The Flat Tire It's late October of '88. Where in the hell do I sit?

The eight men on the west wall seem itchy. They giggle to whispered secrets, like children, as if plotting rebellions with impish winks. I turn away and look at the east wall. Much different. Six sad faced men who look like they lost their mothers at some point in the last half hour. Ambivalent, I reluctantly choose a compromise spot between both groups to a cascade of west wall hilarity. The mourners on the east wall dont care. Our treatment counselor seems tired. He greets us, introducing himself as Ed. A middleaged man I later learn is a retired Marine, he wears khaki trousers, a blue, long sleeved wool shirt and tan deck shoes. He begins with a simple question, pointing at the rebel leader on the west wall. Why are you here? Damned if I know, the young man sneers, pissed at having been picked. No idea? Something about drinkin n drivin I guess. Taint like Im a drunk, though, he sniffs. How bout you? The man seated next to the first is singled out. Same as him. He nods at his comrade, then shrinks into his chair and nervously strokes his beard. "I won't be here long," the first one chimes in."You can bet on that. Soon as my attorney gets his shit together and straightens this out...I'm gone." The counselor sighs, turns to the east wall, and asks, "You?" "Flat tire, I guess," murmurs mourner number one, a thirtyish, long haired fellow with a Fu Manchu mustache. The west wall laughs, mirth restored. "A what?" Ed frowns.

"A flat tire. South of town, on the freeway...about three weeks ago." "So tell us about it." "I have to?" "Why not?" Ed shrugs. "Okay, its like this," the young man sighs. "Me and my buddy were drinkin. Thats all. Just like a million other nights. Except this time we had the flat. It was just south of town, like I said, where the freeway narrows...back side of the curve. No shoulder to speak of, so not much room to pull over." Spit balls bounce off the west wall. More giggles. Ed pulls up a chair, but he doesnt sit. He plants his right foot in the middle of the chair, his arm on his knee as he leans forward to confront the rebellion. "Youre here til I say you arent." He is matter-of-fact, without rancor or fear. "Might be months, lawyers or no lawyers." Sneers fade to sullen glances. "So what then? You fix the tire?" "Yeah. We get it changed alright. But then, as hes pullin' himself out from underneath the car, this empty tractor-trailer rig comes screamin around the curve, and the trailer tires skid sideways...not enough to hit my car, but close. Next thing I know, it's my buddy screamin." The room is silent, save several sighs as quizzical stares settle on the speaker. "At first I cant figure out why...I guess cause it happened so fast." His voice is shaking, but he runs his fingers through his hair and plows on. "Then I get it. The damn thing ran right over his legs...and theyre just layin there, flatter than shit...bent all sideways. There aint no blood or nothin. Just two fucked up...rag doll legs that dont hardly look real no more." Ed grimaces, then sucks the fluorescent air through his teeth.

"I didnt know what the hell to do. So I drug him around the back of the car, him and his floppy doll legs, and I hoisted him into the trunk. All the while hes screamin so loud I cant think." The young man pinches the bridge of his nose, but the tears flow through. "Then I shut it, figurin I gotta get him to the hospital...pronto." The west wall is in full retreat. "Jesus. So what then?" gasps number one. "Im not sure when it happened," the mourner chokes. "I know it was after I turned up the radio. And I remember crackin a beer, so it was after that, too, when I guess I forgot where I was goin. So I just headed home, put my car in the garage and went to bed."