Sunday, May 8, 2011
A Mother is a Terrible Thing to Waste
School and I have never really gotten along. One day in junior high, I texted my mother and asked her to pick me up early. Since I was ahead in my work (and absences hardly count in middle school), she complied under the terms that I would accompany her to complete her routinely errands.
Also dark, long hair was all the rage.
There was just one last trip between me and my computer at home- we had to get her car tires rotated. I suggested leaving that errand up to my father but she, ever the feminist, had just one thing to say about that:
With that, we headed off to Les Schwab, which had a 45 minute wait. We drove from tire place to tire place, but no one could see us right away. As my mother drove us silently down the main road home, grumbling to herself, she suddenly called out: "TIRES!!" and swerved into the alley behind a bar that doubled as the driveway into a shady little family run business.
Crude stacks of weather-worn tires piled high into the sky around the broken down building. Nothing but a simple paper 'OPEN' sign duct taped in a cracked window was needed to drive my mother into the most efficient way to beat the one o' clock crowds. In the three-space parking lot, another sign was posted. "Lock your doors and stay in your car. We'll be out to serve you shortly." Even though I edged her to turn back, she ignored both me and the sign and pulled herself into the warm, setting sun. Not wanting to stay alone, I nervously jumped out and followed her inside. The inside was even more worn than the out, and low, haunting music echoed off the dusty walls. It was the perfect scene from a bad horror movie, or an even worse porno.
After a few minutes of exploring, we found the source of the music and faced yet another sign: "Do not disturb under any circumstances." My forever-fearless mother knocked on the wooden door and the volume of the music lowered.
He was probably seven feet tall, easily, with completely orange skin and a dirty old T-shirt to match. He didn't have a single hair on his body, and the worst part- with the door open I quickly realized the source of the music: A team Rocket battle. He'd been watching Pokemon. He looked like a fish with a bad spray tan.
My mother didn't bat an eyelash. Instead, she explained our trouble and eagerly led him outside. The man told us to get back in the car, but my mother insisted that we stand outside and watch instead. Then, out of nowhere, a crew of five or six more carny-looking people arose from the depths of the tire piles and flocked over to rotate our tires.
They did their business surprisingly well, and gave us two tires for free as long as we promised to pass on a message for all the tire places that we turned down for them:
Happy Mother's Day.
Also dark, long hair was all the rage.
There was just one last trip between me and my computer at home- we had to get her car tires rotated. I suggested leaving that errand up to my father but she, ever the feminist, had just one thing to say about that:
With that, we headed off to Les Schwab, which had a 45 minute wait. We drove from tire place to tire place, but no one could see us right away. As my mother drove us silently down the main road home, grumbling to herself, she suddenly called out: "TIRES!!" and swerved into the alley behind a bar that doubled as the driveway into a shady little family run business.
Crude stacks of weather-worn tires piled high into the sky around the broken down building. Nothing but a simple paper 'OPEN' sign duct taped in a cracked window was needed to drive my mother into the most efficient way to beat the one o' clock crowds. In the three-space parking lot, another sign was posted. "Lock your doors and stay in your car. We'll be out to serve you shortly." Even though I edged her to turn back, she ignored both me and the sign and pulled herself into the warm, setting sun. Not wanting to stay alone, I nervously jumped out and followed her inside. The inside was even more worn than the out, and low, haunting music echoed off the dusty walls. It was the perfect scene from a bad horror movie, or an even worse porno.
After a few minutes of exploring, we found the source of the music and faced yet another sign: "Do not disturb under any circumstances." My forever-fearless mother knocked on the wooden door and the volume of the music lowered.
He was probably seven feet tall, easily, with completely orange skin and a dirty old T-shirt to match. He didn't have a single hair on his body, and the worst part- with the door open I quickly realized the source of the music: A team Rocket battle. He'd been watching Pokemon. He looked like a fish with a bad spray tan.
My mother didn't bat an eyelash. Instead, she explained our trouble and eagerly led him outside. The man told us to get back in the car, but my mother insisted that we stand outside and watch instead. Then, out of nowhere, a crew of five or six more carny-looking people arose from the depths of the tire piles and flocked over to rotate our tires.
They did their business surprisingly well, and gave us two tires for free as long as we promised to pass on a message for all the tire places that we turned down for them:
Happy Mother's Day.
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