By Francis Rago
Ten miles from her planned exit, as the moonless sky was losing its last rays of light, 26-year-old Katherine McCann sensed a vibration coming from the rear of her car. She took her foot off the accelerator, but the noise and shaking increased. Damn! A flat tire!
She eased into the breakdown lane and got out to inspect the left rear tire. It was now completely deflated. She felt a tightening in her chest, and she had to fight hard to beat down the anxiety starting to flood her mind and body.
Two hours ago, she was sitting across from her husband in a corner booth announcing that she was leaving him. He raised his arm as if to strike her, but his hand swooped downward, sending his water glass flying against the wall eight feet away.
That would have been my face, Katie thought, if she were at home instead of in this crowded diner. She was conscious of the bruise to the side of her swollen left eye, still raw from three days ago.
Well, girl, you knew there were going to be setbacks. Trying to remain calm, Katie opened the trunk, unscrewed the bolt securing the spare tire, and struggled to lift it out of thetrunk. It felt almost as heavy as her own 110-pound, 5’2” frame. You can do this, she thought, trying to reassure herself.
Katie secured the tire iron on one of the lug nuts with its handle positioned horizontally, then stood on it, bearing down with all her weight. It still wouldn’t budge. Only when sheadded a bouncing maneuver did the nut finally become freed up.
As she struggled with the second lug nut, she looked up to see an older cargo van pulling over. It stopped about 50 feet in front of her. Two men got out.
Katie reached through the open window and grabbed her purse, slinging the long strap over her shoulder. The men approached her. As they came near, she could see they were wearing some kind of work clothes.
“Need help?” It was the taller man who called out. He was about 6’3”, in his twenties. Without waiting for a response, he walked right up to Katie and looked her over.
She could smell beer on his breath.
Katie took three steps back, placing a firmer grasp on her purse. “I’m having trouble loosening the lug nuts.”
“Hey, we got some weed in the van. You’re in no great rush, right?” He stepped up to Katie, and again leered at her.
“No thanks.” She kept walking backward, yet he continued to approach her.
“Come on, girl. We just wanna have a little fun. We’re gonna change your tire, ya know.”
Katie could now feel her heart pounding as her brain kicked into emergency mode. She spun around and ran ten feet away. Turning to face him, she jammed her right hand deep into her purse.
“Please don’t come any closer!”
But the man kept coming. He had a grin on his face, but it did not look friendly. Her fingers frantically rooted around the bottom of her large purse as she continued to back away.
Finally they grasped the spray can.
“Don’t come any closer!” Her voice was dry and gravelly.
The man continued to approach her.
Katie pointed the can at him, her arm fully extended. The muscles in her shoulder grew rigid, and she felt her blood’s pulsations throbbing in her temples.
“You gonna douse me with your hairspray, girlie girl?”
Katie studied his narrowing eyes. They didn’t match his forced smile. She squeezed the trigger. But what emerged from the nozzle was not a soft mist but a powerful, voluminous blast of bear spray.
It hit its target. The man’s face and upper torso were soaked with the irritating chemical. He let out a painful cry. The shorter man backed further away.
“You bitch! You fuckin’ bitch!”
He scrunched his eyes shut as hard as he could and tried to wipe away excess liquid with his fingers and his shirt sleeves.
“Billy! Help me to the van. I can’t see!”
Katie stood motionless, her arm still extended, ready to deliver another blast.
Billy ran over and yanked the incapacitated man’s arm, pulling him toward the van. The tall man continued spewing obscenities. Then Billy opened the passenger door for his partner.
The taller man, his eyes still tightly shut, banged his head on the edge of the door, letting loose another vulgarity, this time directed at his partner.
Billy began to run around to the driver’s side, but stopped half way. He turned and stared at Katie, who was still standing in the same spot.
Suddenly he ran over to her car, picked up the tire iron, then flung it far into the adjacent field, a flat expanse full of high grasses and dense bushes. Then he jumped into the van and sped off.
Katie climbed into her car and locked the doors. Her heart was still pounding. Traffic whizzed by at 70-80 miles per hour. She tried to fight back the tears.
Dammit, girl. You gotta handle this.
She got out and opened the hood of her car and got back inside and locked the doors.
She tried to block out the scenes of those two men, but the images kept pushing back.
She grabbed her cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.
“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?”
“Well, it’s not really an emergency anymore. I had a flat tire on Interstate-35 and two guys stopped and threatened me. But they left. I just need some roadside service now. They threw my tire iron away.”
“What is your location?”
“I’m on I-35 heading north. I was about 15 minutes past Exit 194 when I got the flat.”
“We’ll get you some assistance as soon as possible. Be sure to stay in your car.”
Katie wondered whether “soon as possible” meant hours. But thankfully, ten minutes later, she could see the flashing lights of a police car coming up behind her. The trooper got out and walked slowly to her window, shining a long flashlight in her face.
“You all right?”
“I’m okay now, I guess. A little shaken.”
“What happened?”
Katie gave the trooper a detailed account of her experience. She described the men andtheir van as completely as she could, apologizing for not getting their plate number.
“Well, I doubt we could charge them with anything serious. You say he didn’t touch you right?” Katie shook her head. “But are you sure you’re going to be all right?
Katie turned away, facing the field where her tire iron lay hidden somewhere. The entire event, from the vibrating flat to the men in the van driving away, flashed in her mind like avideo playing at ten times the normal speed. I just had a really bad experience, and I survived it. I’m okay.
“Yeah, I’m all right,” she said. “I just need to borrow your tire iron.”
“Of course.” The trooper retrieved a large tire iron from his trunk.
“I can do it,” she said decisively, grabbing the large cross-type tire iron from him. It was more of a command than a statement. She easily removed the remaining lug nuts, pulledoff the deflated tire and angrily shoved it aside. Then she lifted the spare onto the lugs.
The trooper started to twist on a lug nut. “I can do it,” she repeated, and without asking, pulled the tire iron away from him and began tightening the nuts. The long arms of the tire iron gave her plenty of leverage, and in less than two minutes, she had all five lug nuts securely fastened.
She rolled the bad tire to the back of her car. Then she bent down into a dead lift squat,spread her arms wide to embrace the troublesome tire, lifted it high and threw it forcefully into the open trunk. She slammed the trunk closed, and it responded with aloud, deep thunk. It was a note of finality that felt good.
She got in her car and started the engine. Giving the trooper a quick wave, Katie pulled back onto the highway and accelerated rapidly. Once she blended with the flow of traffic, she took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She felt her shoulders sag.
A large green sign said the next exit was eight miles away. She smiled at the thought of a restful night’s sleep in a comfortable bed. You’re going to be all right, Katie McCann, she said to herself, then reached forward and turned on the radio.
* * *
Francis Rago is a retired biology teacher. A few of his poems have been published in poetry journals. He has been writing short stories for several years. He lives in Suffield, Connecticut.