Driving through a rainstorm to Atlanta's Soho Restaurant with friend Susan, I swerved too late to avoid a raised concrete pedestrian island suddenly revealed by my headlights in the middle of my lane, blowing out two tires.
[Photo: At the 24 hour tire shop, Susan told me to take a selfie to make a record for our adventures.]After we'd enjoyed dinner with Suzanne, my insurer dispatched a driver from "Chuck's Towing," a big sturdy African American man in a grey sweat suit. Assessing the situation, he manipulated vehicles as easily as I'd move a couple of lawn chairs, securing my car in the bed of his truck in less time than it took for me to figure out exactly where I wanted it to be towed. The insurer had planned for me to see a mechanic on Monday, to consult an adjuster after that, and to rent a car, with expenses and inconveniences for days. But "Chuck's" man helpfully suggested we could take care of it all tonight at a 24 hour tire shop -- Susan and I didn't know such existed -- and he located one three miles away.
He cautioned, "They'll be used tires; and it'll be run by a foreigner." Ok with me.
In the cab of his truck, I asked about whether his shift was almost over, or just beginning. We were his first call of the night, he said; he works nights because he doesn't like driving in traffic. While we drove, he had some conversation with a supervisor via Blue Tooth and he listened to music. We got some sense of what his work day must be like, from 8PM to 4AM.
The tire shop was a garage open to the elements, crowded with tires. A lone man emerged from the back of the stacks, a black man my size (medium small) with an African accent.
"Chuck's" guy wouldn't unload my car until the tire man found two that fit my Mazda. After a few minutes watching the tire man search without success, "Chuck's" guy loudly offered to take us elsewhere, and I said we'd be going. The tire man, eyes wide, protested that he'd just located the right ones.
"Chuck's" guy looked doubtful, but he downloaded my car. When my bumper scraped concrete, he grabbed a couple of 2x4s from his truck to raise the front end. Packing up after settling the car, he flipped one 2x4 in the air just for fun before he tossed it into the trunk. He was already in contact with the next driver he would rescue. Before he drove off, he told us to call if we had any more trouble. Watching him, I felt like Lois Lane rescued by Superman: Up, up, and awayyyy.
Meanwhile our tire guy went about his work rapidly. He replaced one tire during the minute I took to find a good angle for my selfie.
When it was time to pay, I asked if anyone else would be joining him at work tonight. He seemed puzzled. "Why would I need?" He smiled and shook my hand. Soon, I was on the road with Susan, riding smoothly as if nothing had gone wrong.
These two men work through the night, mostly alone, feeling the elements, lugging heavy weights and solving incidental problems for people like me who have been known to spend all afternoon changing a single tire.
Compared to what they do, my days of readings and discussions in climate-controlled rooms, my hands clean, hardly seems like work at all. Yet the $95 charge for my tires is nothing for me, hardly more than what I paid for dinner; I guess that would be a major expense for them.
I felt awe at their expertise and kindness.
I'm comfortable at home, now, pushing words, and ready for bed. I'm reminded of favorite lines from the Compline service in the Episcopal prayer book (134),
Keep watch, dear Lord, with those who work, or watch, or weep this night, and give your angels charge over those who sleep. Tend the sick, Lord Christ, give rest to the weary, bless the dying, soothe the suffering, pity the afflicted, shield the joyous; and all for your love's sake. Amen.
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