Ticking, Sweating, and Stuttering
Page 2
clarification, I felt the truck slowing down, which eventually grinded to an abrupt halt.
“We’re here,” the driver said. “Just kick the door open. I’ve been meaning to get that damned thing fixed.”
Without saying anything, I knocked the door open and hopped out. I didn’t look back as the trucker drove off. I couldn’t bear to let him see my expression. The last thing I needed was another psychoanalysis session from a complete stranger. There was a new discomfort now to accompany my sore feet and heat stroke, something I hoped would never rear its ugly head. I felt homesick.
1978
The wheel sputtered, stuttered, and other words that ended with uttered. I drove to the side of the road, parked in the grass. Trees surrounded me, bundled in packs. They rose high and eclipsed the glare of the sun. Only speckles of light escaped between the branches.
I grabbed a small brown paper bag from the passenger seat. Inside were unmarked coin proof seats labeled from various dates across the mid seventies to late eighties. I tucked the bag underneath my seat, which hid it from view.
I opened the car door, hopped out, and looked down at the deflated tire on my side. I pressed a button on my set of keys, which opened the trunk of my blue sedan. As I walked towards the trunk, I passed stacks of boxes in the back seat. I raised the door and began rummaging through it, pulled out five folded tables, and set them to the side. I lifted the cover, which revealed a small donut tire and a lug wrench. I picked them up and leaned them against the tables. A bead of sweat rolled down my cheeks as I surveyed the trunk with my hands. With the tables, tire, and wrench gone, the trunk was barren. I slammed the door shut and kicked the rear bumper.
Sounds of wheels approached behind me. I turned around and spotted a silver pickup truck as it pulled up behind me. The middle age man behind the wheel lowered his window and stuck his head through it.
“Hey! You need some help there, son?” asked the man.
“Yeah, if you can provide it. Do you have a spare car jack I can borrow?” I asked.
“Let’s find out,” the man said as he hopped from his seat and walked towards the back.
The man lifted a large red floor jack from the trunk, grunting as he brought it to his chest. He tucked it underneath his right arm and walked to my location.
“Heavy son of a bitch this is. Will this one do?” he asked.
“Oh definitely. This looks a lot sturdier than my old scissor jack,” I said.
“The only thing a scissor jack is good for is lifting up Tonka trucks. Otherwise, you’re better off lifting your car with a bendy straw. Heck, the straw would probably bend less!”
“That bad, huh?” I asked, letting out a chuckle.
“Honestly, I’m going easy on it. It’s all fun and games until your jack falls sideways and gets lodged underneath. My name’s Randy, by the way,” he said, while he extended his hand.
“I’m Kyle,” I said as I shook it.
“Well, Kyle, let’s get to work, shall we?”
“No no, you don’t have to help. I can do it myself.”
“Do you even know how to work a floor jack, Mr. Scissors?”
“Alright, fair enough.”
I dragged the donut tire and lug wrench to where the flat tire laid. Randy glanced at the tables, then at the boxes in the back seat.
“Did you come back from some kind of auction?” asked Randy.
“Nah, a flea market. I’m a coin dealer, though I mostly dabble in proof sets,” I said, loosening the wheel’s bolts with the lug wrench.
“No shit?” Randy asked.
“Do you collect coins?”
“Nah, never saw the appeal myself. Spending money for money you can’t spend just sounds pointless. My dad was a huge collector though. He’d have a whole room set up for just his coins. When we were short on money, he would sell some of his proof sets as well. Always made such a big deal about certain dates to his customers. He would go on and on about how they made such great gifts for birthdays or anniversaries.”
Randy squatted next to me and slipped the jack underneath the car. He attached a handle to an empty slot and locked it into place. He pumped the handle up and down. The jack lifted the car with each push.
“What was the year you were born?” I asked.
“1978. Born too late to enjoy the era of disco,” replied Randy.
I opened the back door on the driver’s side and pulled the middle box from the stack. I had set it to my feet, lifted the lid, and dug through the rows of proof sets. Cardboard containers varied in colors of purple, blue, green, and black. They were sorted by date.
“1978 isn’t a particularly expensive set either,” I said as I flipped through the rows of proof sets. “You can find them for less than ten bucks these days.”
I made my way to the 1977 proof set. I flipped to the one behind it to reveal 1979. I scratched my head and walked back to the wheel. I pried the wheel off its screws and set it to the side. Randy passed me the donut tire and I locked it into place. As I retightened the final bolt, Randy detached the jack’s handle, causing it to lower. As it lowered, I glanced at the front seat.
“Alright, you should be good. Just try not to drive over 50 with that tire. I probably won’t be able to help you again if you get another flat,” Randy said as he patted me on the back.
“Thanks for the help. I really appreciate it,” I said.
“No problem. I know what it’s like to be sailing through shit creek without a paddle.”
“Well, can I at least pay you back for your help?”
“Nah, there’s no need for that.”
“Please, I insist.”
I opened the front door and pulled the paper bag from underneath the seat. As I handed Randy the bag, he began shifting through it. A smirk covered his face as he pulled a black cardboard container from the collection. The number, 1978, was spread across the front.
About the Author
Proficient in script writing, J.R Nappier has worked in writing fantasy and comedy. He has had plenty of experience in writing for videos and radio plays on YouTube. He hopes to become a successful writer for video games. He is attending Full Sail University earning his bachelor’s degree in Creative Writing for Entertainment.
Connect with Me:
LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/jesse-romero-nappier-3b194512a
Email: mailto:jesseromeronappier@gmail.com