Whiteclay Part 4

The tire exploded about a mile west of Gohener. I didn't realize this right away, I was reading the paper. I only knew that we were somewhere west of Seward. I noticed that the clown car started shaking more than usual, I looked to the driver's side and saw nothing but smoke. If I remember right, I asked Dan if there was a problem. He said something along the lines of yes. He pulled the car into the median and killed the engine.

The tire looked like it had just starred in the Zubruder film. At least a dozen seperate ragged threads still connected to the wheel and forming a vaguely wheelesque shape. It continued to smoke for a good half hour. We got it on tape, it's amazing. Dan said that we had come too far to give up. This went without saying. It wasn't a question of whether to keep going or give up. It was a question of whether or not we had any choices to speak of. The trunk carried the standard equipment, a doughnut and a shitty jack. We get the joke now Detroit (you too, Tokyo), you can bring back the real tire change kits.

So my fear was that we didn't have the option of going either east or west but rather that we would be stuck forever in the no-mans land between the roadways. This was our first purgatory. We would be forced to eat roadkill, suck stagnant water out of the grass, relieve ourselves in front of hundreds of passing eyes. It could be days before a state patrolman pulled into the median for the sake of tracking down a speeder/drug runner/terrorist and maybe deign take the time to arrest us for vagrancy and deliver us back to civilization.

Me and Dan set about trying to get the old tire off and put the psuedo-spare on. Cars in the inside lane passed inches in front of us with total indifference. they had their skiing, and their Cabela's, and their seminars to go to, you see, and it was our own fault for being in their way. A straight line and a goal. Press your foot down on the gas and keep it there through all hazards. The new masculinity, it leaves something lacking. I shouted my belief that all you motherfuckers can fuck yourselves. There, that's better.

They were important people on their way to do important things, that's what they told themselves. But they wern't really the ones choosing to come within three inches of turning us into stew. They were controlled by the road. The same road that tells you to risk soiling yourself rather than make an unplanned stop, because you don't want to lose five minutes on a 36-hour trip. The same road that tells you to get gas at the first place off the interstate even though you know it's the most expensive place in whatever town you're in. the same road that tells you to keep driving, keep driving, as your eyes sink lower and lower at three in the morning, but you simply must make it to a town big enough for a Denny's. We are all controlled by the road when we are travelling, it can't be helped. Some of us manage to regain some control of ourselves when we are back in our own hometowns. Others let the road control them for their entire waking lives. The worst of us like it. They are important people on their way to do important things.

The attempt to change the tire failed. the ground was soft from snowmelt, and the jack simply sank into it every time I cranked it. I got some minor scratches on my knuckles, I bleed for you Whiteclay. I decided to call AAA. I wasn't entirely sure if they would service a car that wasn't mine, but it was the only possible way we could get out of purgatory and continue worshipping the highway.

Paul went off in search of a mile marker so that I could give our location to the operator. As of now I could only tell her that we were somewhere between Seward and York. The Nebraska department of roads claims that it has a mile marker for every mile of every state maintained highway. this is a lie. Paul walked for at least a mile in every direction and found nothing. The operator was from... somewhere. India, Malaysia. She mispronounced Seward, than she asked me if we were still in Lincoln, than she put me on hold for about ten minutes. It went on like this for some time. Our fellow travellers coontinued to whiz in front of our faces without getting into the other lane.

eventually, I recognized the white church standing next to the bridge to the east and realized that we were about a mile west of Gohener. I recognize Gohener from my frequent trips between Lincoln and my family in North Platte. It's the only village in Nebraska that's right there along the interstate. You can see the whole place from the road. Keep that in mind if you ever find yourself in a predicament similar to ours.

I relayed the information to the operator, and after some more holding and new-age muzak, she told me that a tow truck would come and change our tire for us within the next ten-fourty five minutes. I've had car trouble before, and normally this means two hours. But the tow truck driver was at the sight within half-an hour. Midwest Towing, Seward Nebraska, repay the favor the showed to Mr. Heartland and call them up if you're ever in the area and need a tow.

The sky, which had been cloudy, turned sunny while we waited. we signalled for semis to honk at us and they obliged. a man in a red truck took our hand signals as a call for help. With great skill and at great risk to himself, he negotiated his way from the right lane accross the carriageway and into the median to meet us. For reasons that arn't entirely clear, me, Dan, and Paul all walked up to meet him toghether.

He looked the O.G. Harley-davidson type. White hair and beard arranged in that lion-mane style, tattos, etc. He had clearly been partying the night before, or perhaps that morning. The smell of old liquor leeking through his pores was obvious.
He asked us if we needed any help. I spoke for the group, I took that initiative. I told him thanks but no; I had called AAA and the tow-truck was en-route. He said alright, and reentered the road with as much skill as he had left it. That was it. This was easily the nicest rural white man we would encounter on the trip. He had wasted his time for us, how sweet.

The tow-truck came, with a Seward County deputy escorting him. The cop was nice, the nicest I met and easily the nicest we would meet on the trip. He tried to gesture traffic out of the passing lane. They ignored him as if he was just another bum like us. A straight line and a goal. He cursed them with far less skill than I had. The tow-truck driver had a pnaumatic jack and changed our tire for us in about three seconds. He did not, alas, have a real tire for sale. We would have to go to York, the nearest proper town, for that.

I asked the Deputy if it would be better to take U.S. 34, which paralles the interstate some five miles to the north. I knew the answer was yes. The doughnut is not designed for high-speed travel, any idiot knows that. But I wanted to make a show of respect towards authority. He had taken the time to help us, and I have latant small-town tendencies.

The deputy said that it wuld be a good idea and suggested that we take the Beaver Crossing road to the two-lane. It was then that I realized that this man was a fucking idiot. I pride myself on my knowledge in certain nerdy subjects, and obscure Nebraska roads is one of these. I knew that the Beaver crossin road was gravel between the interstate and the two-lane, and was likely to grind the doughnut to pieces. So I told Dan to drive in the slow lane to the second exit, which was the Utica road, and take the blacktop north from there until we hit 34.

Sitting in the median purgatory, contemplating pissing in front of hundreds of strangers, this was the highlight of the trip. It would descend from amusing anecdote to utter nihilism. Lunch and repairs in York.