Flat Tire

We were haggard looking to say the least; with our greasy hair shooting every which way, our sleep deprived eyes searching around all crazily, our shirts slung over our bare shoulders, and our energy drinks half empty, dangling from our hands, we left the spectacular site of the deep canyon below, covered with Ponderosa Pines that shot straight up from the steep canyon walls like pins on a cushion. We headed for the car, past all the Navajo tents where clumsy tourists rushed around buying overpriced jewelry and blankets, scrambling from one tent to the next, suspiciously eyeing each other over, as if the surplus supply of souvenirs would soon dwindle to nothing because one person had beat them to the next line. Past the clean bathrooms and snack machines. Past all the shiny new cars that these people held above all else, and finally to our old sedan where we hopped in and took off.

With the falling 5 o-clock sun at our backs, having just pulled out of the "scenic viewpoint", as the sign said, we were headed to Flagstaff where we would get on the 40 and make our way to California. Not half a mile out of the parking lot, it began to rain; this was no sprinkle, it was monsoon season in Arizona. Another half mile and the whole car began shaking violently; that old familiar feeling only a flat tire can produce. We knew it doesn't rain much in Arizona so we waited it out for five minutes, hoping it would let up, but it didn't. On the contrary, it seemed to get stronger by the second.

We couldn't take it any more and dashed out of the car, popped the trunk and began digging through all our belongings; coolers, duffel bags, the grill, and an array of all sorts of miscellaneous items. We finally got to the bottom and fetched the spare and scissor jack, and the spare was a damn donut. I silently cursed myself for not getting a full-size spare before we had left, as I had intended, but there was no time to waste and we were already thoroughly soaked, so we set in on the chore. The heat from the road produced steam that lingered slowly towards the heavens, only to be beat back down to earth by the torrential downpour that wouldn't let up. Soaked with Arizona rain, we made record time swapping the flat with the fucking donut, which supposedly wasn't supposed to be driven for more than 50 miles and at a speed no more than 45 mph. I knew those figures to be modest, as i had driven on a donut for an entire winter one year, most certainly exceeding 45 miles per hour on a daily basis, so we figured we'd try and make it to Santa Barbara on the meager donut.

After 400 miles at an average speed of 70 mph, just outside Barstow, CA, we felt the car shaking again and knew we were at the end of the line. Having left the ponderosa forest of Arizona, we had come a long way across California's Mojave Desert, but were now stranded on a remote desert highway with no inkling of a town visible in either direction. Approaching midnight, not too many cars passed by this desolate stretch of land, although plenty of tumbleweeds went a-rollin by. There wasn't a thing that me and Sam could do besides try and flag some helpful soul down and that's exactly what we set out to do. Feeling slightly paranoid, we searched the backseat for the heavy pipes we had brought for just such an occasion. They were a good 15 pounds each and about 16 inches long and they turned up under the driver seat.

When an old beat up Toyota truck finally pulled over, like paranoid fools, we were standing next to the car with our hands on our pipes which were concealed by some junk in the car. The people who emerged from the truck appeared to be non-threatening, but we didn't let our guard down; that's how they would look, right? They were a couple in their late 30's and were asking what was wrong. Suddenly I came out of my paranoid fog and realized that they were talking to me. I explained our situation; that is that we've got a flat tire and no spare and were 3000 miles from home. They said something about a call-box and I nodded vaguely, not fully catching what had been said. We all just stood there for a few seconds and they looked at me like I was a fucking moron.

"Well, do you want a ride? The call box is only a few miles up the road."

Maybe I was a moron, but I was gonna take this ride. Who the hell knew if we'd get another chance tonight. I said a little prayer to myself and let out a weak "yeah" as I let the heavy steel of the pipe slip out of my sweaty palm. They drove me to the call box and I made my call, and they were wishing me good luck and dropping me off at the car before I knew it. Just like that; the tow truck was on the way and I was still alive.

A few minutes later a cop pulled over and asked what the problem was. We told him that we got a flat and that a tow truck was on the way and he proceeded to explain to us that this wasn't a very friendly area and certainly wasn't a good place to be broke down. He said good luck and took off, having assured me, in my mind, for the time being, that our paranoia was justified. Either way, the tow truck was on it's way and we still had our pipes in case we had any unwanted visitors.

After the driver loaded the car onto the flatbed, we all hopped up into the big ole tow truck and headed for the nearest town, Boron. The driver said he knew of a mechanic who would give us a fair price and that there was a motel nearby. So that's where we headed. On the way there the driver explained that this mechanic was a good guy, but that he was living in the wrong generation; that he should have lived fifty years ago. We didn't know what to make of it but it didn't matter either way; our ordeal with the flat tires was approaching an end, and that's all that mattered.

He dropped our car off at the mechanic and us off at the motel. We paid him, and entered the run down office of the motel. Like the out of place mechanic our driver had described, the lime green color scheme seemed like something that went out of style fifty years ago, and the old Mexican woman behind the counter didn't speak much English. We managed to negotiate a room for one night and drank ourselves to sleep, the whiskey finally overpowering the redbull in our bloodstream at around 2 AM.

When we woke around ten the next morning, we headed down the street to the mechanic "from fifty years ago" and immediately saw what the tow truck driver had been talking about. Before we could even see the shop we could hear 50's bop blasting out of the shop's antiquated speakers. When we got closer we noticed nice shiny muscle cars from the 50's and 60's with sleek, chrome-littered curves strewn on the streets all around the shop.

Inside the shop we found it's owner. With a well worn black leather jacket hanging over a white t-shirt which was tucked under his large belt and into his faded black jeans he greeted us as he combed his jet black hair back with both hands, one hand raking the comb through his hair, the other depressing his freshly combed hair down to his scalp. His pretty wife was sitting behind the counter with curly blond hair, dark red lipstick that contrasted with her pale complexion, and a little white dress covered with huge black pokadots that hugged her curvy figure.

We explained our situation to this curious mechanic and retrieved from the trunk the flat we had produced outside of Flagstaff. He had a used tire that fit our rim which he put on for 30 bucks, then asked us if we wanted to put the wheel on the car ourselves or if we wanted him to. Of course we wanted to save every dime possible and opted to mount it ourselves. The scissor jack sunk into the sand where our car had been dropped off and it made for an awful tough time changing the tire; and to add insult to injury the damn thing was slowly twisting apart with no solid ground beneath it for support. The shop owner, noticing our plight, came on over and offered us use of his floor jack, which we graciously accepted, as the scissor jack had become useless, having twisted under the weight of the car. We finished the job, thanked this mysterious mechanic, bid the strange old town farewell, and were on the road again.