A few weeks ago my car, a 1996 Oldsmobile Cierra, died.
I know that it was really dead because the auto repair shop refused to charge exorbitant amounts to make any unnecessary repairs upon it.
With very little money for a new vehicle, I have been driving my friend's old van back and forth to work and shopping around for something that my bank might be willing to take a risk and give me a loan on - something around $5,000, as that seems the most I could afford to pay back as well as the most I dare ask for. The search has gone badly because I am so busy with moving into a new apartment, homework, and the new job. That, and even for $5,000 as opposed to the little I have in the bank, it is not easy to find a good car.
This week I had to go to a conference for the Michigan Reading Association on Mackinac Island. Mind you, I'm not complaining that I had to spend three days at a vacation spot taking notes on literacy and education, paid in part by my financial aid, but the extra expense of eating out and gas money bit into my meager savings toward a new vehicle.
The drive was long and my borrowed van was starting to rock loudly from side to side, but I made it in time to catch my ferry and spend a fine time listening to published authors talk about all the things that mean the most to me in the field of education by day and exploring the island by night.
It was a tricky place to be alone in, but I have cultivated a love of my own company over the past six years in such a way that I can be alone without being lonely.
It took me a few years to become aware of that distinction, and so my contentment was hard-won.
You appreciate things more when you work hard for them, though.
Also, when you go without things for a very long time, you appreciate every single little good thing that comes your way. I loved every minute on that island. I loved the long hours sitting in chairs at Mission Point Resort. Sure my hindquarters were tired, but they were tired in the most beautiful resort on the island. Yes, I was trying hard not to spend money on anything but food (fudge is food, right? Can't leave Mackinac Island without fudge!), and yet all kinds of nice little things came my way free of charge.
I found myself sitting at a table over lunch with the author of my children's favorite storybook,
The Pout Pout Fish. It's a great little book about how we have the power to change our attitudes and how others can help us to change them, too. The author was a charming woman, and very kind - she gave me signed copies of her books to pass along to my kids. Souvenirs of my stay for the two most precious people I'd had to leave behind: Check.
I was inspired by the stories of Christopher Paul Curtis, author of
The Watsons Go to Birmingham and
Bud, Not Buddy. He grew up in Flint (I hail from around there) and worked in a factory for thirteen years before publishing his first novel. As a speaker, he was as funny as any comedian and yet brought me to tears with some of the stories of his mother and the lessons she taught him.
I made a point of seeing all the authors who spoke on bullying or intolerance, as the connection between those concepts with literature is something I've been exploring for my Master's thesis. I could write an entirely separate post on those sessions alone, but there's something else I want to get to first.
This something else did not happen until I was already back on the mainland driving home. I had spent the afternoon of my last day on the island literally walking around the entire outside of the place, which took three and a half hours (four miles during which I had to go to the bathroom) in my cheap K-mart shoes, and I was driving on I-75 toward home literally thanking God for land masses that allow you to drive cars upon them when suddenly I heard a LOUD bumping and flapping noise from the front right of the van.
Flat tire, I figured, and pulled to the side of the road.
Please God, don't make me walk any further!
Sure enough, upon further examination I found that the tread had peeled completely off the tire and slapped against the lower running board so hard that it was falling off. All that was really left of the tire was the rubber underneath, cross-hatched with shreds of metal.
I scanned the road around me, trying to come up with a plan. There was an exit for some town called Wolverine just ahead, so I got back in the car and flapped my way off the freeway and coasted into the parking lot of a little mom-and-pop joint called The Whistle Stop.
My phone was dead, so I stepped inside and found a table with an electrical outlet beside it and had a seat. Had to call my sister to see if she could rescue me somehow.
She couldn't.
I was three hours away and she didn't have the gas money, plus the baby was sick. She Googled my location and suggested I drive seven minutes further to Gaylord and find a hotel for the night, since it was late, and see if I could get to a shop in the morning.
Exhausted from my trek around the island earlier, I limped the van to Gaylord and checked in to the only room available (two Queen-sized beds for my one tired body -
More car money down the drain!) and went sadly to bed, wondering if I bring all this bad luck upon myself or if it's just random, and why it couldn't go bother someone else for a change...
When I drug myself out in the morning equipped with the telephone numbers of local auto repair shops to drive to, I found that the tire was now completely flat.
Figured.
I popped the trunk and took a look at the spare tire.
No tire iron.
Of course.
Then I spotted a small collision shop across the parking lot, behind the hotel. It looked so small and shoddy that I thought it must be abandoned, but there it was - an OPEN sign in the front window.
With a gleam of hope, I crossed the parking lot and the little road between me and the shop, then drifted in through the front door.
There was a windowed office to my right and an old van bench to my left, and voices coming from out in the shop. I sat down on the bench for a moment to get my bearings and decide if anyone would return to the office or if I would have to go back there and see if I could get someone.
I'm always afraid to ask for help, especially today, since I'd given the hotel what surely was close to the last of my money. My island hotel had charged me roughly $400 more than I'd bargained for.
I took a breath and headed into the Man Cave.
There were cars jacked up all over the shop that I had to wend my way through, maze-like, toward the voices, which were definitely all male and uncensored.
I came out into the light of an open garage door and found three men, looking like ZZ Top, wearing Harley Davidson t-shirts with the sleeves ripped out, standing around a Cadillac swapping wild, profane stories and ribbing one another about whose car was better than whose.
"Look, asshole, mine is a Ninety-Seven!" declared one, a shorter man with the ZZ Top beard and a grimy blue bandanna tied tightly over his grey hair.
"Yeah?" countered a tall fellow in a tweed-like cap with soulful brown George Harrison eyes and a pleasant voice, "Why, those fuckers stopped paying any attention to what they were even doing after Ninety-Three, so mine is the superior vehicle." He caught sight of me, kicked his companion with the scraggly beard in the shin, and removed his hat. "Hey, don't look now, Jim, but there's a lady in our presence!"
Jim, clearly the owner of the establishment, had the kind of twinkly blue eyes over his long beard that always makes me fall almost in love with any older gent.
Language aside, I had a really good feeling about these guys.
Jim was all red in the cheeks and already apologizing, but I grinned and said cheerfully, "I don't mind; I've worked in factories!"
"Still," said Jim, "we're awfully sorry. Is there something we can do for you?"
I explained what had happened the night before and asked if they might lend me a tire iron.
The men exchanged amused glances, and Jim said, "You plan on using that tire iron yourself, M'am?"
Attempting to be independent, I said, "If the lug nuts are really tight, I figure I can give the tire iron a good kick with my foot."
They looked at one another again, and Jim asked, "What did you say you do for a living?"
"I'm a substitute teacher."
"What do you teach?" asked the tall man politely.
"English, if someone would hire me, but you know how the economy is."
The man held out his hand. "My name is Bob, what's yours?"
I took his hand and we shook. "Heather. I like the name Bob. Nice and simple."
"Yep," he agreed, "Spelled the same in either direction. I like Heather, too." Peering across the parking lot at my van, Bob started clapping. "God Bless America for paying its teachers so well that you've gotta drive that piece of crap!"
I laughed.
"What year is that van you've got over there?" asked Jim.
Embarrassed, I had to admit that I didn't exactly know. "I borrowed it from a friend to get to the conference," I explained sheepishly.
Bob started clapping again.
Jim amended, "God Bless America for paying its teachers so well that your
actual vehicle is even
worse than that piece of shit!"
"Language, now, Jim --" intoned ZZ Top, whose name turned out to be Tim.
"Sorry," said Jim. He added wistfully, "I wish I'd been good at English. My English teacher, Mrs. Nelson, used to make me sit under her desk for reading comic books in class. The Lone Ranger."
"Really?" I said, "Nowadays, we kind of figure that so long as you're reading something, you're doing pretty good for yourself."
"Well, I like her!" declared Tim.
At that, Jim smiled at me. "How about I walk over there and take a look at that tire with you?"
I thanked him heartily and he followed me over, telling me about his shop. He bought it years back when this particular part of Gaylord was just a two-track, and had lived in Gaylord all his life. Tim, surprisingly, was actually his nephew, the son of a brother eight years older than him who had died some years ago. "We'd lost touch, but then my sister found him again, and it was like having my brother back. He and I have been working together ever since. Bob, that other guy - he's just a real good friend. We've known each other forever. He's got that Cadillac you saw over there. Thinks it's his baby. But he's got this Woody that leaves all the car shows with awards like you wouldn't believe. Now, neither of those guys are about to admit this to you, but I'm actually the Grand Poo-bah of the group."
"Oh, I could tell the minute I saw you," I assured him with a grin.
By this time we were standing at the side of the van looking down at the tire. Jim walked around the van and studied all my tires grimly, shaking his head. I popped the trunk so he could take a look at the spare.
"I'll tell you what," he said, "You can't hurt that sorry old tire any more than it's been hurt already. How about you pull it on up to the side where we're all at, and we'll help you get this spare on? We've got all the tools and everything over there, and it won't take but a minute."
I followed him back to the shop with the van thumping and rumbling as if it were going over uneven metal rocks all along the right side. Bob, seeing what was up, got into his Cadillac and backed it up to make room for me.
Jim jacked the car up while Tim worked on the spare.
As they worked, Bob engaged me in conversation about car shows and The Blues while occasionally calling out taunts to Tim: "Aw, come on, now: You'd think you'd have had the sense to check the tire pressure
before now! And
you call yourself a professional!"
"No point checking the pressure until after the spare's on the car, goddamn genius,"grunted Tim good-naturedly.
"Hey!" barked Bob, "Watch it around the lady!"
"Sorry, lady." Tim grinned at me and hauled the jack back to where Jim had pulled it from. It wasn't the type that would fit in your trunk, if you've never seen one.
Jim and Tim disappeared around the corner of the shop for a few minutes while Bob told me about his
nephew who teaches High School Up North somewhere.
When the other two returned, Bob asked, "Have you got any 15-inches lying around that she could have?"
"Nope," said Jim mildly, "We just looked." He went out into the yard and started digging through a pile of tires, muttering to himself.
I realized they were talking about replacing
all my tires.
"How much is this going to run me?" I asked anxiously.
Jim pulled a tire out from under something that looked like part of a go-cart -- or maybe a motorcycle. "Hey, the way I figure," he said, examining it, "You've got us by the -- I mean, you caught us back here. You've got something on us,what with the way you heard us talking and all. Seems to me like we need to work up some kind of a deal."
"Too bad we don't have
four fifteens," said Tim. He scratched his bandanna and eyed Bob's Cadillac.
"They're the wrong size, dumbass," smiled Bob. "Besides, I'm still usin' em."
Tim grinned back. "She don't want your sorry-assed 2003 tires."
"Okay," said Jim, coming back up to the van and putting a new spare in the back. "New plan. Let's go over to Tom's across the street."
"I'll tell you what," said Bob lazily, "You go with her to Tom's while Tim keeps an eye on the shop, and give me a call when you've got her all squared away. I'll come get you."
"Oh, gee, thanks," said Jim, "Like I've never walked it before."
Bob shrugged. "Suit yourself." He turned to me. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Heather."
Tim smiled and waved at me as I got into the van with Jim and drove across the busy main street.
At the tire shop, Jim explained to Tom that "the hotel got all her money and she just needs to get home to Big Rapids all right. I've got a spare here for you to mount for her so that she doesn't get another flat without a spare, but I was hoping you might have something better around here."
"Sure thing," said Tom, a short, round little guy with receding black hair and John Lennon glasses.
After a few minutes in conference with Tom over by a pile of spares, Jim came back and explained that Tom was going to rotate my tires and switch them up so that the spare tire was coupled with a tire of about the same size so that it would drive more smoothly. He cautioned me to drive slowly on the freeway and wished me luck.
"So I'm not going to owe Tom anything, either?" I asked.
Jim smiled. "Nope. I come over here all the time. We know each other pretty well. There's only one catch."
"What's that?"
"You have to promise me that the next time you're in Gaylord you're going to stop by and see us -- And if you don't, I
will know!"
I made my promise right into his twinkly blue eyes and then gave him a big impulsive hug.
Jim wiped his eyes and told me that his wife had died about a year back.
It seems it had been a long time since anyone had given him a hug.
"Wait till that asshole Bob hears about this!" he said happily, and walked out of the tire shop into the sunshine.
When I texted my friend Kara about it, she was vastly amused, and said that God must have some sense of humor, since she'd prayed that some nice, grandfatherly sort would come to my rescue.
It seems to me that whenever something really bad happens to me, something else always happens that's very good.
