What if that tire blows?

In my old truck, I choogled around town without a care in the world or a decent stereo. My dog and me were the only usual riders in my 12 year old Ford with over 200,000 miles. Then my most valued possession, my wife, took a 250 mile journey in my truck.

Normally we took her vehicle on trips, but it was unavailable that weekend. A half an hour, for me to yank old Mountain Dew bottles and Reese's Cup wrappers out from under the seat. An hour of vacuuming extracted the dog hair from the upholstery. The chariot was now fit for my queen.

We headed to a party in Knoxville. I wheeled the truck up on the interstate at the 70 miles per hour. Setting the cruise control, I let it ride. My truck has an old school cruise control; it's called 'hold your foot still'. The wife and I chat and sing along with the radio. At last, she crawled into the back seat for a nap. Alone with my thoughts, I took a turn for the worst.

The truck had a tendency to pull to the left. Abruptly, I remembered. "The front left tire is completely worn out, and the spare is flat." Just driving around town, I didn't give a damn. I figured "Hell with it. Run it to the steel belts." But now, I was making top speed with my queen onboard. What if that tire blows?

The question haunted me. A mind might be a terrible thing to waste. But I wish to hell it had a mute button.

I began running scenarios in my head of that left front tire exploding. What would I do? Could I control my truck? In my mind I was practicing for the incident. Waiting till I found myself sandwiched between two rigs and a minivan on my bumper; I'd rehearse my emergency procedures. "I'll turn the steering wheel slightly to the right to compensate, then brake firmly and steadily but not too fast. There is a gap about 300 yards behind me and I can make it to the right shoulder."

I broke into a mild sweat just picturing the scene.

Then it got worse. I envisioned the tire blowing and the left side of the truck knuckling under at 70 miles per hour. The front bumper "grabbed" the pavement. I predicted my truck flipping end over end down the highway. My mind's eye saw fire trucks, ambulances and police, a horrible accident scene. Watching helplessly as a helicopter whisked my beloved wife off to the emergency room.

Suddenly, I come back to myself. "Get hold of yourself man!" I was shaking, sweating, suffering heart palpitations and about to cry. Peacefully my wife continued napping as I battled neurosis. I began breathing exercises, attempting to relax. Then a disturbing "Whaaaaaannnannn" noise screamed up from the road. "Jesus Christ this is it!" I sprang to emergency procedures and braced for impact. Nothing happened; I had simply drifted onto the rumble strips. Alarm gracefully yielded to laughter, my mind caught up to itself. Softly I chided myself for allowing my imagination to run wild.

I hit the Knoxville freeway; "Malfunction Junction" as it is unaffectionately known. Panic returned. The main interstate was closed. All traffic detoured to the bypass. It was a throng. Confused tractor trailers, flashed their blinkers, attempting to change lanes. Young girls in zippy cars darted around like hummingbirds. Jack asses in luxury SUVs plowed ahead like blind bulldogs in ring full of cats. Everyone talked on a cell phone. The only thing in my mind; "what if the left front tire blows out right now."

I recalled a World War II movie. It was about a bomber crew attacking Nazi Germany. The crew was gripped with terror. Fighter planes tried to strafe them with machine guns. Cannons on the ground puked black flack clouds of shrapnel at them. The crew fought off panic and paralyzing fear; hoping each moment was not the last. That was exactly how I felt.

I thought I could not take it anymore, then I saw a sign. The sign I needed and my salvation. My exit was one mile away. I swear my blood pressure dropped along with the speed of the truck. The red light was a god-send. I got fifteen seconds of peace as I tried to catch myself. My queen arose. "Hey baby," her soothing voice. "Could you pull into that store for cigarettes and a six pack?"

The truck seemed to thank me when I parked at the store. The wife pondered her beer selection. I hit the restroom. My emotional trauma resulted in a full and painful bladder. I used a visualization technique to calm myself down. The urine contained all my anxiety. As it left my body: stress, fear and worry went with it. I stood at the urinal; it was working. The negativity drained away and headed out into the sewer system, where it belonged.

Then it hit me. I had to drive back the next morning, doing it all over again. A shock wave of panic flowed over me. I lost my balance. My head smacked into the wall and I literally pissed on myself.

Dirty Ert

Beer Downgrade

A late snow settled over East Tennessee. This nearly causes a panic among my people. Southern Hillbillies are fairly certain that snow is the instrument of the devil. Snow causes a knee jerk reaction in us. We scramble to the grocery store and stock up on bread and milk. No one knows why we do it, we just do. Ask a salmon why he swims up the stupid river. He don't know, but everyone else is doing it.


Feeling the primitive call, I head to the food mart. Fortunately I am well stocked with bread and dairy products. But beer levels were beginning to fall dangerously low.


Just inside the door, a big set of titties caught my eye. I pretend to examine a bag of onions, so that I have a moment to take a good rack in. Presently, the breasts in questions started to seem oddly familiar. Curious, I look at ole girl's face. Damn it! She is an old flame.


We had gone out about five times, ten years ago. It was not much of an affair. She decided that 'sure he's funny, but I wouldn't want to have sex with him.' The relationship fizzled out with me only getting her top off once, for fifteen minutes. No, there was no sex, but I did wack off into her glove compartment once. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

She headed down the snack cake aisle. It was my chance to make a break for it. With a little luck I could complete my beer run without an Exgirlfriend Encounter of the Third Kind. I arrived quickly at the beer section and unthinkingly reached for two six packs of good micro brew.

Then I saw the obnoxious bright yellow price label, $9.59 per six pack. In an instant (and without my permission) my brain went to work. Two six packs of good beer would set me back $19.18, plus tax. Glancing over, Miller High Life was $6.95 a twelve pack. The cursed math centers in my brain sprung to action. Good beer: about $1.60 each. Shitty beer: about $0.60 each.

I slumped slightly into the beer cooler as the analytical parts of my brain came to life. "Here is the deal, we are unemployed. Our current income level is zero dollars and zero cents per week. We scratch our ass all day and live off our wife. Do you think it is right to spend an extra $12 on the high end micro brew? A year from now, will you remember the deliciousness of the good beer from tonight? I am afraid it has come to this, we are experiencing a beer downgrade."

Really hate it when I talk to myself, yes I do. Even more, it is infuriating when I am right and thus wrong all at the same time. I really wanted the good beer, so I attempted to throw myself off. Thus I could then buy the good beer. Should this be confusing to you, it is much worse for me.

Motionless I hung there half slumped over the micro brew section of the beer cooler. My theory was that if I was still, then the other part of me would get bored and go away. People were starting to stare. My brain did not give up, "put the expensive beer down and back away slowly." I refused to move. Then my damn conscious entered the fray. It showed me all kinds of scenes. The images of my wife feeling hurt and being taken advantage of, filled my head.

Slowly and dejectedly I replaced the good beer in the cooler. I felt like I was 7 years old again. I went back to that time when I wanted a Reese's Cup so bad I couldn't stand it. I snagged one from the shelf at the grocery store. Timidly I approached the check out counter where my mom had started filling out the check for our groceries. I distinctly remember a cigarette in her mouth. She looked down at me and the candy. Not one word came from her. Mom's right eyebrow simply raised up and she gave me "the look." Like a brow beaten plow mule, I put the Reese's back. Thirty years later, my mother's avatar lives in my shitty-ass pea brain.

In an attempt to exact some sort of dignity from the situation, I bought twice the beer. Feeling that I had reached the sacred middle ground, I headed to the check out line. Just as the clerk was handing me the change; "Dirty Ert, what has it been, ten years?" The old flame nailed me. A brief exchange of pleasantries; then I ask "Do you still drive that old blue Honda?"

Dirty Ert