The big flat. My apologies to Raymond Chandler.

It was rush hour in the big city. Thousands of little worker ants were marching their ways home from the amber mines to meet up with their wives, their kids, their mistresses. It’s a well-oiled machine—until the big magnifying glass of fate takes aim on that ant farm. That’s when you realize there might not be enough of you left to sweep up in a dustpan.

I was humming along on the 635 in a black Chevrolet sedan last night right there with them. The promise of a warm brunette, a happy kid, and a shot of whiskey kept me pointed north. When all of a sudden I heard it—the faint flap of trouble coming from the left rear size seventeen bologna. I made my way to the side to check it out, my hand caressing the .38 in my pocket. My inspection turned up snake eyes. All seemed quiet, so I slipped back behind the wheel and continued on my way.

The flapping sound lasted for about five more seconds when whatever must have been hiding underneath the tire disengaged and jettisoned out the back, making a lovely clonking sound as it departed. Everything felt normal. Must have been something caught in the tread. I continued on my way, overtaking a cab over Pete in the left lane of the busy six.

My false sense of security only lasted about two miles when the tail began to wag the dog! I held on to the leash as tight as I could, having to fight the beast like a Rottweiler after a T-Bone! I made it past Sneaky Pete, beyond the logjam in lane number three, and onto the side of the busy freeway. If I had a newspaper I would have given Fido a shot in the chops. Bad dog.

I didn’t want to make the obits, so I parked on the grass beyond the shoulder. At least I thought it was grass. My mud-covered, hundred and fifty-dollar Rockports and two inches up my best light colored Dockers says otherwise. I knew I had to work fast. Too much time out here and a Beakins van will make mincemeat out of you. I loosened the lugs and cranked the scissor jack when all of a sudden I had more trouble—big trouble. As soon as daylight appeared under the flivver, the Chevy began to slide sideways in the fresh Missouri mud, jack and all! I cranked the jack back down just in time, and repositioned it on a more solid footing.

The bad news is, my virgin spare was only half inflated with 11-year-old air. The good news is, it was only flat on the bottom. After undercoating my chassis to match my size tens on my way out of the bog, I nursed the wounded thoroughbred back home so I could regroup and re-shoe at the tire repair shop.

The neon light was blinking “NTB”, “NTB”, like a beacon to all the poor suckers that came before me. They were talking about a four-hour wait for tire repairs, so I flashed a fin in front of the lazy clerk at the counter. Apparently, five bucks doesn’t mean what it used to, because the employee of the month told me to pound leather.

I decided to sleep on the situation. Sometimes things look a little less ugly the next day. I dropped it off at the Sears store on my way to work. Unfortunately, the doc just called. D.O.A. Time of death, 4:45 p.m. on the evening of the 20th. Rest in peace, Mich Pilot. We hardly knew ya’.