Christmas Eve
Hello, dear readers! The crew and I send you greetings for a Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah, wherever you are at this special time of year.
And here we are expressing our holiday joy for the camera . . .
Reggie, Roger, and I are home for Christmas.
Isn’t that a delightful phrase? “Home for Christmas.” That classic song has been rolling around my brain ever since I heard it somewhere while out and about yesterday. Happens every year. No doubt you have one on repeat in your head, too.
” . . . if only in my dreams.”
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I push a cart full of necessities and goodies across the Wal-Mart parking lot. The air is brisk and the sun bright. Cheerful shoppers load their packages into vehicles. “Merry Christmas!” floats over car tops and truck beds.
Oh no, that tire is going flat! I can’t go home with that. Well, I’ll head straight over to the tire shop. That tire has been going soft for a while now . . . . Will I ever learn not to procrastinate?
Moments later I pull in and park.
The only place available puts the Perfect Tow Vehicle at a right angle to the back end of cars lined up in front of the shop. I leave as much space as possible between them and the PTV so they can back out, and then I go inside.
Man, this place is busy! All my fellow procrastinators must be here, the day before Christmas Eve, getting set for the drive home for the holidays . . . .
The young man behind the counter deals efficiently with customers bunched in front of him, as well as a nagging cell phone, guys from the shop handing him clipboards, and, of course, a computer screen. My turn comes up and apologetically he tells me, “It’ll be about an hour and a half. There are two ahead of you.”
Only two?
That’s good news. All these people must be here to pick up, not drop off.
As one does while waiting for unexpected automotive work of any kind, I sit in a plastic chair and contemplate.
Will the tire need to be replaced? Is this place trustworthy or will they try to rip me off?
A vision of nail-hammered-into-tire comes to mind. I shake it off.
~ ~ ~
The bell at the door rings again.
A woman comes in shepherding two boys around age 4 and 7. The older boy has in hand a Ziploc baggie of dollar bills.
When their turn comes up, the woman tells Counter Man,”We’d like a gift certificate for ten dollars.”
The younger boy adds joyfully . . .
“It’s for our grampa!”
Counter Man sets about the printing of a certificate. The younger boy clutches the baggie as if it is frankincense or myrrh. Together with the woman (their mother? grandmother?) they count out the dollars. Seven dollars total.
This leads the woman to explain that she’ll take the seven and give the man a twenty from her pocketbook and he’ll give ten dollars change back, etc. The boys nod, probably more in trust than in understanding.
Meanwhile . . .
Folks around me discuss holiday plans. Arrangements are made for an employee to leave early. He’s anxious to get started on a drive to Texas. Customers depart the shop throwing warm wishes of “Merry Christmas!” or “Have a safe trip!” over their shoulders.
The bell at the door jingles with each exit.
Ha! Another customer gets his wings . . . .
~ ~ ~
Suddenly the door bursts wide open!
Two men — a customer and a shop employee — hurry up to me.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am. I backed into your van,” the customer reports in a stream of anxious words. He quickly adds, “It’s okay, there’s no damage, just hit your front bumper. Do you want to come out and look?”
“No, that won’t be necessary. I trust you. . . . You didn’t even need to tell me.”
The employee explains it’s the shop’s policy to do so, no matter how minor.
Then the customer and I engage in a little gift exchange: He gives me another apology. I give him a smile and a that’s-okay.
~ ~ ~
The waiting room is a mess.
Boot tracks of dirt lie in a crazy pattern across the floor. Models of old-timey cars and trucks sit in a traffic jam on a shelf. They show no sign of ever having been dusted. Oily grime adorns the counter edge in time-worn smears. As in tire shops all over the world, a stack of tires emits that awful, tire odor.
In contrast, on the wall, a shiny garland of tinsel festively underlines red cardboard, cut-out letters spelling a glittery Merry Christmas.
Okay, obviously, cleaning is not a priority here. People don’t care about that. They come here for the washing away of vehicle problems.
And over there . . . .
A small ceramic nativity scene, complete with wise men and shepherds (not going for Biblical correctness, are we!) along with various animals, all gathered around the manger and the Holy Family.
Atop an old metal table next to an half-empty styrofoam cup, the miracle of Jesus’s birth is humbly represented.
Counter man hands the gift certificate to the woman.
“It’s for fifteen dollars. That’s the smallest we have. . . . It’s okay. (smile) Merry Christmas.”
The woman thanks him. The older boy slips the precious piece of paper into the baggie.
“We’ll put that in Grampa’s stocking, inside a card,” the woman explains to the boys as they leave.
~ ~ ~
After about an hour, it’s my turn!
“We replaced the valve stem. That’ll be $16.46 with the tax.”
“That’s all?” I exclaim delightedly, digging in my purse.
Isn’t that nice. Shame on me for thinking bad thoughts.
I climb into the Perfect Tow Vehicle and buckle the seat belt around me. For a moment I reflect on the warmth of the tire shop waiting room. I see that old metal table against the wall with the creche sitting on it in a desert of old shopping circulars, displaying The Best, Most Precious Gift of All.
Christmas.
“Unto us a child is born . . . .”
Well, the bill has been paid and I’m free to go!
I turn the key and head for home.
rvsue
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NOTE: More photos in the next post. Promise! — Sue
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