The Writer stopped in front of the\npile. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMiss, are you okay?\u201d \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Nothing. He waited. On TV, a Fox\nNews<\/em> blowhard said Democrats trucked with the Devil.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCan I help you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He surprised himself by saying it. He\nhadn’t asked the question in…years? Ever? \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n The woman arched and pulled the hood\ntight around her head, smashing red hair to both sides of her face.\nThe Writer noticed a tattoo of a cobweb on her neck that trailed down\nher sternum and disappeared. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI need new tires and don’t got no\nmoney. I just came in to get a flat fixed but they wouldn’t fix it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She was crying out the words in almost\na whisper from the floor of the tire center. The girls never moved. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy?\u201d said the Writer. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThey said it was too dangerous. The\ntire was too worn. All of them are.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLet me take a look. Where’s the\ncar?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n What?<\/em> The Writer didn’t know\nanything about tires! He surprised himself with his pretense of tire\nknowledge, but recognized he had to do something.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cIt’s right out the door in the\nhandicapped spot. The green Honda,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He headed for the door but turned\naround.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cC’mon let’s get you up to the\nchairs. The girls, too.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He held out his hand. She took it and\nhe winched her up. She whispered something to the girls and the pile\nlumbered to the chairs. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThere’s coffee,\u201d said the Writer.\nHe dug into his wallet for a few dollars and gave them to the woman.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThese are for the vending machine,\nfor you and the girls.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThanks. Much obliged.\u201d She\nwithdrew the hood when she spoke. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n Obliged?<\/em> He hadn’t heard the\nword used in years, if ever. It was certainly out of favor in\nAmerican speech. It sounded strange, but not unpleasant. He thought\nabout what the verb oblige<\/em> really meant. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI’m Stephen,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI’m Calista.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She said her name without intonation. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n They shook hands. She barely exerted\ngrip. One of the girls shrieked and she let go of his hand and turned\naround sharply to attend. As she turned, he heard cracking and it\nseemed as if her body might snap in half.<\/p>\n\n\n\n A crackling announcement came over the\nPA: The center will close in one hour because of freezing rain.\nOnly vehicles still being serviced in the bays will have repairs\ncompleted. Everyone else should leave and drive safely. The center\nwill reopen the day after Christmas. <\/em>\n<\/p>\n\n\n\n A collective groan rose up from the\ncustomers. Some bolted to the counter. Others left. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n The woman eased around and faced the\nWriter. Her face had registered the announcement. \u201cI don’t have\nnowhere to go,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Her eyes met the Writer’s eyes. He\ncouldn’t read an atom of nuance in them. There wasn’t a hint of a\nsuggestion of an inner life within her that the Writer could detect\nbut what did he know about a woman like this in such a precarious\nsituation. Can a marginalized American have an inner life while\nstruggling to survive? Surely, they need one. Don’t we all? \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n He walked over to her. \u201cWhere were\nyou going?\u201d he said. His curiosity jolted him. He had forgotten the\nlast time he was genuinely curious about something directly in front\nof him. Was he ever curious about such matters? Was he truly curious\nabout anything outside of the need to access the Internet to craft an\nessay that would reveal what a profoundly curious person he was. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n She delayed in responding. \u201cI was\ndriving north and left Coos Bay this morning. I used to know some\npeople in Tillamook but I don’t know if they still live there. Shit.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cCan you call them?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don’t have no phone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He almost asked about her family, but\ncaught himself. He didn’t want her to have to explain the absence.\nSometimes, too deep a dive into backstory undermines the ability to\nmove forward. That’s not what the therapists say, but then again,\nthey say those things for money in an office and not a tire center on\na freezing night. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n She slumped down on the floor. The\ngirls came over and they formed the pile. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cLet me go check the car,\u201d said the\nWriter.<\/p>\n\n\n\n What he really wanted to do was check\nhimself. He didn’t know what to do. It would all be so simple if he\ncould sit down and write up an ending where it all turned out well,\nor at least poignant. They call it fiction for a reason. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Writer walked to the door. He\nstepped outside and almost lost his balance. Freezing rain stung his\nface. Everything looked sheathed in glass. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n A vibration in the pocket of his\nWestern shirt alerted him to an incoming text message. He pulled out\nthe phone and read that his Yoga girlfriend wasn’t coming. The Coast\nRange was impassible. They could Skype later and wish each other\nMerry Christmas<\/em>. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n He didn’t respond and stashed the\nphone. He saw the Honda: scratched, sagging, passenger side window\ncovered in cardboard and duct-taped to the frame. It was coated with\nice and he could barely see through the window, but could see enough\nclothing, blankets and pillows crammed inside to know they were\nliving out of of the car. It was a familiar sight along 101 these\ndays, with men and women of all ages and makes of vehicles, but it\nwas the first time he’d noticed, although he had written some blurb\nabout noticing the homeless for a special edition of an Oregon\nhumanities magazine that appealed to less than half a percent of the\nOregon population. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n The right rear tire was flat, flatter\nthan he’d ever seen a tire. He slid toward the vehicle and braced\nhimself against its side. He inspected the front tire and it wasn’t\nreally a tire, just strands of fraying steel and rubber that somehow\nclung to the rim. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n A siren wailed in the distance. He\nglanced at Highway 101 and saw vehicles inching their way forward. A\nfew had been abandoned in the shoulders. Customers were leaving the\nparking lot. The sky was darkening with almost hostile speed. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n The Writer looked up from the Honda and\nsurveyed the immediate area. The Shore Pine Motel was adjacent to the\ncenter. On the other side stood Ocean Quik Mart, a convenience store.\nBoth appeared open. Both had holiday displays twinkling as distress\nbeacons. Both had gulls on the roof, angled into the sheeting ice. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n He had to act\u2014now\u2014and that meant\ndoing something other than phony writing and calling that action,\nlike the city poet who composes a poem about the obscenity of\nclearcutting (yet has never stepped foot in a clearcut) and concludes\nher outrage over clearcutting with a single fake poem.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The Writer stopped in front of the pile. \u201cMiss, are you okay?\u201d Nothing. He waited. On TV, a Fox News blowhard said Democrats trucked with the Devil. \u201cCan I help you?\u201d He surprised himself by saying it. He hadn’t asked the question in…years? Ever? The woman arched and pulled the hood tight around her head, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":5581,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[43,5],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-5580","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","category-meditations","has-post-title","has-post-date","has-post-category","has-post-tag","has-post-comment","has-post-author",""],"builder_content":"","_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5580","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=5580"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5580\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":5583,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/5580\/revisions\/5583"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/5581"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=5580"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=5580"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.nestuccaspitpress.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=5580"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}