Ever help unload a semi-trailer a quarter-full of brand spanking new tires?

I have.

Now.

The appointment was for 0815. To get the rig in to have the slow leak in the left rear tire fixed, and to rotate the four on the ground. I was late, by exactly one minute and a few seconds.

Only to find a semi backing into the tire place, blocking all three bays on one side, backing up to a fourth.

The other two bays were blocked by this Wisconsin truck towing a flatbed trailer. Carrying this wheeled shanty-shack truck, attached to an outhouse.

Really.

Some sort of parade or Shiner's comedy vehicle, or something. With two men standing around looking impatient. Them being there didn't much matter, since the two bays they were blocking were full of vehicles. All but one of the standby parking places were full, so I took the available space (double parking to do so).

Scotty, the manager of this establishment, was out in the parking lot, discussing some matter with a woman and man. Another man was moving a trailer around (by hand). Another woman was sitting waiting in a car in the lot, not in a parking space.

The place was busy.

As Scotty hussled around figuring out who wanted what, when, and where he was going to put this load of 90+ tires, I ended up visiting with the semi driver. Standing and waiting by his open door. Talking about antelope hunting, a problem with one of my neighbor's antelope seasons (I checked... he's right, I don't think they intended what it says), and where to icefish for walleye (in the water, I said, not being facetious). With one of the Wisconsin men eavesdropping, and another customer standing by in a bay beside the semi.

Finally Scotty got a place cleared for the tires (but not in the bay the trailer was facing). And the driver began rolling tires to the bayhand, who rolled them around the corner to be stacked by Scotty.

Not wanting to just stand around while other people are working, I stepped in to take the tires from the driver, and roll them to the bayhand, saving him a turn and a few steps. Which, I guess, was surprising to some. But the other customer stepped up, too, and handled the maneuvers around the corner. The work went smoother and faster with five in the line, rather than three.

The one Wisconsin guy just stood and waited, looking impatient.

By the time we got to the really big tires stacked in the front of the trailer, I was inside helping with the rolling, and knew the driver had been married for about a year and a half, his new wife has two sons, 16 and 13 years, the eldest a sophomore. He moved here from University Town, and would like to go back, as would his wife, but they are staying here so the boys won't have to change schools. Still owns a house in University Town, which his brother is living in at the moment.

His brother lived in Capitol City for a while, and knows Jeff in our outfit's office there. The driver himself knows the warden in the Valley, who usually stops by their hunting camp on French Creek (which is closer to their home in our community than his old house in University Town) at least twice a season for coffee and news. He tried bowhunting antelope in the desert this year, without luck, but figures he won't have time to go out in the rifle season.

Never did get his name.

With the semi gone, Scotty quickly moved the huge SUV out of the nearest bay, and went across the lot to get my rig to drive in.

Before he could accomplish that, his bayhand had moved the less than patient Wisconsin guys forward so he could deal with whatever their problem was.

Blocking my bay. And his boss.

I could see by his face that Scotty was having his second Monday of the week. Or maybe third or fourth, I don't know. Before he could get close enough to shout at his bayhand, I interrupted.

I'm going down the street a couple blocks to get some coffee. How about I come back in an hour or so? Will that be enough time to get my rig done?

Made my day to see the relief sweep over his face. My suggestion must have taken at least one or two wrinkles out of his brow.

Was apparently in some kind of trance as I walked down the sidewalk. Waved at the cute young female half of the owners of the coffee shoppe, sitting at the front window bar having her breakfast, before I realized I had walked right past their door.

As she takes my order for a medium mocha, she asks if I want it on our tab.

Sure, why not.

And I watch as she pulls out a tab from the register drawer, covered with several columns of finely printed dollar amounts.

And then turns it over to reveal more columns of charges on the back, going two-thirds of the way down.

"We sure are glad your eldest son decided to go to classes here in town this year," she says.

I'll bet. Wife says he is probably most of their profits once the tourists are gone. Bet they really missed him last year.

As I sit at a table and review our state's draft conservation plan for sage-grouse, I think I catch a quick dart of something brown out of the corner of my eye. Running from the ice cream counter to the overstuffed couch.

Proprietress brings me my mocha, and returns to her breakfast.

When she is through, she asks if I want another. And suggests I add a little almond syrup to sweeten it (which was just a little too sweet). And I decide I should probably be kind and take a large coffee home to eldest son, who has probably not gotten up yet.

But she's not sure she can make his special concoction. It's not that she doesn't remember. It's that she doesn't know.

You see, he makes his own coffees. They just hand him the cup, and he steps behind the counter to pump the syrups, make the espresso, and add in the cocoa and cream.

She does remember he doesn't like it too hot. And makes her best stab at mimicking his mix. And then heads outside to paint some more high school boosterisms on their window.

And I see the little brown flash again. This time from the couch back to the ice cream counter.

Upon her return, I mention they seem to have a rodent. Which is not good news at all to the owner of an ice cream/coffee shoppe. She asks me what she should do.

Hey, I got a live trap at home, but I suspect you want something more permanent than that. At least it wasn't a rat.

Wife used to work in this building, two doors down. Century-old stone basement connects the stores, impossible to seal off. Rodent incursions are a perpetual nuisance.

Not to mention there's a pet store around the corner. They apparently gave all their neighbors a good infection of crickets once when they left the feeder cage open.

But she does remark that she was glad it was me, and not some other customer who spotted the mouse.

My rig still isn't done by the time I walk back, giving them the hour plus a little bit. Bayhand can't find a hole in the leaking tire. I notice he's wearing the same heavy work gloves he had on when we unloaded the semi.

Run my fingers along the inside walls of the tire. And immediately feel the sharp point of a thorn, probably from greasewood.

He's a little embarrassed. Especially when Scotty comes over to see what he can do, and the hand reports we have discovered the problem.

"Finally just ran your hand along the inside, huh?" is his boss's only comment.