Commissioned - in private collection
House Portrait - 11" x 17" / 28 x 43 cm
A vehicle to display my work; talk about influences on my work; talk of others' works that get my attention - Prints of some of my work on sale at https://www.artpal.com/Willbrady/
Flat Tire
In the hundred plus feet that I have to drive in
order to pull over [luck that; other parts of the road are not so generous] my
mind conjures all sorts of swear words and foul thoughts interlaced with terms
like "Yuppie Scum" and the "B" word. What you see above is how the woman "gifted" my truck.
I got out intent on
fixing the tire, hoping the rain promised doesn't start too soon. "Call
Triple A!" is the advice from home. I don't want to but when I can't get
the spare tire cable to lower [WD-40 wasn't cutting it] I decide why not.
By the time the
guy from the tow service arrives, at least I've got the front tire almost off.
A pleasant enough feller ~ a strapping, stalwart crew-cut blond, with a
workman's tan, sporting prison tattoos while wearing designer glasses ~ he had
an engaging demeanor, and set about to work at loosening the stuck cable with a
good pry bar and sinew.
He and I review
the problem here. I've had the truck over three years, never had to use the
spare, the bolt that holds the cable into place must have oxidized together ~
in short, they rusted.
Now they's stuck
together and can't come apart, like two dogs.
Two dogs?
Right. Two dogs.
Uh huh. I replied.
Old timer locals
drove by, slowing down, offering assists or good will; while those who could
have been the lady's friends rolled up their windows when they passed us.
After over half an
hour the cable still won't move. The Triple A guy says 'I'm gonna have to call
the flatbed'. I quickly calculate how much more it'll cost to bring a flatbed
up a narrow windy back dirt road plus extra tow miles I'm not covered for. I
ponder for a minute and says aloud, 'Even worst now is not being able to get to
the packy before it closes', then I grit my teeth and tell him, let's try this
one more time.
Both of us grunt
and tug at the tire beneath the truck, when suddenly ~ "clunk" the
rusted cable bolt gives way. We can change the tire at last.
After we're done, we engage in small talk and he gives me his personal cell phone number and we agree to hook up later on . . . which we eventually do.
Furthermore, I do make it to
the packy, but with minutes to spare. But I still get home too late.
Thanks lady.