Flat Tire

By Fallton Havenstonne

“I’m going to be late!” Heather cried as she jumped out of bed.

Her alarm clock didn’t go off, and she woke up twenty minutes late because of it. She had a bad dream in which she was in her apartment, eating breakfast on the couch, thinking that it was the weekend, when she suddenly realized it wasn’t. At that moment, she dropped her bowl of cereal on the floor, spilling milk and whole-grain cereal everywhere on the carpet. Heather’s cat shrieked in surprise, and when Heather felt like she could hardly breathe, she woke up.

Sometimes the alarm clock would go off on days when Heather woke up early, and it wouldn’t on days when she woke up late. Did her alarm clock have a mind of its own? Did it malfunction on purpose just to mess with her? As Heather got ready for work, she thought about replacing it, since this was the second time that it had made her late for work.

Heather hastily got ready in less than ten minutes. She quickly grabbed her laptop from the desk, stuffed it inside of her tote bag, and made for the front door like the wind. Her Persian cat, Snowball, meowed, calling for her attention.

Heather stopped in her tracks. “I’ll be back tonight, Snowball. Hold down the fort while I’m away, okay?” she said.

Snowball meowed again.

“What’s wrong? Are you hungry?”

Heather glanced at the bowl on the floor, which was filled to the brim with cat food. “Do you want a treat?”

Snowball meowed, as if to say: yes, please.

Heather ran to the kitchen and gave Snowball a treat from the pantry. As soon as Snowball bit it, Heather left in a flash, forgetting her coffee tumbler on the kitchen counter. She lived on the fourth floor of an apartment building near Glebe University—a university that she had graduated from with a degree in business marketing. She liked the area a lot, especially the restaurants and boutique shops, but mainly because it was close to work.

As she paced to the elevator, she recalled that it would take forever to get to the ground floor with so many tenants using the elevator that morning. The elevator was still making its way down from the tenth floor, and it would stop intermittently as tenants got inside it in a concerted effort to race off to work. She was afraid that once the elevator reached her floor, it’d be crammed with so many people that she couldn’t get in, which happened to her yesterday, in fact.

With her tote in hand, Heather decided to take the stairwell, and in less than two minutes, she made it to the ground floor. Getting into her car, she realized that she had forgotten her coffee tumbler, but she had no time to go back and get it. Her boss, Curtis, would fire her if she was late again (she was on her third strike). She could grab a cup of coffee on her lunch break, skip it altogether, or buy a soda from the vending machine (although $2 for a 16 oz. bottle didn’t appeal to her at all). Besides, she had an important meeting at 8:20 AM, and she needed to give a PowerPoint presentation to some business clients with her boss.

On this autumn day in Arlington, Virginia, traffic was bumper-to-bumper, and one would think that with her close proximity to work, she’d make it to the office in no time. But with traffic backed up due to the morning rush-hour, a four-mile trip could take a half hour or longer at the snail-like rate that traffic was moving at.

Biting her lip, Heather turned right at the traffic light and drove through an area where high rises were being built. However, she could never be sure if the traffic on this route would be worse than the main road. Sometimes the construction workers would hold up stop signs to let the opposite lane pass on the one lane road. But if she got there when her lane was passing, she could save about five or ten minutes compared to the main road.

After a couple of blocks, her car started to bounce up and down like she had hit a row of speedbumps. She could barely maintain her speed, so she pulled in to the nearest parking lot, which happened to be at an apartment building. Heather got out of her red Honda Accord and checked all the tires for any issues. She threw up her hands as soon as she saw the flat tire on the driver-side wheel. It was still leaking air—close to being flat—and up close, she could see a nail sticking out from the punctured tire. It wasn’t just any old rusty nail, but one that was sparkling new from the construction work.

The time on Heather’s cellphone was 7:50 AM, and she had to be at work by 8. There was no way that she could make it there on time, even if she called a taxi or found a bus nearby to take her. She also didn’t want to leave her car in the parking lot, since there were tow signs posted everywhere that threatened to tow non-residents for using the parking lot at this hour.

After weighing all of her options, Heather concluded that she had no choice but to change the flat tire. It had been several years since she had changed one, and she imagined it taking her about 5 to 10 minutes to change it. The steps were straightforward enough when she looked in the driver’s manual, but when she started to change it, she was in for a rude awakening.

The lug nuts were almost impossible to remove, since they were stuck to the wheel like cement. With this day being one of the windiest days in October, leaves and dirt blew all around her like someone was using a leaf blower nearby. That didn’t help one bit.

“Why won’t you come off?” she groaned.

Heather stomped down on the lug wrench until the lug nut finally turned—a tactic that she had seen Martin, a friend and colleague of hers at work, use with success. But there were four more lug nuts left, and it took her five minutes just to remove one.

For the second lug nut, it was even more stubborn than the first. She stomped on the lug wrench repeatedly, putting all her weight on it to the point that she was practically standing on the lug wrench. After about ten minutes of doing this, the lug nut finally turned.

“Two off, three more to go,” she panted.

Altogether, it took her about an hour (including the time she took to call work to let them know that she was coming late, and the breaks she took) to get all of the lug nuts off and change the tire. The last lug nut was the most stubborn, which took her about fifteen minutes to remove. It finally gave way when she thrust her weight down on the lug wrench like she was cranking a lever that was stuck. She figured that the last mechanic that had put it on the tire didn’t want anyone taking it off. That’d be the last time she’d take her car to that auto repair shop.

Even though she called the office to let them know that she was running late, Curtis’ secretary told her in a dismissive tone that the 8:20 AM meeting had started without her. Heather knew that if Curtis landed the deal, he’d fire her for not showing up. And if he didn’t land the deal, he’d fire her anyway for not showing up. Her only hope was that she’d show up while the meeting was still ongoing—that she’d have a chance to persuade the business clients with her PowerPoint presentation and market research to sign a contract with Curtis’ company.

But Curtis had a strict “three strikes and you’re out” policy about coming to work late. Even if an employee was late by five or ten minutes, that would count as a strike. He believed that this rule was effective in getting his employees to show up on time, although he lost some good employees because of it. Even if they came late because of an emergency or an accident, he believed that they should have contingencies in place so that they can dodge any unexpected setbacks to arrive on time.

By the time Heather got back on the road, it was 8:50 AM. Traffic was getting worse by the minute now that everyone was heading to work, and she wondered as she drove: why couldn’t I have stayed home and do the meeting virtually? Besides, isn’t that what everyone else is doing these days?

***

It was 9:10 AM when Heather made it to work. She zoomed past the cubicles and ran down the gray corridor that led up to the windowless conference room at the end of the hallway, only to find it empty. Her heart sank, and she became visibly pale like the life had been sapped out of her. As she walked to her desk, the employees’ eyes fell on her with pity and sorrow, knowing what fate would befall her.

Those that had been fired because of their third strike felt like they were a kid in school who got in trouble with the teacher and were sent to the principal’s office. It was like they were bracing themselves for the principal’s reprimand—expecting to be put in detention, or worse, told that they’d be expelled.

Heather felt like a shriveled-up leaf as she sat in her cubicle. She reflected on whether she could’ve avoided being late if she had taken the main road, and if she should’ve set the alarm on her cellphone too (although she had heard that cellphone alarms could be flaky).

Stupid alarm clock! Why didn’t it go off? I know I set it last night. Is it broken or something?

She had gotten the alarm clock from the mall, since she liked the cat-shaped design, and because it doubled as a lamp. But as she thought about it more, she had an epiphany: No, it’s not the alarm clock’s fault. I would’ve been here on time if it weren’t for the flat tire. I’m about to lose my job because of Curtis and his stupid “three strikes and you’re out” policy. He’s brainwashed everyone into thinking that being late is our fault—that accidents and emergencies are somehow avoidable. Yeah right. That’s why they’re called accidents and emergencies!

He only shows up on time because he doesn’t have a life outside of work. Other people have families and commitments, but he just lives and breathes this place like it’s all he has in this world. He thinks everyone else should do the same: sacrifice their lives for their jobs. But that’s his way of gaslighting us so that he can make us do whatever he wants. And if we don’t, he’s already conditioned us into feeling guilty about it, even if we know it’s unreasonable and absurd . . .

“Curtis wants to see you in his office,” the secretary said as she came up to Heather’s desk. The secretary had an expression of annoyance on her face, like Curtis’ rotten mood had rubbed off on her.

Heather nodded pallidly. “Thank you.”

The secretary didn’t say more, and returned to her desk without so much as expressing sympathy.

As Heather stared at the marked-up calendar on the wall of her cubicle, a calendar filled with to-do items that she’d never get to after today, she imagined what the conversation would be like in Curtis’ office. She knew that it wasn’t her fault for having a flat tire, even though he would say otherwise and blame her for the failed business deal. Besides, it’s not like she had a flat tire every day.

He would most likely bring up the other times she had come in late—holding them against her like she was some sort of criminal waiting to be sentenced. The first time she was late, her alarm clock failed to go off as it did today. And the second time she was late, she had a migraine, which was so debilitating that she had to call a taxi to take her to work.

It was one of the most grueling and agonizing days she had ever had, with her head throbbing in pain, combined with Curtis continuously adding things to her to-do list while telling her to hurry up and finish her work. But there was a multimillion-dollar business deal that afternoon, and she’d feel guilty if she didn’t finish the presentation on time. After the day was over, she felt like she couldn’t stand up straight, and regretted not calling in sick, even though she had only used up three of her five sick days for the year. And when she told Curtis about her migraine after the meeting, he said that she should’ve gone to see a doctor that morning (she told him that most doctor’s offices weren’t open at 7 AM, but he just shrugged it off).

That was strike two.

He didn’t care what reasons she had for coming to the office late. He only cared about productivity and output—the bottom line.

Martin stopped by Heather’s cubicle and said, “Gosh, you look sick, Heather. Are you okay?”

She looked up at him without saying a word, and the sadness in her eyes said it all. She had texted him earlier that she had a flat tire. He told her to call in sick, but she couldn’t lie about it to Curtis. She was the type of person who would rather be fired for being honest than to continuously tell lies to her boss just to keep her job.

“Curtis didn’t land the deal,” Martin said. “The clients left after ten minutes. Curtis blew a gasket when he returned to his office. You don’t want to go in there right now.”

Heather took a deep breath. “I know what he’s going to say. I just want to get it over with.”

“Do you want me to go in there with you? I can ask him to give me the strike instead, since you’re on your last one.”

“No, Martin. This day has been coming for a long time. I’ve had nightmares about it, especially with the tension in the office, the nerve-racking deadlines, the thankless overtime hours I’ve put in to make the stupid presentations, and how he treats us all like fodder. I’m tired of it. I can’t go on like this anymore without going insane. At least I can start over—find another job that’ll appreciate me.”

“I’m not sure about the last part, but I know what you mean about the tension in this place,” Martin said. “People have been ratting each other out for being late just so that they can get on Curtis’ good side—climb the corporate ladder.”

Heather suddenly thought about the secretary, particularly her indifference toward her when she said that Curtis wanted to see her in his office. Did she want Heather’s job?

Martin continued, “And he wants us to put in 110% while barely giving us any perks or benefits. I mean, five days of sick leave a year? And five days of vacation? I know other companies give a lot more than that. Heck, I’d leave too if I could . . .”

“Why don’t you?” she asked.

Martin scratched the back of his neck. “Maybe I’ve just gotten used to it here. The salary’s better than my last job.”

“Maybe you’re afraid to leave.”

Martin shrugged. “I’m sure I’ll get my third strike one of these days . . .”

“Life’s too short to be grinding it away for someone else to get rich. I’ve been thinking about quitting for a while. Maybe the flat tire was a sign that I needed to move on with my life.” Heather stood up from the swivel chair. “I’m going to face him and not let him bully me,” she said. “I’m not afraid of him.”

Martin said, “If you need anything afterward, or if you just need to talk, don’t hesitate to call me.”

“Thanks,” she said. “But after he fires me, I’m going to take a vacation. I haven’t had one in almost a year.”

***

Heather rode the elevator to her apartment while holding a cardboard box of her belongings from work. The box wasn’t that heavy, since the heaviest thing in it was a fake lilac plant, which had sat on the desk in her cubicle for four years. Now it would get to sit comfortably in her apartment, bathing in the sunlight by the window, although it’d never grow.

When Heather entered her one-bedroom apartment, it was 11:15 AM. She got a cup of coffee and a raisin bagel on the way home, since she was in no hurry. But she felt strange to not be in a hurry, since she had gotten used to the nerve-racking deadlines at work. By the time she got home, however, she felt relieved to not be burdened by the pressures of work—especially Curtis’ “three strikes and you’re out” policy.

Now that Curtis had fired her, she was relinquished from the stressful and neverending duties of the day, including the countless hours of research she had put in to create presentations for business meetings, which meant little to nothing to her in the end. Besides, Curtis was the one reaping millions of dollars from her creative, vivid, and exhaustively researched presentations, while she and the other employees were paid crumbs from his profits.

When Curtis berated her in his office and blamed her for the failed business meeting that cost him half a million dollars, she gazed at him in disgust that he didn’t take responsibility for not landing the deal himself. He shouted at her: “You should’ve been here on time!” and “You’re not going to work in this business again!” As her ears rang from his juvenile tantrum, she couldn’t believe that he’d say such a baffling and incomprehensible thing as: “You should’ve left earlier in case of a flat tire!”

The stress in her body evaporated as soon as she sat on the faux leather couch in her living room. She wouldn’t have to answer to Curtis again, wouldn’t have to feel like she was living for a job—a job that had drained her emotionally and physically until she had no energy left but to mope around her apartment and watch TV and Netflix on the weekends.

Maybe I’ve been living my life all wrong. Why have I been living my life for a job, when a job should be a supplement to my life? Why have people been conditioned to believe that a job with a company should come first, and we must sacrifice our time and energy to it when the higher-ups would have no qualms replacing us like we’re just parts inside of a labyrinthian machine? What does the meaning of our work add up to once they’ve disposed of us? What happens to our identity and purpose when we’ve given them our all, only for them to turn their backs on us like we don’t exist anymore? Isn’t there more to life than the time we put in to a job? Shouldn’t we be owning our time instead, and try to make the best of our lives?

Snowball paced from the kitchen, excited to see Heather home so early, and leapt on the faux leather couch. Heather petted her cat, thinking to herself that she’d have plenty of time to hang out with Snowball now. Besides, Snowball had been cooped up inside the apartment for hours on end while Heather was away at the office—working in her small cubicle until she was too tired to play with Snowball when she got home.

Only Snowball could say how it felt being home alone all day with no one to interact with or play with. At least Snowball had gotten its wish and would get to see Heather at home a lot more, and in a much brighter and happier mood.

Share this: