good old boys.

When I pulled up to the garage at eight thirty in the morning and the sun was in its foggy and blinding morning glory, I was sweaty from a run and in much need of some coffee.  I had to get some new tires put on my car.  Mark and I had gotten a flat tire in the middle of the West Virginia mountains which then caused me to discover that three of my four tires were all but stripped.  Par a recommendation of the Rudnicke's, I headed over to Mock Tire, a flat sprawled building with tires all stacked around the garage doors and black and white tiled floor in the office.  The place was buzzing with men, some in blue mechanic suits and some in loafers and short-sleeved Oxfords.  A few women lingered around the door.  

I was admittedly a bit awkward walking in.  I always get nervous going into a car place because I feel totally out of my element, primarily because I'm a female.  Secondly because I always end up divulging my ignorance about cars when they ask me questions like, 'when's the last time you got your filters changed?' or 'what kind of engine have you?' or 'what size tires do you need?' I don't know.  

However, this time it was different.  There were four men behind the counter; two were older gentlemen wearing starched white collared shirts and khakis.  They both had white hair combed back and one of them had a mustache.  They were just gentlemen, well-postured and southern and they reminded me of my grandfather.  Another man who was a bit younger and wore a mechanic suit helped me figure out what I would need, taking care to explain to me what type of tires I'd be getting and why I really should get the cheapest ones because they were just as good as the $80 ones, never once making me feel that I should already have mastered the tire market.  The fourth gentleman bore a striking resemblance to Robert Redford and his voice had the calm rubbing sound of sandpaper. Wholly relieved, I sat down to wait.

I waited for about forty minutes, watching them work on my car from the window.  A handful of of older gentleman came in and lingered around the office, talking candidly and laughing with the managers of the store.  All salty and weathered, they discussed the economy and the seasons and asked about each other's wives.  "I don't know a thing you're qualified to do," joked one squat gentleman to his friend the manager.  Most of the visitors didn't have a car needing work, they just came to pass the morning, respectable members of an established city club. It occurred to me, watching the gentlemen, that they were in no hurry.  The reputable managers with their clean shaven faces, the mechanics with their relaxed and efficient working hands and the men who dropped by Mock Tire to pay a visit were happy in their well-fitted matrix of friendship and years and a doubtless myriad of histories.  Glad to shoot the breeze, they just easily took the morning like they always have, I suppose.