Digressions of a Dilettante

Digressions of a Dilettante
Vignettes of Inanity by Bud Hearn

Thursday, August 18, 2011

The Tire Kicker.. A Southern Trilogy Part III


An August Sunday in Metter, Georgia, heat index, 112.

I’m sitting on a bench under an ancient oak tree in front of Edenfield’s Buffet, waiting for my run at the lunch feedbag. It occupies a nondescript building mid-block on Main Street. It’s a 1950’s left-over. I watch the after-church crowd come and go. The screen door flaps and slaps as it closes, reminding me of biscuits and gravy.

Toothpicks wiggle in the mouths of men as they talk of heat and hurts. The smell of fried chicken hangs in sultry Sunday air. I wonder if they left any biscuits for me. The oak leaves overhead shiver as a scant breeze momentarily resurrects them. Nothing else moves in the lifeless streets. Life is predictable, even manageable, in small towns.

In the distance I see him, a gaunt, gray-haired figure. The black man moves methodically among the scattered cars and farm trucks. He kicks tires. He stoops, looks and kicks. The same thing, each vehicle, each tire. He places a small card on windshields. Then moves on. I’m intrigued.

Small towns are microcosms of America. They have one of every kind. Locked doors and darkened windows guard family secrets. Everybody knows but nobody’s talking, except in whispers. Secrets remain enigmatic to strangers. Who’s this Tire Kicker? What are his secrets? I soon find out.

He kicks the tires of a rusted Ford pickup parked in front of me. Satisfied for some reason, he moves on. I speak. “Hi ya doin?” I ask. “Hot enough?” He pauses, studies me, and answers, “Mighty hot, boss.” I ask, “How come you’re kickin’ these tires?” He sways side to side, scratches his head and answers, “It’s muh job, I reckon.” He stands there, fumbles with his fingers. He’s old, maybe 80.

How’d you come by this job?” I ask. He looks down, shuffles, and says, “My mama say it were a natural-born thing, say I be a born kicker. Say I kick her till I come out. Say it be in the Bible, something ‘bout kickin’ against goads. I figure tires be good as goads.” I say, “Well, can’t argue with mama or the Bible, huh?” He nods.

“What’s that you’re putting on the windshields?” I ask. “This here card,” he says. He hands me one. It reads, ‘Ralph’s Retreads, Bald Rubber Renewed. Cheap.’ I say, “Ralph your boss?” “Sho’ nuf, yessiree. Took me on when I lost muh job at the cemetery. They say my foot be too big to dig. Mistah Ralph say my foot jus’ right for this here job.”

I look at his kicking foot and breathe an expletive. “Man, you got one big foot. How big is it?” He replies, “The doctor say it be the biggest foot he ever seen, say it be about two foot long.” (Bet it can kick more than tires!)

“Let me see you kick one,” I say. He grins, turns and kicks the front tire of a red Cadillac. The car shakes, the tire explodes, rubber flies. “Wow!” I say. He grins, shows me it’s a tire with no treads. He says, “That tire gone kill somebody, hit needs recappin’.” He slaps Ralph’s card on the windshield.

Have a seat. What’s your name?” I say. “Henry,” he says. I tell him he’s not the only tire kicker around. “I ain’t seen none. Where they at?” he says. “Everywhere,” I say. “Where they work at?” he asks. “They don’t. They’re pretenders,” I say. “Huh?” he says. “They play make-believe, waste your time,” I say. He shakes his head, can’t grip the concept. He pulls an ice pick out of his pocket. I wonder if he’s suggesting…nah. I let it go.

Some folks also have foot-in-mouth disease.” I say. He looks at his two-footer, then at me. “You jokin’?” My explanation fails. I decide not to tell him about ‘pulling somebody’s leg.’

I ask about his cemetery job. “Grave digger,” he says. Yes! I almost shout. “Henry, how ‘bout we go have some fried chicken? You tell me about it.” I say. His smile says yes. We do.

You can’t believe the secrets a man will reveal with a drumstick in his hand. I’ll pass ‘em on to you next week. Today I got lucky. And, there was one biscuit left!

Bud Hearn
August 18, 2011


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