I’m in my car on the side of the highway, returning from a visit to not-my-Aunt G. Passenger rear tire blew. It’s 93F and I’m waiting for AAA. Could I change my own tire? Possibly. It would depend on how tight the lug nuts are. But it’s really hot. It’s an air quality action day – bad for folks like me who have asthma (thanks for smoking, Mom and Dad. Maybe that’s snarky but I’ve paid my entire life for their choices. A little snark seems minimally fair.). It’s smarter to call for help than to try to do this myself. 

The car rocks side to side every time a truck passes. It’s a busy pre-holiday Friday, which means the car is in nearly constant motion for over an hour while I await AAA. It takes that long because my AAA guy is coming from the town 20 minutes ahead of me and has to drive to the town 15 minutes behind me in order to get on the south side of the highway. All of that is fine. I’m lucky to be relatively safe in a car with working AC. 

Lou (his real name) arrives in a modified van with a yellow flashing light – good. More visibility on a breathlessly hot day during the drowsy hours of late afternoon. He tells me that a tow truck spotted me and called in my location to help Lou find me since I’m not stopped by a mile-marker. This makes me wonder how many kindnesses benefit us without us ever knowing. 

We chat as he gets right to work, handing me a clipboard with a form to fill out while he excavates in my trunk. Thanks to my recent tidiness vow, the trunk is empty of detritus. 

As he jacks up the car, Lou tells me how much he likes working holiday weekends. “People are more generous tippers,” he tells me. “Already today, I’ve gotten a bottle of whiskey and some fireworks.” 

Internal question answered, I dig through my pocket, readying the last of my cash. It’s so hot that Lou can’t hold the lugnuts in his hand and has to drop them in the grass. The tire is just as hot. Being the “learn by doing” sort myself, I burn my hand throwing it into the trunk. We joke a little about how lucky we are to have AC, even as we acknowledge that it’s going to escalate the speed at which humanity kills itself.

Lou tightens the still-scalding lugnuts on my tiny, brand-new spare and tells me to drive slow. I know this but appreciate the reminder. He suggests that I buy my replacement tires (because I can’t buy just one, of course) at the nearest town and even offers to escort me there. I’ve already had my bad luck though and plan to drive the rest of the way home on the spare. He laughs, pockets my $19 tip (since I don’t have any whiskey), and waves me back onto the highway.

Costco, not home, is now my destination. It takes me two hours of driving like it’s the 1950s but I arrive safely. The tire guy, Sam – a name I’ve chosen since I didn’t get his, is enthusiastic. We have to go out to the steaming parking lot because I’ve forgotten to note the size of my tires. I know I should have had this info but my brain has become the texture of the asphalt, too sticky to work properly. 

Sam doesn’t mind. He’s just looking forward to his sister’s barbecue this weekend and to having the 4th off. Costco is closed Monday because, he says, it’s a good company that cares about its people. Nice. I tell him that I don’t want to give my money to a company that treats people badly. “Same,” he says. We smile. Common ground is uncommon these days. 

My tire appointment is tomorrow. Sam says it will take awhile so I should get a strawberry smoothie at the Costco cafe and sit. He’ll find me when they’re done. Not going to lie, a strawberry smoothie sounds pretty good right about now but my youngest wants a Costco pizza (second best bargain they have IMO). I order one and sit on a cool plastic bench while it bakes. 

The store and the cafe are crazy busy. A young worker fills food orders with remarkable grace, spinning from counter to steam table to pizza oven, handing food to customers while also preparing the next order and calling out order numbers. There’s a rhythm to the work that I’ve never noticed before but there’s still an hour left on the clock. Will the worker or the work slow first?

“703,” I hear and watch a woman pick up her pizza. My number is lower so I walk up to the counter. “Hey, did I miss my order?” I ask. Yep. It’s sitting on the counter. Apparently, I’m even more tired than I thought, lulled, perhaps, into a dream by the music of their work. 

The drive home is equally slow but now the pizza fragrance reminds me that I haven’t eaten in nearly seven hours. Maybe I could eat a piece while I drive, I think. But no, I have a new, no-eating-in-my-car policy that I can’t break without someone finding out Mom’s a hypocrite. Besides, the tiny tire makes the car harder to drive. It’s really not safe to eat pizza when the car has a donut. 

Finally, I’m home. I haul the pizza box and my tired body into the house. The youngest may have requested the pizza but every (human) mouth in the house is now full of lukewarm, greasy goodness. Everything is far from right in the world but for a moment, we’re all, blessedly, okay.