Morning in America

One of those days, or it was in the morning. Running late for work already, I hear a funny sounda s I back out of the garage, a slapping sound. I pictured some new catastrophic mechanical failure, but no, just a flat tire.

So I found the secret hiding place the tire jack was in, dug out the donut spare. The donut only had 15lbs of air in it (supposed to have 60), but it wasn't quite floppy. It had more air pressure, anyway, than the tire it was standing in for.

Then I try to pry the hubcap off, and it's not coming. I'm pulling hard enough to almost bend it.

Looking in the owners manual, the wire style wheel covers are noted as an 'option.' They're hideous enough without thinking of some dork paying extra for them. The center medallion pops out with the aid of a tool kept in the glove which also has a sort of socket for removing the lug that holds the cap on. Go figure, ugly hubs that require specialty tool — one more thing for me to lose track of.

Then I stop at the Gas & Sip on the way to work to air up the donut, and I knew they wouldn't have 'free' air like a gas station ought to have. But I was unprepared for how bad it's gotten: 75¢ to run a fucking air compressor for a minute or two. That's somehow more offensive than the $3 gas. It's not like we're dependent on foreign air. No one is closing down the Canadian Air Pipeline for repairs.



If I'm going to drive an old car with mechanical deficiencies, I want something that's more...me. A '61 Continental with suicide doors, maybe. Or better yet, a Rolls pickup. Technically that's more Travis McGee than 'me,' but still, it would be a cool ride.