Memoirs of the Mundane - Tires

One must always write about the mundane on a full stomach.

Because, nothing interesting ever happens when you’re full—intellectually,
spiritually, or physically—no room for expansion. 

As the mundaneness of life dictates: one must have their oil changed and their tires
rotated and balanced. For failing to do so produces far too exciting results. 

Bound by this law of common sense, I found myself at the tire shop. Your average beige
colored cinder block establishment. Though to stray from the mundane, it was raining
in January. 

I handed my keys over to the all too courteous Marco. A young man of twenty-some years
with perfectly greased Donnie Brasco hair. If one wants to find polite conversation,
one should refrain from ecclesiastical events or charity functions and instead spend their
time amongst working “grease monkeys.” These hard laboring folk never miss a “Sir” or
“Madam,” nor a salutatory phrase. 

I spied the waiting area and casually strolled towards it. Whilst on my ever so brief journey,
I noticed a young mother and her perfectly-ignored child sitting in the waiting area.
As her perfectly-ignored child leapt from chair to chair squawking, her attention drew ever
more fixedly on her mobile device. I determined it was in my best interests to distance myself
from the two, so that I could not be guilty by any means of association when the
perfectly-ignored child decided to roll a tire through the shop window or other potential
hooliganry. Adding in a few extra steps to make my fitness watch proud, I walked to the far
end of the waiting area. Peering to my right, I saw a young hispanic woman also fixed
intently on her mobile device. My internal computer calculated the seats and spatial factors
to determine that I would not be causing a social faux pas by sitting on the same row as
her, as there were five chairs between us. 

I sat cautiously down, and I surveyed my surroundings to ensure that the perfectly-ignored
child was not going to pull a fast one on me. As I glanced back at the two techno-zombie
women, I turned to pull a relic of yesteryear from my bag—a good old-fashioned book.
Had the women diverted their eyes from their hand-held slave masters, they would have
shrieked in horror at the sight of those weathered pages turning gently in my hands. 

As is the case in most corners of society these days, no one takes into consideration the
humble book lover. Mounted high on the wall of the waiting area was the slave master of
the prior century. Its blaring commercials and car tips for you to ignore segments created
a cacophony of racket—aiming to distract me from my stubborn old ways. As I turned a
few more pages, the hispanic woman down the row began watching videos on her mobile
device. Of course, without headphones. The battling sound waves of the slave master
devices coupled with the perfectly-ignored child’s whining plea for attention.
I offered a silent prayer, “Marco, please get me the hell out of here asap!”

My prayer must have squeaked its way through the undulating waves of noise to jump on
the hispanic woman’s bladder, as just then she got up to rush to the bathroom. The three
ringed circus was reduced to just the shouted tips of “Dale the car whiz” to battle it out with
my concentration. Concerned about the relative calm, I looked up just in time to watch the
perfectly-ignored child waltz right out the shop door into the mechanic bay. The mother, still
having never removed her glossy gaze from her mobile device since before my arrival some
twenty minutes ago, didn’t even stir as a “grease monkey” yelled loudly at the
perfectly-ignored child to go back inside. The perfectly-ignored child, or rather monster,
raced back inside and started climbing on the display tires. I shook my head at the mother
and went back to my reading. 

Spying my book, and perhaps my “good looks,” the young hispanic woman took pity on me
while returning from the restroom and silenced her mobile device. Curiously, she also sat
two chairs closer to me—abandoning her initial perch. This subtlety did not go unnoticed
by me. The curiosity of my internal computer caused my head to turn her direction, in order
to calculate why her internal computer had gone on the fritz and placed her in the wrong
seat. Perhaps her mobile slave master had thrown her circadian rhythms out of whack,
causing her to act so outlandishly. Or perhaps her internal computer had done it to get a
rise out of me. Either way, her eyes broke free from her mobile slave master and briefly
met mine—a feeble smile darting across her lips. 

Now my internal computer went into overdrive... “HUH?!” 

After finally sweeping all instincts and assertions under the proverbial rug, I was able to
set my internal computer back to the task at hand: chapter 6.

Some moments later, the young hispanic woman was called over by a handsome
“grease monkey.” My internal computer forced my gaze to follow her as she walked.
“Perhaps she is somewhat attractive, but that’s the last I’ll see of her,” my internal computer
calculated, as the hard drives shifted into an easier gear. Just then, the enslaved mother
was called up as well. For the first time in almost an hour, she broke contact with the mobile
screen and suddenly recalled that she had a child. She looked hurriedly around for the
perfectly-ignored child and found him disrupting the staff. Without any sign of apologetic
behavior or decency, she took the child’s hand and strolled out to her car. 

Internal Computer: She’s going, she’s going, they’re gone!

Internal Computer: queues celebration, turns up volume.

Internal Computer: plays Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus at full blast.

Internal Computer: wait, something is wrong here.

Just then, the young hispanic woman strolled around the corner, headed my direction.
Much to my absolute shock, she placed herself almost directly next to me, leaving a one
chair gap this time. Five chair gap to three hair gap, to a one chair gap. My internal computer
could not pull up any coherent or reasonable data as to how or why this could happen.
She then wriggled slightly in her seat so as to angle her body and view towards me.
Internal computer meltdown. The words “how peculiar” jumped from the pages of my book.
How peculiar indeed! 

Right as she was preparing to pounce, Marco strolled in with my keys—the kind of timing
that comedians have wet dreams about. Saved by the mundaneness of life.