My sweetheart and I are at the tire shop about three hours from home right now. We have a flat tire, a building full of someone else’s crap, and a one hour wait. We had to do this repo all commando style; by that I don’t we weren’t wearing any underwear, just that we had to strike quickly and stealthily… like ninjas, or commandos. Hence my use of the term “commando style.”
Apparently, the lady who had the building was months and months behind on her payments. My sweetheart had gone out there two weeks ago to get it, and had run into her daughter. The daughter was very upset, and begged him not to take the building until she had a chance to empty it out. Her mother had just recently had her mobile home repossessed as well, so she had stored her “valuables” (this term being very debatable, given what we’ve seen) in the building. My sweetheart went back and forth with her on the phone all week, and wasn’t getting anywhere. We had some other business not far from there today anyway, so we decided it was time for a sneak attack. We showed up at the property and saw a big dog in the distance, behind the gate that read “NO TRESPASSING” with a big expensive lock and a cheap, wimpy chain holding it closed. Besides the dog there didn’t seem to be anyone there, so we made our move. We cut the chintzy chain, sparing the formidable lock, and opened the gate. We pulled in and the dog was none too happy about us being there, but was also not too motivated to approach us. I wish we had brought some beef jerky with us; that usually works really well in these situations. There was also a horse in the “pasture” who eyed us suspiciously. The horse was lounging under a large tree, amid the appliances, furniture, and stacks of boxes that were strewn about.
The horse seemed remarkably healthy given the lack of any food or water, and I’m sure the dresser drawer she was rummaging in was an exciting change of pace for her. There was stuff EVERYWHERE! It was like every white trash family in the county had set up for a garage sale in their yard.
We backed the trailer up to the building, wending our way between a stack of clothing and an armoire on one side, and a bookshelf with old encyclopedias, Christmas decorations, a rabbit cage, and myriad and sundry other household items on the other.
Now, when I say “we” backed the trailer up, I mean my sweetheart did it; he is amazing at driving in reverse with various accouterments on the back of the truck. There is no corner he cannot jackknife around, no gate he cannot squeeze through, no obstacle he cannot circumnavigate with any length of trailer.
As we were loading the building and backing up the truck, my sweetheart waved at me frantically to stop. He had heard the sickening “PSSSSSSSSSSS…” that could only mean one thing. Sure enough, one of the tires on the trailer had been impaled by a nail sticking through a random board next to an entertainment center, complete with television and stereo and several issues of “TV Guide”.
We soldiered on and got the building loaded though, and quickly left the property despite the tire, courteously securing the gate behind us. We stopped at the first available opportunity up the highway, rearranging the items in the building toward the front to minimize the fish-tailing motion it was making, and assessing the tire.
We checked the GPS for a tire shop and thought we had found one just on the other side of town. This turned out to be a red herring though as the businesses we were directed to included a windshield repair shop and a bail bondsman. We located another tire shop on the GPS two miles up the highway. We crossed our fingers, and headed north. We were almost to our destination, but had to make a left-hand turn to get there. This would not have been impossible even while hauling a 12′ by 32′ garage with one bad tire; my sweetheart is just that good. But the dozens of school buses stretching for a mile down the road as they pulled out of the local school district’s bus barn blocked our path. There would be no left turn for us this day. We made a right turn instead intending to double back somehow, but there before us, like a lighthouse beckoning us to the shore, was Discount Tire. Somehow, the GPS hadn’t identified this tire shop as being on our route.
Now here we are, drinking free bottled water and waiting for a replacement tire. It’s for just this sort of occasion that we always buy the road hazard warranty on our tires, thank goodness. The poor tire monkeys are having to work on the tire out in the parking lot since the trailer with the building on it will not fit into their service bay.
I’m sure that the tire dudes will be telling their friends the story about the trailer with a garage on it that they worked on today. They did seem really impressed with the pneumatic tires that move the trailer from side-to-side and eliminate the need for a jack while changing the running tires. Maybe they’ll even blog about it!
P.S. The truck in the picture is my Ford F250, a.k.a. Big Bertha. She’s a tough ol’ broad who likes it rough. My sweetheart told me he was in love with Big Bertha before he told me he loved me!