Howdy,
Not sure if the world’s depraved?
Proof is in the air.
I’m serious, all it takes to see that the (fallen) world we live in is depraved is a short, anxious, automobile trip to pump pressurized air into a leaking tire.
I mean let’s look at this. First, you go to drive, along your way, just a normal day trying to go do normal things—except your left, rear wheel is sagging so much into a fattened-ballon shape that you can’t help but notice that there’s going to be no way to ignore the pain in the neck (knees in my case as the squatting to fill the tire and coming out of the crouch made me feel like an old, retired catcher, which is the main position on the baseball diamond that I did not play—but more about that later since it actually took awhile and some doing to even get into that position to inflate the flattening tire) that dealing with that stupid flat is going to be.
So, there’s that. The flat.
But since it’s your lucky day and the tire’s not actually flat yet, only flattening, and like I said, sagging: like skids for a pontoon plane.
So, you (me) decide (this is what I decided to do) to risk the ride to get the vehicle to the closest car wash where about a month ago, or about forty posts back now, you noticed that they had hoses for water and air to go along with the free vacuums. You definitely decide to go there, since it’s free and you’re (I’m) cheap, and who wants to pay for air? (Not me!)
So, I’m there. And I’m driving around the couple of rows of vacuuming parking spots, looking for that air that I’m sure I’d seen. I’d swear I had. I’d thought it was cool they had it: thought it pretty great—even made comment to Sarah at the time. I circle again, knowing the one spot I was sure it’d been before, but not seeing it and so making the circle unsure another again.
Feeling a bit crazy, or something—at least confused, or surprised that I could find what I knew was there—I park and walk over to where the paid car washing happens and divert some of the car-guiding attendants attention and ask her, “Hi, thanks, is there air for filling a tire here?”
“No.”
My look must have conveyed my confusion, because she continued, “We had one until about two weeks ago, but it broke for like the tenth time; it kept breaking and was expensive to fix and maintain, so we took it out.”
“Oh, bummer. Okay, I thought I saw it about a month ago,” I explained, more for my sanity than any information that was going to help her, I can see now as I reflect on it. “I was driving around looking for it and telling myself that I knew I’d seen one.”
“Yep. We took it out.”
“Do you know the easiest place to find air from here? The closest?”
“Fast Track.” Surprised to hear Prime Shine’s local competitor so freely, I looked at her again, maybe with the same confusion. She said, “Over by Costco,” and proceeded to point in the exact opposite direction, so she is either quite coy about seeming generous with sending “business” to the competition or she’s a long-lost sister to my wife.
I knew where it was, so I headed there. Chasing free air, on a flatter and flatter tire.
Back to you, because I don’t want to be in this story. You pull into the second car wash establishment and repeat the circling around, this time scouting out the area for a first time, but with intel—so hawk intensity staring at each and every post or possible place an air hose might be found.
So as to not cause an accident in the parking lot with the other clean cars driving through you causally pull up to the two young guys with the towels and ask, “Do you have air for a tire here?”
“No, man, sorry. We don’t.”
“Ah, I was told you did.”
“No, we don’t. But the Shell gas station across the street does.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Bummer, you think. But holding out hope that maybe a big boy like Shell doesn’t charge for a silly service like air to inflate any of the four tires that constantly roll gas tanks in for replenishment. (Silly, if you’re thinking customer service. Serious, if you’re leaking or flat.)
You swing it over to the area. If you drive, if you’ve ever been a part of helping gas up, you know the area. The area over where the grimy and likely-as-not broken water and air hose is, off to the side, shady and dark and a nasty swamp of motor oil slicks and littered cigarettes—a pancaked-smashed, run-over 64-oz soda cup for good measure. That spot. That’s where you find the vending machine of air.
You don’t have 50 cents in quarters, so you go inside the mini mart and break a ten dollar bill, and when you walk back out there’s another dirty car parked beside yours; its owner using the only air hose.
So, you wait in line to purchase air.
Chink, chink. Two quarters will get you a stream of pressurized air that probably beats what you could produce yourself with a milkshake straw. Nonetheless you very, very diligently apply the nozzle and aim to get you money’s worth. Squatting and pressing nozzle on and trigger handle down. In that crouch you hear the hiss of escaping air and calculate that you need to squat better, even against those burning legs and aching knees, and press truer. But more hiss. You notice then—like that darned balloon-shape earlier in the day—the crack at the base of the valve stem, on fairly new tires. Fallen world! Depraved, fallen world, world of sin and destruction and decay. Crap, paid for air for nothing.
Stoved up next to the hovel of the gas station pumping pressurized air back into the air. The only thing free about it.
Then, being close by as a result of the wounded-goose chase, you creep over to Costco, praying its tire shop is still open, and a technician says it sounds like it’ll only take fixing the stem. A repair charge of $10.99 and fifteen minutes for the work, and you’re back on the road, glad it was the stem that was bad, for a clean and cheap fix. It’s not all bad. The air’s contained.
Then you’re happy to have a whole set of tires freshly filled with air, ready to four-wheel depravity’s potholes strewn about as you go to drive, along your way, just a normal day trying to go do normal things.
There’s something in the air.
—Billy
Reading. Writing. Driving.
Word Count: 115,351 / On Pace: 112,750 / Year’s Goal: 200,000
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