Flat Tire Blues

I'm sitting outside the Loco's Conoco station in Fruita, Colorado, waiting for a tow truck to come take me to my car.

I recognize the place. I stopped here on my way out when I moved to Los Angeles just over a year ago. Across the parking lot is a dinosaur museum and the McDonald's I visited to spend some of the gift certificates I got as a gift from Pat when I quit the shelter (the only sort of going away acknowledgement I received).

It's bee a good forty-five minutes since AAA told me that a tow truck would come, pick me up and carry me to my wounded vehicle.

No sign of him.

I'm sitting outside, sweating, partially to catch the driver as soon as he arrives, but equally in hopes of picking up some semblance of a tan, which has eluded me the past fourteen months in Southern California.

I knew I was going to get a flat. With two departure delays, money problems, and friends I was going to hang out with (and probably have sex with) canceling, I knew this journey was doomed even before I removed my spare to make room for more luggage. It wasn't on a rim, so I'd still be stuck calling AAA, but it would have saved me the inevitable cost of buying a new tire.

They called.

Apparently the driver was looking for my car, not coming to pick me up. Somehow I knew that was going to happen, too. Don't get me wrong. I'm grateful those four Hispanic (or were they Native American?) guys picked me up, but they passed three possible exits before dumping me at the Fruit Conoco Station.

So I figure I have a fifteen minute wait until he arrives. That'll give me time to think about how I'm going to pay for the tow, the tire, and gas money the rest of the way home and still have cash to enjoy my vacation.

Oh, here he is.


Nevermind. False alarm