The Jack and The Wheel Lock (Excerpt)

I shouldn't have driven this way.

It's late, past one a.m., and as I stoop in my five inch heels by my car in the middle of the cold, dark deserted street, I begin to realise how helpless I really am.

I look up from my useless car tire and glare towards the destructive pothole not even twenty metres from me.

You see, as my rickety, old Toyota was rolling down this very same street, not even twenty minutes ago, I fell into said destructive pothole and my right front tire deflated like an untied balloon.

This brings us back to my uselessness. My phone is dead, I have a flat tire, and I can't use the car jack. I always keep my spare tire, wrench and jack in the trunk in case I ever happen to have a flat tire, but I've never actually changed a tire before. I've always thought it would be moderately easy — like changing your handbag.

But guess what? It's not.

I grab the bar in the jack and try to turn it clockwise again, gripping the metal so tightly that my palm begins to go numb and one of my acrylic nails break in the process — but I can't bring myself to care about that right now.

I need to change this tire, and I need to get the hell off of this street.

That thought has me pushing the metal bar even harder, and to my surprise — and embarrassment — I get a muscle contraction in my palm.

"Ow! Ow!" I scream into the cold, dead, night air, trying to massage my hand roughly.

To make this glorious moment even more beautiful, is the fact that my sudden release of the bar causes me to lose my balance as I stoop in my high heels, and I fall flat on my backside, and let me tell you, that hurt.

I continue to rub my palm and the pain from both my hand and rear are making my eyes watery, but through my unshed tears, I catch movement in my peripheral vision.

I become more alert, my eyes drying instantly.

I turn my head, and see the outline of a person approaching me, but there's something... off. It's as if the person has all the time in the world. The walk is slow, confident and secretive all at once, to the point where under these circumstances — on a dark road, at night — it's intimidating.

"Hello?" I say, more than loudly enough for a normal person to hear, but this person is either deaf, or makes the choice to ignore me completely.

As the mystery person comes closer, I see that it is a man — a tall, skinny man that would tower over me even in my heels.

Oh, God. What if he wants to hurt me?

I need something to defend myself.

My shoe?

Don't be stupid, Rya.

My wheel lock. It's on the floor in the front of the car.

Since I'm on the right hand side of the car, and the door is already open, I just reach into the car and grab onto my weapon of choice.

I look back, and the man is now a few feet away from me.

His skin is smooth and the colour of a Hershey bar, just like mine, and his face is angular with the streetlight behind him casting shadows on his face, accentuating his bone structure.

"Hello," I say to him. "Can I help you?" I ask him.

"Can I help you?" he retorts in a raspy voice, assessing me.

Well, I wasn't expecting that.

I stay there, completely surprised by his question. He continues to assess me, and then speaks again.

"I don't think a wheel lock will help you change your tyre," he says with a small smile, jerking his chin at my hand. My cheeks burn in embarrassment, but I don't respond, or let go of the wheel lock.

I stare at him, gaping like a fish, trying to get something — anything coherent out.

Yes, I want you to help me change my tyre.

Please don't hurt me.

However, he doesn't wait for the words to come out; instead, he drops to his knees and grabs the jack in one fluid movement, turning it at a frightening speed, and raising the car effortlessly. Within a few seconds, the wheel is about a centimetre above the road.

He moves as if he's trained to do this; as if he's done it a hundred times.

The old wheel is off in less than a minute, and the new wheel is on in less than two.

He says nothing. I say nothing. The only sound present is from the wrench loosening then tightening the screws, and the wheel being shifted on the pavement.

I don't even hear him exhale in excursion: his breathing is completely steady throughout the procedure.

What an odd man.

I continue to watch him in fascination as he tightens the bolts on the tire.

"Thank you," I say to him, as he puts down the wrench and lowers my car.

"No problem," he replies. "Open your trunk so I can put the tyre in it."

I look at him skeptically for a moment. Why the hell would he want to go that far for me?

He looks me up and down with an amused expression. "Do you really want dirt all over that outfit? Look at you, and look at me."

I do. I'm wearing my best working suit; it's a red skirt, albeit it is a bit dirty from being on the ground, with a lacy silk and cotton top. He's wearing a white cotton tank top — the type you'd buy in bulk — and jeans.

He's right. They're already enough dirt stains on my skirt as it is; placing a used tyre directly against my clothes is not on the top of my to-do list.

I sigh and get up — letting go of the wheel lock — almost falling down again, struggling to balance in my heels on the poorly paved road. I pull my keys from my pocket, and walk around to the trunk to open it for me. Once it's open, he places everything inside; the useless tyre, the wrench and the jack, after which he closes the trunk.

"Be safe," he says, before turning and walking away abruptly.

Wait, what?

One second, he's closing my trunk, next, he turns around and just, walks off. No goodbyes, nothing.

"Goodbye," I say, but like he did before, he ignores me, continues walking, but this time, he's walking away from me.

It's as if he never spoke to me, as if he never just changed my tyre.

I turn back to my car, and look at it. It looks like it is more than capable of being driven right now, and with that man just walking off, leaving me questioning my sanity, it feels as if my tyre never went flat in the first place.

Oh well, I still broke my nail.