Flat Tire by Carrie Newcomer
It's a long wide stretch from Louisville to Indianapolis
I was driving in a Honda with an odometer reading
Well within range of unreliable.
I was traveling with a friend,
We were talking about politics,
Lamenting the loss of civility,
Describing our despair
At the ever widening chasm of separation
So clearly present in our divided world.
Then, without any forewarning,
My tire started to make that stomach dropping flapping noise
That sounds like flat, flat, flat, flat, flat.
But miraculously, just ahead,
A sign announced
A garage for commercial trucks,
Huge tires for the biggest vehicles piled around the peremeter.
We limped into the parking lot
Knowing that most likely
They could not help me.
But every now and then
Necessity or circumstance will force your hand,
Will leave you no other choice
But to give it a Last-Chance-Texaco try.
A mechanic emerged out of the enormous mouth of the garage.
Oil soaked overalls and a camo ball cap.
He had a blond stubble and a sunburnt face.
Big hands strong enough to budge even the most stubborn lug nut.
And most likely an NRA card in his wallet.
He took in the scene,
The flat tire
The guitars piled in the back,
The "War is not the Answer" bumper sticker
He looked at me,
He looked at my friend,
And I just knew,
that somehow
he knew,
I was a registered democrat
Traveling with a gay theologian
in a foreign made car
with an eco coffee mug in the cup holder.
We were of different tribes.
All the signs were there,
The team jerseys and war paint.
Calling our code words across a great divide.
I said, "It appears this garage is for commercial trucks,
But can you help?"
He looked and me and gestured to the garage
No hint of a smile, and said, "There."
And so I gave him the keys.
For the next 20 minutes
My friend and I wandered around the office waiting area
It smelled of old coffee, metal and transmission fluid.
We kept looking at one another whispering
"Do you think he saw the bumper sticker?
"Do you think this is going to cost an arm and leg?"
"Do you think they'll miss us in Indianapolis?"
Eventually the car pulled up to the office door.
And our monosyllabic mechanic got out.
When we approached him he nodded and said,
"fixed"
I nodded back, " Thank you, that's great.
How much do I owe you?"
He responded with a smile that happened
Only at the corners of his eyes
"Naw, di'nt take long."
So we climbed into our twice blessed car
Our new best friend
In camouflage and coveralls
Touched the tip of his cap
And then turned, disappearing like a holy man
into the dark cave of the truck garage.
Back on that long stretch of highway
The road seemed to have expanded out
in all directions.
It had gone beyond linear,
And all the billboards proclaiming
That there is only one way
To get from here to there,
Were gone.
"Never assume" I said
"It is still possible" my friend answered.
And yes, It is true
We still live in a world of unvarnished kindness
Of unearned and unexpected grace.
The myth of not much in common had been dispelled.
Despair had been averted by experience.
Hopelessness had transformed
From an unavoidable certainty
To only a failure of the imagination.
From the Substack A Gathering of Spirits by Carrie Newcomer:
JAN 26