that there was no hose attached to the contraption. Compressed air
hissed noisily though uselessly into the atmosphere. Rattled but determined, I
climbed back into the partially crippled car and drove to the next nearest free
air depot. Upon finding the next epitome of commercial convenience, I located
the air device. Not wanting to waste my time, infringing upon being late for
work, I looked first for a hose. Seeing that the machine did indeed have the
proper fittings, I sprang from the car, hit the red button, grabbed the hose,
and, feeling a twinge of pain fitted the air hose onto the air stem of the
tire. With air now going into the tire, I pulled my hand back a bit to inspect
the source of my pain. The metal sheathing around the end of the hose had
become frayed, and now red, since I was bleeding upon it. Fighting through the
pain, I finished airing the tire and sped off to work.
At 11:30 AM, I met Kathi – we work for the same company – at
the car. With the establishment where we’d purchased the tires being a few
miles away, we decided to use our lunch hour to remedy the situation. We’d
drive over, get the tire repaired and that would be that.
The tire personnel were friendly enough, though so caught up
in their work that it was quite difficult to get their attention. With the keys
handed over, Kathi and I risked our lives crossing a wide and busy street and
later dined on Mexican cuisine while our car was being expertly cared for.
After lunch and back at the shop, Kathi and I reclined with
magazines in the waiting area. Two magazines later, exchanging an understanding
glance, Kathi and I called our work to report that we might be a few minutes
late. If only that would have been the case, my few degrees of lost sanity might
still be intact. About an hour later, the shop worker who’d checked us in
appeared in the waiting area. “I’ve got bad news,” he said. “We can’t fix the
flat. In fact both of the rear tires on your car are shot.”
I wanted to ask him why it had taken him an hour and a half
to come to that conclusion, but being the congenial guy that I am I said. “How
much will that cost me?”
He quoted me a price that might take a few pumpkin pies off
the table. “Go ahead and replace all four,” I said.
Another hour later, the man again returns to the waiting
room. I jump up, quite relieved that it’s finally over.
He shakes his head. “We’ve just now put your car on the
alignment rack. I see now why the back tires were so bad. The cars seriously
out of whack.”
“What does that mean exactly?” I ask. He starts talking
about toe-ins and cantors. Apparently my wife’s car is pigeon toed. To make
matters worse, the car was manufactured without an adjustment device for the
rear of the car. He’d have to order aftermarket parts, specifically designed to
compensate for the manufacturer’s lack of foresight. “Just put it back together
the way it is,” I said. “We need to get back to work.”
At that point, with Kathi and I being the only people left
in the waiting area, Hotel California began playing over the intercom. There
had been no music before. With increased trepidation, I paid special attention
to the song lyrics: You can check out
anytime you want, but you can never leave.
I ended up having to take one half day of vacation. I barely
made it in time to pick up my son, David, from work, arriving a little after
4:00 PM. “Did you get mom’s car fixed?” He asked.
I muttered a soft, “Yes.”
“How about the tire?”
“We got new ones,” I whispered. In a louder voice I added,
“Hey, I know you’ve been looking forward to decorating the house for Halloween.
How about you and I get started on that when we get home?”
