Boy with Tire, by Ann Matzke

Boy with Tire, by Hughie Lee-Smith (USA) 1952

​Boy with Tire
 
The sun sunk low, leaving long shadows to stretch as far as they wanted, weaseling into cracks and slithering into crevices all along the empty places of the town. Some shadows stretched beyond what was possible and others didn’t seem to care if they stretched at all for there was no one but the boy to notice. The few people that had called this place home had simply gotten up one day and walked away. Leaving the breakfast table with steaming cups of coffee, departing the laundromat, as their clothes slogged back and forth in the dingy washing machines. They left anything and everything behind. For really what was there to take? They all wanted the same thing, didn’t they? Something better. At least a comfortable place to rest their bodies. The very things this empty, gutted town with sunken eyes in vacant windows could no longer give them. 

The boy sat on the curb waiting as time passed him by. His ears perked. Was that the sound of an engine? A real-life piston, igniting motor? So unusual, yet unforgettable, was the sound. The boy could see all the moving motor parts in his mind like a slow-motion movie. How the fuel pump fed it gasoline to make it go. How the drive shaft spun. How the axels turned the tires. The bounce of the chassis past the first bleached closed road sign. How it continued on along the buckled road to enter the skeletal remains of this place that had forgotten its own name. 

The boy’s heart leaped as the car came into view. He stood up, watching wide-eyed. Not remembering the last time, a vehicle like this one came along. What should he do? Step off the curb, venture into the road for a better look. Possibly flag it down. Or simply sit by and watch it run over the crowded shadows filling the crosswalk. 

All of these options tugged at the boy but in the end, he chose to stand on the curb and do nothing. The shiny black car came into full view. The driver exceeding the speed limit, trying to escape all that was closing in around him, not noticing the pothole in the road, neglecting the once orange danger signs. 

A grieving, sniveling black shadow rippled over the hole’s opening that grew bigger and bigger as the car came closer and closer. If the sun had been a tad bit higher the driver might have swerved to miss the hole. But now, all hope was lost, the hole was hidden from sight.   

The boy should warn the driver. He should jump out into the road and throw up his arms, but the noise of the engine grew louder and louder, purring in his ear. So taken, he found himself out of time. The car sped straight into the wall of darkness. Disappearing. The boy could imagine the car falling, rolling over and over, end over end, dropping deeper and deeper. He was well aware of the truth; there was no returning. 

The boy inched closer but staying a good distance from the edge of the broken asphalt. He’d never looked inside. He knew better. Caution filled his chest as apprehension spread through his body like the intricate system of interstates, highways and rambling rivers on a road map. 

The boy looked again, squinting. Was something caught, hanging from the jagged edge of the hole? A tire possibly. With one last gulp, the air swallowed by the hole, leaving the boy in a comfortable silence. He wasted no time, snatching the tire, and stepping back. 

The last of the sun’s rays fell upon the buttery yellow cloth of the boy’s shirt, warming his chest and melting his heart. He clutched the tire, running his hand along the treads like a newfound kitten, remembering how the engine once purred. A bit of joy rose up in the boy, he smiled, pushing away the hollow whispers from the empty places. Ignoring the indignant stares from the deep-set eyes of the windows while keeping his attention on what was in his hands, protecting his thoughts from giving way to the darkness. 
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For now, he too, had found comfort, not to mention he had enough things to build some sort of contraption that would allow him to escape, high tail it for the trail like those who’d left before him. If, that was his final decision.

Ann Matzke

Ann Matzke is an emerging writer. She’s published poems, articles, and nonfiction essays in Rappahannock Review, Itima: Journal of Narrative Medicine, Brevity Blog, HEAL, Horn Book online, Plainsong Review, and the Back End of Tuesday anthology and is the author of 14 nonfiction books for young readers. Ann earned her MS from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln, and her MFA in Writing from Hamline University in St. Paul, Minnesota. She lives in Hays, Kansas with her husband and two dogs.