Penny and I were driving south past the prison in an area that, if you weren’t seated in a car, would make you stand up and notice, “aha, so this is why they call Idaho the ‘Where Am I?’ state.” That’s when the tire light came on. I don’t normally worry about tire lights, as my hypochondria extends only as far as the outskirts of my body. Tire lights come on from time to time, and they don’t mean open the door and bail out, leaving your wife to fend for herself. Tire lights come on when the air pressure drops even a little bit. They’re excitable and nervous, like our dog Mazie, who, if you ever get her on a leash, will jump up on her hind legs and pull you down the street like a cafe racer when you grab too much of a handful of throttle.
When we pulled into a Maverik for a Diet Mountain Dew (for Penny, not me. Diet drinks are bad for hypochondriacs), I topped off the low tire with a cigarette lighter-powered compressor I keep in the back. Penny wants to know where the air comes from. I say “from the cigarette lighter port,” just to be funny. Without saying why she wants to know, she makes me realize, damn, it’s a miracle this little box can fill tires with air.
We depart the Maverik and drive another five miles before the tire light comes on again. I say nothing, knowing we’ve now got a situation I will have to deal with. Not right away, but eventually.
The following morning, Penny takes the Volvo so I can drive her truck and park at school using her permit. She gets as far as the driveway before noticing the tire light. “The tire light is on,” she says. “Take the truck, and I’ll take the Volvo to the tire place,” I respond.
At the tire place, they give me the mixed bag of news. A nail. Repairable. Free, since I bought my tires at the tire place. But it’ll take a couple of hours. I can still get to school on time. At least, I think so. We haven’t gotten that far in the story yet. I’m writing in real time.
The Starbucks is across the street and down a ways. Less than a block, except it’s a busy street and there are no crosswalks. Boise’s a “f*ck you, pedestrians,” kind of town, which is fine. I’m only a pedestrian when there are nails in my tires.
I get to the Starbucks and spot the regional manager I interviewed with at the other of two stores that rejected my job application on the same day last spring. I wave, smiling, and say “I got rejected by TWO stores on the SAME DAY!” It’s the first time I’ve seen her since the original interview that seemed to go so well. She smiles back and continues doing her regional manager routine.
Mondays are funny. Most people either love them or hate them. I love Mondays. They remind me of what Hell must be like, if Hell had tire pressure lights. And who knows, maybe they do.
All the best,
Louis
I’m Louis Barney Katz, storyteller and IT guy for people who can’t stand IT guys. You can reach me at 208.805.2740 or louis@lbkatz.com.
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