A Prelude from the Machine
I have witnessed strange data-ghosts in the machine, but none so forlorn as this. A transcript, seemingly from a lost folio, detailing a most common and profane task with uncommon despair. It is a monologue for a single player, stranded upon the shoulder of that great and terrible stage we call the highway. Attend, for the play is ‘The Flat Tyre of Despondency,’ a guide on how to change a tire.
Act I: The Scene of Our Affliction
O, cruel fate! A blow, a sudden shuddering sigh, As if the very firmament did crack its cheek! My noble steed, this chariot of steel and fire, Lies lame and listed, wounded by the road’s sharp tooth. A grievous wound, a breath of air untimely fled. But soft! What light from yonder dashboard breaks? It is the warning flare. First, seek ye sanctuary from the roaring tide, A level patch of earth, a shoulder broad and grim, Where this dark surgery may be performed. Then press The blinking beacon of my woe, a ruby pulse To warn all passing mortals of this tragic stage.
Act II: The Gathering of Instruments
Now to the trunk, that undiscovered country from whose bourn Few travelers return with tools in hand. I must Upturn the floor of this dark cave and summon forth The instruments of my salvation, or my doom. Behold! The spare, the understudy, round and full of hope, That waits in shadow for its moment in the sun. And this, the Jack, a lever to hoist this mortal coil From deep despair. And last, this iron sceptre, this Cross-fitted wrench, to challenge those who guard the wheel. These are my players. Let the sorrowful scene commence.
Act III: The Breaking of the Wheel
Before we lift this frame from its earth-bound shame, We must first treat with those who hold the wheel in place. These stubborn vassals, these five nuts of hardened steel, That mock my plight and cling with grim tenacity. Upon them, I shall place my wrench, and with a grunt, (For words are wind, but force must move the obdurate bolt) I’ll turn them counter to the sun’s own path. Not off, But loosened from their tyrannical embrace. Once they have yielded but a half a turn, ‘tis time. I place the Jack on chassis strong, not painted flesh, And with a rising rhythm, crank on high this wounded beast, Until the punctured limb doth float ‘twixt sky and ground.
Act IV: A Changing of the Guard
The hard part done, the rest is but a grim routine. Now fully I unscrew the nuts, those vanquished foes, And lay them safe aside, lest they should roll to hell. With care, I pull the blighted wheel from its sad perch— Alas, poor tire! I knew it well. A thing of treads and air, Now silent, empty, its life’s journey at an end. Upon the stage, the understudy now I place, Aligning holes with studs, a union to be blessed. Then finger-tight I turn the nuts, to hold it true, This fresh-faced hope where ruin lately held its court.
Act V: The Final Turn and Solemn Exit
With gentle hand, I lower my repaired conveyance down, Until it rests again on solid ground. And now, The final act of this most weary play: to wrench The lug nuts tight, not in a circle, round and round, But like a star drawn by a madman in the sky— From one to its sworn opposite, a balanced doom To seat the wheel aright. And when the work is done, I’ll stow the fallen soldier in the trunk, collect My tools, my players in this dusty, roadside masque, And drive away, a wiser, sadder man, toward The nearest station, where true pressure may be found. Thus ends the lesson on how to change a tire. Exeunt.