Thursday, July 8, 2010

A la

Certain regular features of life have expanded into considerably more miles on the truck, which will no doubt coordinate the due-by date and/or three thousand miles my mechanic suggests for an oil change. He’s a good guy, my mechanic, looking out for potential issues about which I might otherwise procrastinate a tad.

—Those tires…

Yep, I had noticed and thought that perhaps the end of summer might be a good time to put on new ATs; yet, since the worn set were the ones on the truck when my mechanic sold it to me a couple years back, and in that he does not sell tires, I took his notice for concern. So, I took care.

Small town business concerns seem to not suffer a customer’s gawk, no mention of liabilities connected to being close enough to see what air pressure the gauge registers, and while it was somewhat of a spectacle to watch the tire shop proprietor change the rims while an employee balanced and have the whole job charged to plastic within twenty minutes, the conversation that is interspersed must make the time go by all that much faster.

—Well, now my trips to Portland will be less of a worry, new tires and all.

—Yeah, I was waiting on you ‘cause I’m about to head up there myself. And I’m not looking forward to it.

—Unpleasant business?

Seems he has a historically less industrious brother who prefers the acquisition of necessities via the barrel of a gun, and fresh ‘out’ has been allowed a two thousand mile bus ride to reside closer to family, albeit still under some degree of supervision. No other person, friend or kin, was willing to meet the bus.

—Meth? I asked.

—Nope. Just been that way since he was ten years old.

There is so much more. It seems felons have access to online social networks, but siblings have not befriended, let alone given home addresses. He shows me photos on his phone. Lots of ink, including a certain four-segmented political symbol and a three-quarter profile of an associated personage inked on the back of his skull.

Done with some skill, the nefarious Aryan suggested that a tatt the good son designed and pondered for his own bodycould be done as a bonding moment with the motor from a DVD player and guitar string. Coinage was preemptively spent to avoid such a touching moment, and it looks pretty good, all red, white and blue.

Knowing he had a schedule to keep, I said my good-byes and urged care.

—If he gets out of line, I’ll just plug him.

—You pack?

—I do when around him.

It got up to 96° today, a pretty hot day for what we normally have. Ray Bradbury wrote a short story about what can happen at a certain temperature, maybe about as hot as it is here. I wish I could remember the name of that story.


Crash said...

Fahrenheit 451? It was the temperature that book paper starts to burn.

bastinptc said...

No, it was a short story having to do with a certain temperature, somewhere in the 90s, in which things go wrong for folks.

KenP said...

Memphis MOJO said...

Always something going on around your neck of the woods!