The Spare Was Ceremonial

The spare had been bolted to the rack since roughly the second year of ownership. It had been photographed hundreds of times. It had been slapped, affectionately, on departure, by everyone who had ever ridden in that truck. It had never been on the ground.

Then, forty miles up a two-track with nothing behind them and a long way to the highway, the right rear went down. Not a dramatic blowout — a slow, undignified sag that announced itself through the steering and then through the noise.

Ray was delighted. This was the moment the spare existed for. He had a jack, he had a breaker bar, he had an audience of two, and he was going to be very efficient about this in front of them.

The spare came off the rack, hit the dirt, and made a sound that was wrong. Soft. Not flat exactly — well down on pressure, because nobody had checked it since the day it went on.

Nobody said anything for a second. Then his sister, from the shade of the truck, said 'so it's decorative' and that was the end of Ray's efficiency.

The compressor saved it, which is the only reason this is funny instead of a story about walking. Twenty-five minutes of a small motor screaming while three people sat in a strip of shade and worked through the entire history of things Ray had assured them were handled. They aired it up, swapped it, and made the highway before dark.

The tire got looked over properly at the shop that week — pressure, tread, the whole sidewall. Ray checks it before trips now, out loud, so everyone can hear him doing it.