Replacing the Tire
Did you know that you are only supposed to drive 50 miles or less on a spare tire? I wonder if there is a word for the information that you keep in your head that you never think about until you need it; because I would use that to describe the situation from the last update with the word “screwed” attached to it. You see Veronica and I went to visit her uncle that lives around 100 miles away on a Sunday, which means that most places that sell tires—and will put them on for you—are either closed or have horrible hours. Luckily there was a Wal-Mart with a tire/lube center about a half hour away.
My wife, who is always thinking, decided that it would probably be a great idea to call and see if they were open and could even take an appointment. Whoever answered the phone was nice enough and told her that it would be a two hour wait to get a single tire on a car. This was around 3 PM, which was fine—even though it meant spending several hours in a Wal-Mart against all laws of common sense. That was when she called, on arriving they told us it was going to be a four hour wait, also that they closed in three and a half hours and couldn’t help us.
Veronica possesses many talents that I do not hold any claim too. Among them is the ability to calmly look someone in the eyes and explain to them what needs to be done, and that they are going to do it; this pretty heavily counters my skill of screaming “no” loudly and over and over until I am either asked to leave or get my way. Them fitting us in, though, basically meant that we had no time frame given on when the car would be drivable again—basically meaning that we got the torture of being forced to be in that store without the pleasure of knowing when, or if, we could leave.
The upside to this was that there was a McDonalds in the building. The downside was that we had just eaten. This basically meant that we could basically have the full experience and joy of eating at the grease factory without any of the drawbacks; I could happily drink my bottled water and get all the positive nutritional value I would just by smelling the French fries. Now that I think about it I still did have to hang out in a McDonalds for a while, and was bored enough towards the end that I started to become interested in the employees’ conversations about scheduling, so that kind of seems like a big enough negative to not really want to do that again.
Killing time in a store that you don’t work at normally involves looking at products that you won’t ever really be interested in, normally resulting in less than great purchases. It is because that voice in the back of your head that tells you something would be useless when you get it home only has so many arguments before it tends to give up on you—as being in a store for hours on end tends to wear out most logic. I bring this up because Veronica almost left the store with a bike.
It isn’t that a bike isn’t a great thing for, say, a 6 year old to own. The problem is that while we were there she continued to come up with fantastic ideas of when she would ride it, how much fun it would be, and how it would be a great source of exercise. I am sure that all of this would be true, for say a week after purchase, if we weren’t having that conversation in the middle of winter. Seeing as how the thing would come in 20 parts I am sure that no attempt would be made to assemble it until the summer when it would have been forgotten in the back of something.
The bike rack was directly in front of the tire place, and I am pretty sure that they became ever more annoyed with the fact that a grown adult was doing laps on a store item while also randomly crashing into displays. I am pretty sure the only reason we do not now have a disambled bike sitting in my closest is because some smart supervisor point at someone and said, “Fix their car now!”