| Straight
from the holler.
by "Buck" September 15, 2006 Finally, some inspiration! You all know I’ve had writer’s block for a couple of lifetimes here and have whined and moaned about it in this diatribe. I appreciate the efforts that some of the loyal Surf Reporters have put forward to try to jump start my feeble mind. One guy suggested stories of the past like first loves, lost loves, fast food jobs, and wild high school parties. I’m afraid I’ve already ploughed that fertile ground too often. Then Hitchcocknut sent me this nugget. A conversation piece for sure, but it just didn’t get things moving…until Tuesday. It started with a flat tire on I-64. I was cruising along with the talk radio jamming (I’m almost 40-what of it?) when I hear a tell-tale whine on the asphalt. I ease over to the shoulder and take a look… sure enough, the left rear was going down. I assessed my predicament where I was wedged tightly between the highway and the guardrail. It was about 500 more yards to an area where I could pull further off into a grassy area and change the tire without semis going 85-miles an hour three feet from my head. I limped to that spot—which is likely what ruined the tire. I started changing the tire with NASCAR pit crew speed, but it couldn’t be fast enough. Cars and trucks were flying by so fast you literally couldn’t see them. I’m not afraid of much—but that scared the shit out of me. I was one dropped french fry away from somebody veering 6 feet to the right and leaving me as a greasy spot in the leftover road salt from last winter. Finally a cop pulled up, with the blue lights rolling, and positioned his cruiser in such a way that traffic was forced to slow down and veer away. He was a good old boy trooper with a chew of tobacco in his mouth. I was nearly done by the time he arrived, but he helped me hoist the bicycle tire into place while I raised the screw jack a little more. A side note here….the shit they offer standard on a car or truck these days to fix a tire is insane. It’s no fucking wonder Detroit is about to go under, they obviously have retards designing this shit. The screw jack isn’t strong enough to lift one of Roseanne Barr’s breasts. This was my first flat on this truck and therefore my first encounter with the gear. It shall be my last. A new AFTER MARKET hydraulic jack will be purchased post haste. Here are some ideas I’m mulling over…. I’m sure you all have plenty of venom to spew over the so-called “safety” tire. It’s called a safety tire, yet you’re told not to drive over 50-miles an hour or 25 miles with the thing in place. What the hell is safe about that? Especially when you’re on the interstate where if you’re not doing 80—your about to get your shit crushed. Enough already…onto the real meat of this story….the tire repair shop. I always buy my tires from this place that looks like a complete dump. A couple of reasons I choose this place that looks remarkably like a landfill.... First, the old man who runs the place has good prices on tires and secondly, he once allowed me to pay off a $650 repair bill over the course of four-months with no interest. He runs the place with the old “handshake is bond” kind of attitude. I like that—it’s rare, a piece of Americana preserved. His wife runs the counter, and from what I can tell he doesn’t do anything but sit by himself among piles and piles of junk in the “office”. The place is filthy. I doubt it’s been cleaned since it was built which had to be pre-1950. There is a waiting area that includes a few chairs that look like they were discarded from a doctor’s office in the 70’s. They’re incredibly dirty and you’re guaranteed of smelling like cigarette smoke when you leave. The woman smokes like a damn chimney. She has one in her mouth, one in her hand, and two burning in the ashtray. I’m not embellishing that---I counted them over the course of the THREE FUCKING HOURS I sat there waiting for the tire repair. This is unusual, typically I’m in and out of there, but on this day it was apparently the day from Hell for the woman. First of all they only had one guy working in the shop. Two guys had quit and a third called off for that day. I pulled in figuring I’d be there 15 minutes tops—but turns out I was second in line to a guy getting a BRAKE JOB ON ALL FOUR WHEELS….GRRRR. With only one guy working that was taking some time. So brake job guy and I just sat there chatting with the matron of the place. She proceeded to be overly forthcoming about her insane children. She tells us her daughter is 30-years old, has three kids, and refuses to get a job. She’s constantly asking mom for money. Most recently, she’d hit her parents up for $1,600 to fix her kids teeth. The woman was all pissed off and shaking as she took long drags in between these anecdotes. She also told us her daughter was on some kind of nerve pill that made her a slobbering lunatic. Wouldn’t you know that during the conversation—the daughter called. Brake Job Guy and I sat in disbelief as we listened to the one-side of the conversation. There were lots of things said like, “If I want to buy something for those kids I will, but don’t call in here telling me I HAVE to do it.” Or “Tell that piece of shit husband of yours to get his ass into work.” “Bad back my ass, the two of you are just lazy as hell.” “You’re 30-years old get off your ass and get a job.” Slam goes the phone. More craziness ensued as she started ranting about her daughter living in her mother’s house rent free and doing NOTHING to take care of it—like cleaning up after herself. She also said her kids were circling like vultures knowing that her mother was about to die and she was going to get a pretty good sized inheritance. She said, “They all think I’m going to give them $100,000 each. They’ve got another think coming. I’m going to spend it all before I die.” Keep in mind, all of this was going on while customers were coming in and out, phone calls were coming in, and she and her husband argued over the guys who had quit and how they had no help. It was utter insanity---great inspiration for a WVSR update. After a couple of hours, the customers were starting to accumulate in the “lobby” waiting for minor repairs or inspection stickers or whatever. It was standing room only when the daughter SHOWED UP!!!! Mom hadn’t embellished here story AT ALL. In fact, I’m pretty sure she UNDERSOLD her problems. The daughter shuffled in taking baby steps across the “lobby” and through the customers, went behind the desk where mom was on the phone with a customer. Her hair was disheveled looking like she had just gotten up (it was 2:00 in the afternoon after all). There was a tattoo on her bare arm of a heart with a dagger in it, her eyes were bloodshot and barely open, her clothes (bought by mom) were dirty and wrinkled—like she’d slept in them. She looked spaced out and I’m pretty sure there was drool out the corner of her mouth. She rudely said, “I need to talk to you.” Her speech was slurred worse than Otis. Everybody was noticing and trying not to make eye contact. Mom hung up the phone—and the conversation went something like this. DAUGHTER: “There’s good news and bad news. The good news is the transmission is fine, but the bad news is they need a computer part to go up in there that costs $180.” MOM: “Well, what are you going to do?” DAUGHTER: “Well, I’ve got to get it fixed.” MOM: “I don’t like the sound of that.” DAUGHTER: “It’s not that bad, it’s better than $1,500 for a new transmission.” MOM: “You don’t understand, I’m wondering where you’re getting $180.” DAUGHTER: “I’ll pay you back.” MOM: “Like hell you will, you kids are killing me.” Then they went into the junk-filled office where the dad had become a fixture of the interior décor and continued yelling and screaming. The wall separating the office from the lobby was only a partition—not really a wall—so we could hear everything. Customers were exchanging nervous grins and smirks and trying not to act like they were listening. Brake Job Guy and I were especially enthused since we’d had the background prior to the show. Eventually the daughter came shuffling out and said she’d call and said, “I love you.” There was no response. Eventually the tire got fixed, but I got a pretty good lesson that no matter how shitty things go in my life, I’m well short of that poor lady’s troubles. It’s easy to see why she had a 2 pack an HOUR cigarette habit. Buck Out |
