The Saga of the Flat Tires

So, apparently, changing a flat is not nearly as hard as I thought it would be. You see, I was meaning to write about this a while ago, the owners of the apartment complex I used to live near, decided to rip the stucco off the building. As a result of such madness, I acquired two flat tires and managed to learn how to change a flat tire (which every man should know how to do so as to not embarrass themselves in front of any females). The first of the flats managed to cost me a whopping $95.00 because my brother decided to drive my car to Mass and destroyed the tire...he failed to check why, as he said, "Ryan, your car makes a funny noise when it drives." And the second of the flats, was a slow leak, so I was able to get it fixed before it needed to be replaced. To replace the flat tire with my spare, I simply jacked the car up, turned the screws loose on the tires and fitted the spare into place; it was amazingly simple, and I felt very skilled after replacing the tire.

The next day, after Mass, and before the AMAZING pig roast and square dance I attended at church after Vespers and Benediction, I went to get the flat fixed...this too was quite the experience! As I did not have a phone book, I entrusted my mother to find me a place that I could get my flat patched and, rather than call a Firestone or Big O' Tires or something reputable, she called the first business in the phone book. I pulled into the place and was instantly scarred to death because it was the most ghetto place ever! The business had a chain link fence with barbed wire around it and a bunch of old tires and old cars that looked abandoned and probably stolen. Anyway, they had me pull my car into the "back" and I stood in my tie and penny loafers and watched them change the tire (there was no waiting area). The toothless man who changed my tire did it with such speed and effortlessness, that I was worried he actually fixed the flat. He gave me a smile, tongue traveling between the gap in his teeth, and said it would be ten dollars. I asked if there would be tax (because in California we are taxed through our teeth) and he asked "You have cash?" I replied that I did and gave him eleven dollars (I figured a tip would save me from any shanking that may ensue). And without a look back, I sped off to Chipotle and bought a delicious chicken burrito...looking back, I can now say, though the place was a wee bit shady, the owners were very nice and I probably had nothing to worry about, but then again, asking me to not worry, is like asking me to not get a Slupee when I go to 7-11, and that is definitely not going to happen.