Front Left

I am Front-Left, and I belong with a little Lexus Amestris and a lady named Linda. I've been with the Lexus and Linda for a while now. In fact, of all the tires, I'm the oldest. And I listen.

Because of this, I can recite The Schedule in one rotation if we're still in second gear. It's like a good luck charm as we get started. It goes like this: apartment-café-apartment-grocery-apartment-work (the diner parking lot down on Brendess Street)-apartment. Then repeat.

Today, we are not on Schedule.

We are parked in a place I do not recognize, somewhere along Main Street. Linda, though a great girl, is terrible at parallel parking. I've been sticking out in traffic for the past half hour, and I am not happy about it. It's that man again. Mr. Shined-up Adidas.

No one with such stupid shoes would do anything but break Linda's heart. Yeah, I'm on to him. Linda hasn't dated since Nikes Asshole eight months ago, but I recognize the signs. Messing with the Schedule. Useless detours past a house, an apartment, wherever he works. Linda's too good for the men she does out with. The Lexus and I, we can't talk, but I can tell we both agree that what Linda really needs is a nice long drive. She needs to fly on a dry road and leave the men behind.

Instead we're all stuck on Main Street, waiting for Linda and Shiny Adidas. Linda always wears such nice shoes unlike her men. Since I mostly see from ankles down, shoes make a person for me.

Linda marks her return with quick footsteps. Today it's blue kitten heels, which both Linda and I like. She gets in fast and slams the door so hard shivers go through me. There is the thunk of her head hitting the steering wheel. Not good. I wish I could see through the Lexus' eyes.

At least I can hear her. As I said before, I'm a good listener.

"Shit," she says, "he kissed me." The waver in Linda's voice makes me half-wish Shiny Adidas was under my treads. Not dead or anything, but I'm thinking a fair amount of pain. Then again, it's Nike Asshole who first put that scared thread in her tone. Him first, I decide.

"What do I do," Linda says, not asking me. I want to tell her, Roll until you're dizzy. It works for me.

- - - -

What Linda does is goes back to Main Street. She slept through café time and I suspect has forgotten about groceries. I'm always irritable when we're off Schedule, even more so when the weather's like this. Sleet, of all things.

Up in the Lexus Linda drums her fingers nervously, talking to herself, to the Lexus, to Shiny Adidas as if he's there. She'd do better to talk to me. I could tell her that driving in these conditions is dangerous, especially if she's going to be distracted.

Linda doesn't go in to the shop. For a moment I almost feel bad for Shiny Adidas. It's got to be hard, thinking maybe the girl you kissed – and I can assure you that Linda is the prettiest girl in the world – won't be seeing you again. Then I remember Nikes Asshole, and how much he yelled and Linda cried. The Lexus hums comfortingly to Linda, and we all drive away through the slush.

Only Linda doesn't go back to the apartment, even though she likes to have a lot of time to get ready for work. In fact, I can't tell where we're going. There are industrial zones for a while, lots of eighteen-wheelers, then countryside. We never go here. It's woods and hills, fields lying abandoned under rain and sleet.

Linda isn't driving so well. I'm a little worried, but the Lexus' engine just purrs louder and louder, and the windshield wipers are on full blast. We're swerving a little bit, me and Linda and the Lexus. When I said Linda needed a drive, I didn't mean this. My treads are clogging with icy slush, but I'm more worried about Linda. I almost wish we were back on Main Street, having another go at it.

It's getting dark and I'm getting tired. For the past ten miles I've been clinging to the awful wet road for dear life. It almost feels like I'm getting flat, but that can't be right. My rubber isn't punctured. Even so, three more miles and I'm sure of it. It's a little, slow leak, but if Linda just keeps on driving like this it might take her too long to notice. Leaks make me tired, but I'm too afraid to give up my grip on the freezing pavement. What if I have to leave Linda and the Lexus? What if I'm replaced?

It's a sad, age old fate.

Thinking back, if I hadn't been so distracted, I wonder if I could have done anything when we hit the puddle. As it happened, Linda hits the brakes hard before she remembers what you're supposed to do, to steer into the spin. We scream across the ice. I am sick with dizziness and the slickness of the road, then a final awful hurtle ending with a resounding crunch. Then I'm high in the air, the Lexus on its side, finally grinding to a halt.

I panic for Linda first, until finally I hear her move feebly. She whispers feverishly to herself, "I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm alright." But then I hear her jerk and mutter a profanity. "I'm stuck," she breathes as if she cannot quite believe it. "Oh God, I can't get out." The worst part is I know her cell phone is in the back seat. Linda can't reach it.

We wait, because there is nothing else to do. It's getting very cold. I can't even worry about my leak, that's how cold it feels. Linda is shivering inside the Lexus, shivering and crying silently. I don't know what to do. I failed. I skidded.

Because I am so high in the air, I am the first to see the headlights. In the first few, selfish seconds, I think to myself that I am not worth rescuing. I have a leak. It's to the landfill for me. Then I remember that even if I don't deserve a hero, Linda does. The car slows and Linda stops whimpering, listens with everything she has, desperate. I don't recognize the man who steps out at first, because I see his face, not his feet. But he is Shiny Adidas. I'm sure of it.

Shiny Adidas blanches. "Linda?!" he shouts, and tears towards the car. Somehow he wrestles her out of the tangled steering wheel, so careful so as not to hurt her. I wish I could do that. But maybe Linda needs Shiny Adidas to do these things for her. In retrospect his shoes aren't that silly, just clean.

He bustles Linda into his van, who looks friendly and smells a bit like dogs have been in it recently. The heat is on, but he still buries her in sweatshirts, rambling about how glad he is that he drove by, purely by chance.

Linda murmurs that she's missing work time. I think if she doesn't go with Shiny Adidas she might be missing love as well. He is a testament to his otherwise hopeless gender.

Finally he glances back at us – just the Lexus and I, and the daffy three other tires.

"Your front-left tire looks flat," he said. Linda's hand flutters to her mouth.

"I forgot to put the cap back on," she gasps. I am stunned. I forgot that maybe it was just my cap, that I wasn't leaking from some career-ending hole.

"You should still get a new one. That tire looks pretty worn out."

My spirits fall. I don't even have an argument.

Linda studies me the way she does when she's washing the Lexus and wondering how so much dirt gets on me.

"No," she says, "I could always use a spare." She adds a brave chuckle. "It'll be almost like tire retirement."

Shiny Adidas laughs. "You talk about them almost as if they were people."

If I had a face, I would smile.