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“You look just like your brother.” Mechanic said as he turned the page of his newspaper with a greasy hand.

“I look like my bald brother?” I asked, insulted. I ran my hand through my hair. Was my hair really flat or something?

“Not Joshua.” He said, as he slowly turned another page. “You look like your older brother.”

“Oh. Thanks.” I’ve been alive for thirty-nine years and this was the first time anyone has ever told me I resembled my oldest sibling. Not that I was about to argue. I’d agree to anything right about now.

He looked up. “Would you like some pizza?”

“Um. No. Thanks.” I said, feigning patience. Um. Wasn’t there a time limit here before my flat tire would give out and my rental car would sink into the depths of the earth? “Thanks, but I’m allergic to wheat.”

He looked up from the newspaper. “I didn’t know the Winter family had wheat allergies. When did yours start?”

I laughed. Feeding the gossip circuit was a requirement for getting my tire changed. It didn’t matter that there were no sick cars in front of mine. The owner and his father were in no rush. I spent the first twenty-seven years of my life here in Woodstock, New York. I knew to expect town-time when I needed something done.

But. Since I had moved away from home, I was used to a fast paced city where my tire would have been plugged for free in less than ten minutes in a busy Denver garage. Now this snail pace felt a bit like fingernails down a blackboard. And. For the record… chatting with the mechanic about my allergies wasn’t the way I wanted to spend my afternoon. I had plans to wander around town with my mother and go window shopping. Um. Would there be enough time?

“About three years ago the doctors diagnosed me.” I said as I settled, uninvited, onto a newspaper covered drum. I made a concerted effort not to touch anything else, knowing I would be covered with that smelly grease that doesn’t wash off easily. Scantily clad poster girls smiled at me from a row of calendars on a far wall that announced the year was 1978. Likely this was the year Mechanic opened his garage door for the first time, and the last time he swept up around the place.

He caught my eye. “Is it just wheat?”

This is not a test. This is not a test. This is a conversation. “Actually I have something called Celiac Spru. I have a gluten intolerance.”

“Now.” He said, turning towards my car. “That’s news.”

I nodded my head in agreement. Agreeing that it was time for him to look towards my car.

He bent down over the front tire, that wasn’t flat. “You’re going to need new tires really soon.”

I laughed. “No chance. This’s a rental. I picked it up a few hours ago. I’m really mad it’s already flat and would love to drive it back to Kingston to make them change it, but Joshua said I wouldn’t make it. He cancelled our hike and pumped air into the tire, worrying I might not even make it here.”

He nodded as wiped some dirt from the back door. “Your brother was right. You were best to come here. So.” He said as he walked back to the table, plopped down on his newspaper drum, and turned a page of his newspaper. “Where you living now?”

“Denver.”

He looked up at me from his seat. “Are you in a rush or something? There aren’t any little kids in the car I don’t know about, are there?”

I sighed, quietly. “No. No rush. Not really. My parents are waiting for me for lunch, that’s all.” I lied. I wanted to be anywhere but here. I wanted to be with my family, not here talking about myself to a man I didn’t know.

I know. I know. I should tell him to hop to it, but that would break the country code. Begging him to rush my job would be as barbaric as him insisting I eat his pizza. It just wouldn’t be right.

He turned a page in the newspaper. “Don’t you miss your family?”

“Yup.” I said, being careful to get this just right for the record. “That’s why I’m here. To visit my very favorite family in the world.”

Mechanic looked at me for a moment, insulted at my rushed tone. He put down the newspaper, stood up and moved to my car. He attached the lift and began the noisy procedure of changing the tire.

Mechanic’s father took his son’s seat.

“You know what’s wrong with our country?” He asked, over the hissing noises coming from my car.

“What?” Oh. How I hate political conversations. But. Come on. This guy is old. I will be patient. I will be patient. I will be patient.

“We’ve taken on too much. We can’t handle all we have.” He said, pounding his fist onto the table.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. I remember when things went downhill in this country. I’m old enough to remember. I’m seventy-eight.”

“So.” I asked, becoming a bit more interested. “What was the year of our country’s downfall?”

He took a deep breath and spit on the floor.

I decided to levitate out of the garage when it was time to leave. Spit on the floor? Inside? That’s it. No more touching the floor for me.

Old-man took a deep breath. “It all got bad the year we let Alaska into our country.”

I sat up straighter. “Really?” I had never, ever heard that theory before.

“I remember when that happened.” Old-man said. “Our country couldn’t handle all of that extra land. That’s when the taxes went up and when we started going downhill.”

I smiled. What an interesting man. I’ll bet Alaska would love it if we let them loose. Let them become the country of Alaska. Let them go to be free. My smile grew.

Old-man ate up the encouragement. “Yeah. I remember when that happened. There’s no way we can ever control Alaska. That’s what’s keeping our country out of whack.”

I lost my smile. Um. Did this man know about gangs and drugs and teen pregnancy and the budget deficits and all the problems with education? Or… was he stuck on the Alaska platform?

I was about to ask when Mechanic ran back to the table and stood in front of Old-man. Guess he didn’t want his father to make the local gossip. And the only way to stay out of the gossip circuit is to interrupt loved ones before they say something too memorable.

“That’ll be ten dollars.” Mechanic said to me.

For a moment I was confused. Was he paying me ten dollars for talking to his father? I was about to assure him that there was no fee for my conversation.

He dropped a nail on the table in front of me. “There’s your culprit.”

I laughed as I pulled ten dollars out of my front pocket to pay for my plugged tire.

“Man. You had the exact amount of money in your front pocket?” Mechanic turned the money over in his hands. “Just sitting in your pocket, waiting to be spent?”

I laughed. “Joshua gave me a run down of the charges.”

Mechanic laughed as he took the money. “I want you to do something for me.” He laughed again.

“Sure.”

“I want you to tell Joshua I didn’t charge you.”

I laughed. “Ok.”

“Yeah.” Mechanic laughed. “That’ll really eat him up.”

I nodded my head. “It really will.” How strange it was to be in a place where people I didn’t know knew my family so well.

“No.” Mechanic said. “I have something even better.”

“Ok.” I was in. Anything to eat Joshua up. You know. Isn’t that what families are for? Knocking each other off balance?

“I want you to tell Joshua you put this on his tab.”

Mechanic laughed a big laugh, waved his father off of his drum, and sat down at his newspaper.

“You know I will.” I laughed as I waved good-bye. “Thanks for the save.”

As I pulled my car out, I saw father and son sitting, thumbing through newspapers, patiently waiting for cars that needed service. I sat watching for a moment, suddenly missing this slower, simpler life that I left some twelve years ago.

Wanna try another column? How about #190: Wear More Orange which is about buying old clothes and getting a new surprise.

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