I did an overnight shift on Friday, came home, face planted. Around 2 pm I dragged myself out to go buy some food and not waste the entire day. JOKES ON ME I had a flattening tire. I'm like a half mile from my house when the tire sensor light goes on.
Thankfully, I know a guy. Sort of.
Here is my adventure with the Tire Cryptids. Everything I describe actually happened. I have redacted nothing, invented nothing. Sometimes the liminal space be liminaling. Allow me to explain to you the experience of Tire House:
You drive into the parking lot of a rather anonymous suburban strip mall. Despite the fact that there's also an employment agency, a bakery, and a tae kwon do studio, they know you're here for them, even though you have not announced your arrival. Three men in work coveralls beckon you to park your car in front of an open bay. There's no possible way a car could fit in the bay so you nose to the door.
There are three of them: two short and young, one, tall, marfanesque build, like a Lovecraftian farmer, hands too big for his body, arms a little too long, speaks. "Whattar."
You have no idea what he says so you start babbling about the tire sensor and you checked and the front passenger is down to 20 psi and--he holds up an oversized hand. You have said enough. The other two tire cryptids swarm over to your car and before you can notice that their coveralls do not have the shop name on them, but merely the word TIRES in a large ornate patch on the back, the offending tire has been removed and rolled into the maze at the back of the shop.
The tall man has disappeared. You didn't see him go. You try to peek around into the bay but there is a labyrinth of tires. Whatever they are doing is not fit for mortal eyes.
About then you realize that 'whattar' was 'What tire?'. This shop values economy. No wasted words or phonemes, apparently.
It occurs to you that there is no sound at all, beyond the rustling of the breeze. There's no transistor radio playing Ozzy, not even the sound of a cell phone. Just...silence. You can't even hear sounds of them working on your tire, but you have no idea what that would sound like anyway.
They have no use for you. Your car is up on a side jack so it's not like you're going anywhere. You stand outside pretending to be checking your phone because this is just...odd.
The youngest tire cryptid returns, and just as swiftly, the tire is remounted, the jack taken down. You try to make conversation because the silence is weird. "So, what was it?"
He looks at you for a long moment, as though he has no idea how to speak, and then mumbles "Nail."
He does not answer, just staring at you as though if you made him speak again it would be physically painful and why would you do that to him. The moment stretches. "Uh. Where do I pay?"
He has used up his store of words (word) for the day and points to a door that is entirely covered in sun faded advertisements for different tire brands.
You enter, and the Lovecraftian farmer has respawned behind the desk. "Twenny" he says, before you can ask. His hands are down by his side. You wonder if he is an alien. The inside of the shop may have been painted at one time, but is now covered, including the ceiling, in promotional posters of different brands of tires. It feels like a shrine to automotive rubber. You see posters for brands you've never heard of. Some you're not even sure are real. You fish out a twenty dollar bill from your emergency fund just because it would be faster than running your debit card. And besides, then they'd know your name. This feels like a bad idea somehow.
You hold out the twenty. He stares at you. He doesn't move. You lay the twenty on the counter. He nods, but still doesn't move. It's like he has no control over his arms. "We good?" You ask, and wonder if it's a terrible question.
You bolt, vaguely disturbed that you already decoded that as 'have a good day'. You are learning their cant.
You get in your car, and as you back out to leave, you see the other two cryptids, in the bay, just standing, arms at their sides, like deactivated robots, watching you leave. The whole process has taken less than 15 minutes.
By the time you hit the main road, the tire sensor light has gone off. The tire cryptids know their work.
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