do remember to tighten the ones across from each other—partway—then the others, then tighten the rest of the way in opposites, right? You keep your car so carefully, you may’ve never needed to know that.”
I bend to tighten the lug nuts. With his words, I remember exactly what Ms. Melton said. It is a pattern, an easy pattern. I like patterns with symmetry. By the time I have finished, Danny is back with his spare, glancing at his watch.
“We’re going to have to hurry,” he says. “Do you mind if I do the next one? I’m used to it—”
“I do not mind,” I say. I am not telling the whole truth. If he is right that I can take two tires in tonight, then that is a big help, but he is pushing into my life, rushing me, making me feel slow and stupid. I do mind that. Yet he is acting like a friend, being helpful. It is important to be grateful for help.
At 8:21, both spares are on the back of my car; it looks funny with flat tires in front and full tires behind.
Both slashed tires we took off the back of my car are in the trunk of Danny’s car, and I am sitting beside him. Again he turns on the sound system and rattling booms shake my body. I want to jump out of there; it is too much sound and the wrong sound. He talks over the sound, but I cannot understand him; the sound and his voice clash.
When we get to the tire store, I help him lug the flat tires on their wheels into the store. The clerk looks at me with almost no expression. Before I can even explain what I want, he is shaking his head.
“It’s too late,” he says. “We can’t change out tires now.”
“You are open until nine,” I say.
“The desk, yes. But we don’t put tires on this late.” He glances at the door to the shop, where a lanky man in dark-blue pants and a tan shirt with a patch on it is leaning on the frame, wiping his hands on a red rag.
“But I could not get here earlier,” I say. “And you are open until nine.”
“Look, mister,” the clerk says. One side of his mouth has lifted, but it is not a smile or even half a smile.
“I told you—you’re too late. Even if we would put tires on now, it’d keep us after nine. I’ll bet you don’t stay late just to finish a job some idiot dumped on you at the last minute.”
I open my mouth to say that I do stay late, I stayed late today, and that is why I’m late here, but Danny has moved forward. The man at the desk suddenly stands taller and looks alarmed. But Danny is looking at the man by the door.
“Hello, Fred,” he says, in a happy voice, as if he had just met a friend. But under that is another voice.
“How’s it going these days?”
“Ah… fine, Mr. Bryce. Staying clean.”
He does not look clean. He has black marks on his hands and dirty fingernails. His pants and shirt have black marks, too.
“That’s good, Fred. Look—my friend here had his car vandalized last night. Had to work late because he was late to work this morning. I was really hoping you could help him out.”
The man by the door looks at the man behind the desk. Their eyebrows go up and down at each other.
The man behind the desk shrugs. “You’ll have to close,” he said. Then to me, “I suppose you know what kind of tire you want?”
I do know. I bought tires here only a few months ago, so I know what to say. He writes down the numbers and type and hands it to the other man—Fred—who nods and comes forward to take the wheels from me.
It is 9:07 when Danny and I leave with the two whole tires. Fred rolls them out to Danny’s car and slings them into the trunk. I am very tired. I do not know why Danny is helping me. I do not like the thought of his spare on my car; it feels wrong, like a lump of fish in a beef stew. When we get back to the apartment house parking lot, he helps me put the two good new tires on the front wheels of my car and the slashed tires from the front into my trunk. It is only then that