Brandon Tires

A young man of twenty-two sits on a black bench seat that once rested inside a 1971 Ford racing car. He waits impatiently in blue jeans and a white T-shirt for his mechanic to give him the ‘okay’ head nod. This will indicate that whatever problem his car had, it’s been resolved, and to please come up to the counter in order to square away the bill. Not having much money, the young man always calls three or more mechanics when a problem with his vehicle surfaces. More often than not, if he can do the work, Brandon is the cheapest bidder.

Today the young man has no money to pay Brandon.

Brandon’s office is bigger than most. The floor is covered with black and white linoleum tiles. Directly in front of the register, heavy foot traffic has scuffed the white tiles dark. The young man sits between a magazine rack and a tall dusty houseplant. A short empty desk near the register holds piles of yellow, white and pink papers. A large, stern but friendly woman once sat there. She had big black hair nested atop a round white face. She wore red lipstick. The young man used to know Brandon’s wife Delores very well. She was kind and direct because she had to be.

The phone on her desk rings now—once, twice, “Brandon Tires,” declares Brandon. On the phone, he discusses part particulars for a transmission while searching for information on an outdated computer.

“Ya, we can get it, gonna be about two weeks, though.” Brandon squints hard through old lenses to double check the writing on the screen. He stands inside an oil-stained denim jacket with the large black phone pressed firmly against his sagging ear.

“Oh, so ya don’t need it…gonna find it online?” Brandon pauses to hear justifications before relaying a long list of numbers from the dingy screen. With a confused, if not angry expression, Brandon hangs up the phone. He takes a moment to look through the big windows of his shop’s face before walking towards a side door that leads into the garage. Brandon stops to get water from the tank beside the door. He flips the valve open and liquid burps into a cone shaped paper cup. Brandon gulps down the water and opens the door—a loud scream from a power tool zooms past him as he enters the noisy garage. The young man is alone in the office now. He grows agitated and restless on the warm leather bench.

Two minutes pass before the bells above the store’s entrance ring out a warning. A weathered man of about forty years walks in wearing a black ten-gallon hat. He nods towards the seated man and approaches the counter. The younger man nods back but the cowboy has already looked away. He is not tall but walks as if he were a giant. At the counter, he pats calloused hands onto the hard clear plastic that covers the wood. The cowboy leans over the tall counter to better see through the side door’s square window. He then walks over and peers through the smudged glass. Satisfied, he enters. The laughter of two men can be heard on a.m. radio until the door slams shut. The young man gets up from the bench and stalks toward the side door. He takes one glimpse through the window before creeping back to the bench. A minute later, Brandon tows the cowboy back into the office. The boy in blue jeans pretends not to notice them reenter the room.

“How ya getting along?” the man asks Brandon.

“Truth be told, Leroy, it’s been pretty rough. Delores was a good woman. Things were easier when she was taking calls.” Brandon says this vacantly and then stares down expectantly.

“I hope it’s not too soon to ask this, Brandon, but are you gonna see any money for your loss?”

“Well, it is too soon, but since you thought it important enough to ask—yes. I’ll be getting some money from insurance. Fairly soon I hope.”

“I meant no offense, Brandon, just makin’ sure you’re gonna be alright, that’s all.” Leroy checks the bench behind him before continuing in a library voice, “You know I loved her. I loved her as much as you did, Brandon.” The two men suffer in silence.

“So?” With raised eyebrows Brandon progresses the conversation, “whada ya want, Leroy?”

“Well, it’s not me actually—my son. You’ve seen Corey’s truck, he’s got that big-old lift on it.” Brandon concedes by closing his eyes and then nodding disapprovingly.

“Well, I told em’ if he raised some money, I’d go half in on some big-old knobby tires, so that his truck don’t look so pussy.” The man smiles, trying to make friendly, but Brandon’s white mustache remains flat across his face, until he asks, “About how big you wanna go with these things?” Leroy thinks for a moment.

“How much for a set of BFG’s—36×30’s?”

Brandon bends down to search the computer, “Be about $650,” he says before rising to face Leroy again.

“Jesus, Brando, I was thinkin’ more like $540.” Leroy looks down and gently taps his work-boot against the exhausted floor.

“Kid might just have ta’ save a bit longer,” he eventually announces with a grin. Brandon thinks on the matter. He looks at the computer, then at the register, and then back to the tiny cowboy, who is waiting patiently under the black brim of his hat for negotiations.

“I can give ya 10% markdown, Leroy.”

“Well, all the same, I better go let him know how much they are and see what he wants ta do.” Leroy taps the counter again, “Ya know, my neighbor Tucker said Wal- Mart actually has a decent selection on rubber.”

“They do. That’s why they can afford to sell em so cheap—they order so God-damn many.” Brandon’s voice is no longer apathetic, “I’ll tell ya right now, they’ll be about eighty bucks cheaper at Wal-Mart.”

“That much, huh? Well, all the same, I’ll go ask the kid what he thinks and we’ll let ya know.” Leroy shakes Brandon’s hand and turns to leave. The young man in the white shirt hastily flips pages with damp fingers, pretending to read words from a Field and Stream magazine. Halfway to the exit, Leroy stops. He acknowledges the seated young man with another nod before returning to the counter and Brandon.

“Ya know, Brandon, I gotta be frank with ya, and because ya don’t have much time I’m just gonna say this.” He continues in the library voice, “Ya know I got a C.B. radio in the Chevy. I usually keep it tuned to the police frequency, so I know what’s going on in town, and so I can help in case of an emergency—been first on scene twice.” Leroy is whispering now. He leans over the counter to be more near Brandon’s tired ear. “Well, after Sal gets done with an accident on highway 41 he’s got orders from Sheriff Carson to drag your ass in.”

“Me? What they want me for?”

“Well, they found something strange in the autopsy report—found poison in Delores’ blood. Usually, when someone jumps off Becket’s Bridge, they know the end is comin’. Poison or no poison.”

“Well, it’s not my fault if Delores was a thorough woman is it? Does that make me criminal?”

“God no, they just found it strange and was wondering if you knew anything about it—thought they oughta let ya know is all. I just wanted ta give ya the heads up. Give you some time ta prepare.”

Both men stand up tall and peer around the office. The young man keeps turning pages—he knows better than to stare at two grown men whispering.

“Ya know, Brandon. I been hearing some things in town. Some crazy shit.”

“Oh ya? Ya gonna tell me what ya heard Leroy or make me guess?”

Leroy leans close again, “I heard Delores was fuckin’ some punk kid that plays ball for Butte College.”

Brandon stands tall and looks down at the little cowboy.

“Get the fuck out of here Leroy.”

Leroy backs away from the counter and then turns to exit.

“Tell your boy, Brandon’s closed!” he shouts as tiny bells sound Leroy’s exit. Brandon walks over to the side door, turns the greasy brass knob, and enters into the garage, slamming the door behind him.

The young man stands to look outside; Leroy is making a phone call inside his blue Chevy. After turning from the window and approaching the front desk, the young man eyes the register and then steals a glimpse through the side door’s small window. He picks up a tall trophy from the counter and turns it upside down—he swings it through the air as if it were a baseball bat. The trophy is crowned with a golden race-car. A small copper plaque is mounted onto the trophy’s heavy marble base. It reads: -1st Place- -Santa Maria Speed-Way- -1972- “This will do,” he mumbles to himself before gently setting the trophy down in the same exact spot—the rectangle without dust. The young man walks over to the small desk beside the counter and opens the top drawer. He reaches inside and grabs a blue scarf that had belonged to Delores. After giving the fabric one long smell he replaces it inside the drawer. He walks cautiously back to his seat near the ficus crying.

Brandon reenters the office a short while later with a shiny chrome pistol tucked between his belt and his back. He nods ‘okay’ to the seated man in blue jeans before tossing him the car’s keys. The young man catches the keys and then stands to meet with Brandon at the register. He eyes the tall trophy and then looks at Brandon.

Outside, a black and white police car skids to a stop beside Leroy’s Chevrolet. Sal exits the vehicle and approaches the shop with his gun drawn. Leroy follows Sal inside Brandon Tires with a deer rifle. Shots ring out. A minute later bells jingle and the young man walks outside. His white-T shirt is stained red and he’s carrying Brandon’s gold trophy in one hand, the other hand is clenching Delores’ blue scarf.