A Filthy Car

My father told me you can tell a lot by someone’s car. He said if it looks like they can’t be bothered with the outside, means there’s a hell of a lot more going on inside.

The interior of Nickolas’s little Jeep Liberty, for example, was filthy. For every scratch, for every busted part, for every rusted part, outside, there were two dozen pieces of shit inside.

He was late for the funeral of his grandfather’s brother. His Liberty, once bright silver, now rusted, struggled down the old road. He was driving fast. Slow enough he might not get pulled over, fast enough to satisfy the anxiety. At least enough to say he tried. He took a sip from his coffee and accelerated.

The lead clouds above threatened rain.

           Out of nowhere, there was a thud in the car. The car pulled, hard, to the right. A scraping sound. Something was wrong. Nick, now sweating, pulled over into the small parking lot of an old furniture store. The dusted, sun-baked gold and brown sign was older than he was.

           He turned off the car, tried to breathe. He stepped out into the bitter air.

           The back right tire of his jeep had blown. Nickolas cursed himself. He thought of his mother. Her yelling. He thought of his father. His pitiful eyes. Nickolas cursed himself.

           He opened the rear-passenger door. Ruined clothes and forgotten trash fell out onto the ground.

A beautiful young couple walked by. They were quiet as they passed him. He hid his head in the car while they passed.

           He threw the trash into the car and dug around the mess of clothes, old bags, sweat, and trash, until he found the back seat. Digging beneath it, the lift kit. It fought to stay in its place. Nickolas sweated. He pulled. He cursed himself.

           The lift kit came out.

           It was heavier than he expected it would be. Smaller. He dug back under the seat, looking for more. He had everything. He stared at the lift kit.

           He walked around to the passenger side door, pulled open the glove box, dug out the manual. It smelled old. His hands shook in the cold breeze, finding the right page. He grabbed a sip of his coffee, set it down on the pavement next to the car.

           From the manual, the jack seemed like it was in the right spot beneath the car. His suit was filthy, laying on the ground. It was hard lining the jack up.

           He began lifting it, twisting, slowly. The car began to raise.

           He stopped, the wheels just touching the ground. The lug-nuts needed to come off next, the manual said. He stuck the back end of the lifting rods beneath the side of the hubcap. Hot sweat gathered on the back of his neck. Wrenching on the lever, the hubcap splintered and tore off, the plastic splintering. He threw it into the passenger seat of the car. He cursed himself. The inside of the car was filthy.

           He knelt again and began loosening the nuts. They came off quicker than he expected, easier than he expected. He set them down beside the car, set down the socket next to them. His hands wrapped around the tire, cupping the filthy rubber on the backside. He pulled. Pulled. Pulled. Pulled. Sweat pooled on his brow. He stood up, stared at it, cursed himself.

           “You need to raise the jack higher,” an old voice said behind him. An old man with an old shirt and old suspenders and an old hat stood behind him. “You’ll never get it off like that. Raise it a bit higher.”

           Nick grabbed the socket, walked back around the car, bent down, and twisted the jack higher. The cool breeze blew against the hot sweat. He tried to breathe.

           The old man rounded the back of the car. His hands grasped at the tire cover, wrinkles pulling at the stretched fabric. Nick helped him. They pulled the spare tire cover off, undid the bolts, and dropped the tire onto the ground.

           “Now roll it ‘round,” the old man said.

           Nick’s phone rang in his pocket. He nearly threw it onto the roof of the furniture store.

           It was his dad.

           “Nick. Where are you?”

           “I got a flat, trying to change it.”

           “You need to hurry. Your mom is… hurry up.”

           “I’m trying. I really am.”

           “Try harder, kid.”

           The phone hung up. The old man had rolled the tire around to the back right of the jeep and had propped it up against the side of the car. He didn’t hear the phone call.

           “Line up the holes with the bolts, lift her on. Squat, use your knees to hold it, guide it with your hands,” the old man said. He didn’t look at Nick. He stared at the tire as he talked.

           Nick crouched down, rolled the tire until the holes lined up with the bolts. He lifted, struggled, dropped the tire. Took a second run at it. He fought with it. He fought. The bolts disappeared into nothing behind the wheel.

           His phone began to ring in his pocket.

           The tire fought back. It turned, gaining weight every second. He set it down, took a breath. His phone rang in his pocket. The old man watched. The sweat boiled on his neck. He lifted again – the old man’s hand came down, twisted the tire a bit, and helped guide it to the bolts. The old man smelt like sawdust. His phone rang in his pocket.

           He pulled it out.

           His mother was calling him.

           The old man looked away from him, staring at the tire.

           “One second, sorry. I need to take this,” Nick said.

           The old man didn’t respond.

           Nick walked around the side of the car and answered the call.

           “Nickolas, where the fuck are you?”

           “I got a flat, Mom. I’m trying –“

           “You need to get your shit together, Nickolas.”

           “Mom, I’m trying. I’m really trying –”

           “I don’t mean the fucking tire, Nickolas.”

           The wind blew.

           “Go home,” his mother said.

           “What? What? This is… Mom, this is a funeral, I know I fucked up but like-“

           “Don’t bother yourself with showing up today. I’m sick of the excuses. Every time I ask you to do something, anything, there’s excuses. Excuses. ‘I can’t. I can’t’. You lay around all fucking day in that filthy fucking apartment, and you can’t be fucked to even shower, and I ask you to show up for your family, and you’re so fucked you can’t be bothered. I’m fucking sick of it. I don’t know what the fuck happened to you, but goddamn if it isn’t tragic.”

           “Mom. I’ll be a bit late, but I’ll still make it to the –“

           “I said, don’t fucking show up, Nickolas. I don’t want to see you right now. Go home.”

           His mother hung up the phone. He placed it back down in his pocket.

           The old man was spinning on the last nut as Nick walked back around the car. The tire was on, steady. The old man hadn’t heard the phone call.

           The lead clouds threatened rain.

           The old man didn’t say a word. He stepped past Nick and lowered the car back onto the ground. Nick stared at him. The silence was okay. He cursed himself.

           The old man tightened the nuts then stood back up, “Make sure when you get… where you’re going, you tighten those nuts up. Take her into a shop soon as you can.” He handed Nick the socket.

           The old man looked Nick in the eyes. By accident. The old man had pitiful eyes. Nickolas looked at the ground.

           “Thank you for your help. I really appreciate it.”

           “Don’t mention it, son.” The old man stepped away from the car, the bill of his hat hiding his face.

           The lead clouds threatened rain.

           Nickolas opened the passenger seat of his car and threw the socket and the jack in.

           “You’ll get where you’re going, son,” the old man said. “Days like this happen. You’ll get where you’re going.”

           Nickolas looked down at the ground. He rubbed the side of his face, rubbed his nose, rubbed his eyes. The old man turned and walked back into the furniture store, the bell dinging as he stepped inside.

           Nickolas slammed the rear passenger door and turned to circle back around the front of the car to the driver side. His foot collided with the coffee cup still sitting on the ground, knocking it over. He stopped, stared at it. The brown streamed slowly out onto the dirty pavement.

           He stared at it. The sky was covered in clouds, the rain couldn’t come.