Flat Tire In Barstow

Today, my tire burst.

Just an average problem for a normal person, but for me it becomes a herculean nightmare of Beckettian despair.

I go to work at Zappos in Las Vegas (Henderson, but who's counting) about once a month, and usually I fly. This time I said to myself "you know what would be nice...aside from the usual gentle sobbing? Driving to Las Vegas...while gently sobbing."

So there I was, Power Bar and bag of corn nuts in hand(s). Driving joyfully down the I-15 blasting Bob Marley...then I heard a WHIZZZ...BLOP...RUDDER, RUDDER, RUDDER. I also think I heard my tire say "fuck you, Jew", but that could just be the voices in my head.

In any case, I stop, get out and notice 1/2 my rear driver's side tire about ten feet from my car. Then I look around and realize I am 30 minutes from the nearest town going back towards LA and about an hour from the nearest town going towards Vegas.

To understand the I-15, you must also understand that 95% of the exits lead to one road that takes you straight to the I-15 going in the opposite direction. There is nothing remotely building-like within eyeshot, and at night there is no eyeshot.

Literally, it's darker than a particularly dark cavern painted black. When I got out of the car, I couldn't see my hand in front of my face, and it was only for the grace of the headlights of a passing motorist zooming by that I could even make out the fact that I had a flat tire in the first place.

I'm a native New Yorker and didn't have a license until I was 21. I didn't drive on a daily basis until I was 25...and at the most, "drive" means about 25 miles a week. In other words, I've never changed a tire.

And even if I could...I couldn't. My flashlight was out of batteries and there was no possibility of even seeing in the trunk to figure out where the spare might be (or if I even had one).

At this point, I started imagining that my sexy body would lure a crazed loner on a trip to Vegas to rape and murder, to decide to begin his vacation early.

Alone, alluring and frightened, I called up AAA and gave them my brother's account number (for I do not have AAA because I am an arse). They asked me if my brother was there with me. I told them no. They said "hey, sorry! we can't help you".

I begged them to help a brother out...they "allowed" me to sign up for a membership...and then asked me where I was. Needless to say, I didn't know where I was, specifically or generally. I had no idea if I was in California or Nevada. They couldn't help me.

That's when the SCARY LIGHTS pulled up. Looking in my rear view, I saw a giant car with bright lights came barreling towards me. My anus clenched and I begged the operator to stay on the line because "I am insane and paranoid".

The lights, obviously, were mounted on the front of a Highway Patrolman's car. Yay! I asked him what state we were in. "California!" YES!

The AAA operator said "what town?"...I gave her my nearest exit, but she needed to know the town. I asked the Patrolman, who said "we're in the desert. There's no town for miles!". He told me the name of the nearest town (Barstow), which was 30 minutes away.

The operator said "someone will be there in 45 minutes to an hour. The cop left and said "stay in your car and buckle your belt"...which I did for well over an hour, shivering and nervously overheating at the same time. I believe that's how Michael Jackson died.

Finally, the tow truck came and said that I could drive to Vegas on my mini doughnut, but if it blew out (my ten year old doughnut + Manson Luck = Yes), I'd be left in an even worse mess. He called up the only repair shop in 50 miles and asked if they had my tire. "Yes!" they proudly exclaimed.

So we drove 30 minutes to the repair shop, who promptly told us "No!" they didn't have my tire: But they could get it tomorrow and there is a perfectly spermy cheap motel next door. Oh, but don't worry, the new tire will only be $200!

Thank goodness for great deals.

So I checked in to my cheap motel and promptly spilled some water on my bedsheets and noticed that no "wet mark" was left. This poses the question: "am I sleeping on a giant potpourri of vaginal juices, sperm and tears?"

The answer is at least 1/3 true, as I'm lying in the bed tonight, gently sobbing.

As an addendum, I bring you my Facebook status exactly 5 hours before the tow truck came:

working in las vegas for a few days this week. decided to drive there for fun...might be regretting that in 5 hours...

I've always been quite the grim portent of things to come...well, at least if you expect the worst, you aren't surprised when the worst happens.

So six hours in the motel reading Wikipedia articles on Genetics (DNA tests for ancestry purposes seem like a waste of money) and Judaism (my grandmother's maiden name Meyerson means "from Meir" who would have guessed it?)...and I have to finish my drive in 5 hours.

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to wrap myself in filthy sex blankets. Brings me right back to the halcyon days of yore and my time at other cheap motels...