“You just got home?”
“I was late to work this morning. I worked late today to make up for it. Mr. Crenshaw was very angry.”
“Yes, but — it’s still going to take you several days. Anyway, the store closes in less than an hour. Were you going to take a cab or something?”
“I will roll it,” I say. The wheel with its saggy flat tire mocks me; it was hard enough to roll to one side. When we changed a tire in driving class, the tire had air in it.
“On foot?” Danny shakes his head. “You’ll never make it, buddy. Better put it in my car and I’ll run you over. Too bad we can’t take two of them… Or, actually, we can.”
“I do not have two spares,” I say.
“You can use mine,” he says. “We have the same wheel size.” I did not know this. We do not have the same make and model of car, and not all have the same size. How would he know? “You do remember to tighten the ones across from each other — partway — then the others, then tighten the rest of the way in opposites, right? You keep your car so carefully, you may’ve never needed to know that.”
I bend to tighten the lug nuts. With his words, I remember exactly what Ms. Melton said. It is a pattern, an easy pattern. I like patterns with symmetry. By the time I have finished, Danny is back with his spare, glancing at his watch.
“We’re going to have to hurry,” he says. “Do you mind if I do the next one? I’m used to it—”
“I do not mind,” I say. I am not telling the whole truth. If he is right that I can take two tires in tonight, then that is a big help, but he is pushing into my life, rushing me, making me feel slow and stupid. I do mind that. Yet he is acting like a friend, being helpful. It is important to be grateful for help.
At 8:21, both spares are on the back of my car; it looks funny with flat tires in front and full tires behind. Both slashed tires we took off the back of my car are in the trunk of Danny’s car, and I am sitting beside him. Again he turns on the sound system and rattling booms shake my body. I want to jump out of there; it is too much sound and the wrong sound. He talks over the sound, but I cannot understand him; the sound and his voice clash.
When we get to the tire store, I help him lug the flat tires on their wheels into the store. The clerk looks at me with almost no expression. Before I can even explain what I want, he is shaking his head.
“It’s too late,” he says. “We can’t change out tires now.”
“You are open until nine,” I say.
“The desk, yes. But we don’t put tires on this late.” He glances at the door to the shop, where a lanky man in dark-blue pants and a tan shirt with a patch on it is leaning on the frame, wiping his hands on a red rag.
“But I could not get here earlier,” I say. “And you are open until nine.”
“Look, mister,” the clerk says. One side of his mouth has lifted, but it is not a smile or even half a smile. “I told you — you’re too late. Even if we would put tires on now, it’d keep us after nine. I’ll bet you don’t stay late just to finish a job some idiot dumped on you at the last minute.”
I open my mouth to say that I do stay late, I stayed late today, and that is why I’m late here, but Danny has moved forward. The man at the desk suddenly stands taller and looks alarmed. But Danny is looking at the man by the door.
“Hello, Fred,” he says, in a happy voice, as if he had just met a friend. But under that is another voice. “How’s it going these days?”
“Ah… fine, Mr. Bryce. Staying clean.”
He does not look clean. He has black marks on his hands and dirty fingernails. His pants and shirt have black marks, too.
“That’s good, Fred. Look — my friend here had his car vandalized last night. Had to work late because he was late to work this morning. I was really hoping you could help him out.”
The man by the door looks at the man behind the desk. Their eyebrows go up and down at each other. The man behind the desk shrugs. “You’ll have to close,” he said. Then to me, “I suppose you know what kind of tire you want?”
I do know. I bought tires here only a few months ago, so I know what to say. He writes down the numbers and type and hands it to the other man — Fred — who nods and comes forward to take the wheels from me.
It is 9:07 when Danny and I leave with the two whole tires. Fred rolls them out to Danny’s car and slings them into the trunk. I am very tired. I do not know why Danny is helping me. I do not like the thought of his spare on my car; it feels wrong, like a lump of fish in a beef stew. When we get back to the apartment house parking lot, he helps me put the two good new tires on the front wheels of my car and the slashed tires from the front into my trunk. It is only then that I realize this means I can drive to work in the morning and at noon I can replace both slashed tires.
“Thank you,” I say. “I can drive now.”
“That you can,” Danny says. He smiles, and it is a real smile. “And I have a suggestion: move your car tonight. Just in case that vandal comes back. Put it over there, toward the back. I’ll put an alarm call on it; if anyone touches it I’ll hear the alarm.”
“That is a good idea,” I say. I am so tired it is very hard to say this.
“For nada,” Danny says. He waves and goes into the building.
I get into my car. It smells a little musty, but the seat feels right. I am shaking. I turn on the engine and then the music — the real music — and slowly back out, turn the wheel, and edge past the other cars to the slot Danny suggested. It is next to his car.
It is hard to go to sleep even though — or maybe because — I am so tired. My back and legs ache. I keep thinking I hear things and jerk awake. I turn on my music, Bach again, and finally drift to sleep on that gentle tide.
Morning comes too soon, but I jump up and take another shower. I hurry downstairs and do not see my car. I feel cold inside until I remember that it is not in the usual place and walk around the side of the building to find it. It looks fine. I go back inside to eat breakfast and fix my lunch and meet Danny on the stairs.
“I will get the tires replaced at noon,” I tell him. “I will return your spare this evening.”
“No hurry,” he says. “I’m not driving today anyway.”
I wonder if he means that. He meant it when he helped me. I will do it anyway, because I do not like his spare; it does not match because it is not mine.
When I get to work, five minutes early, Mr. Crenshaw and Mr. Aldrin are standing in the hall, talking. Mr. Crenshaw looks at me. His eyes look shiny and hard; it does not feel good to look at them, but I try to keep eye contact.
“No flat tires today, Arrendale?”
“No, Mr. Crenshaw,” I say.
“Did the police find that vandal?”
“I don’t know.” I want to get to my office, but he is standing there and I would have to push past him. It is not polite to do that.
“Who’s the investigating officer?” Mr. Crenshaw asks.
“I do not remember his name, but I have his card,” I say, and pull out my wallet.
Mr. Crenshaw makes a twitch with his shoulders and shakes his head. The little muscles near his eyes have tightened. “Never mind,” he says. Then, to Mr. Aldrin, “Come on, let’s get over to my office and hash this out.” He turns away, his shoulders hunched a little, and Mr. Aldrin follows. Now I can get to my office.
I do not know why Mr. Crenshaw asked the policeman’s name but then did not look at his card. I would like to ask Mr. Aldrin to explain, but he has gone away, too. I do not know why Mr. Aldrin, who is normal, follows Mr. Crenshaw around that way. Is he afraid of Mr. Crenshaw? Are normal people afraid of other people like that? And if so, what is the benefit of being normal? Mr. Crenshaw said if we took the treatment and become normal, we could get along with other people more easily, but I wonder what he means by “get along with.” Perhaps he wants everyone to be like Mr. Aldrin, following him around. We would not get our work done if we did that.