Zombie, Illinois by Scott Kenemore Read Free Book Online Page B

footprints are alone in the virgin snow-slush underfoot.
    I turn a corner by Palmer Square Park—almost home—and finally see another person. He’s a frustrated-looking African-American guy, maybe in his late 60s, wearing a long brown trench coat. He’s holding a tire iron and standing next to an immaculate Chrysler with a flat tire. It’s right in front of my apartment building.
    He notices me approaching, and his expression changes.
    â€œHello, my friend,” he says with a smile.
    â€œHi,” I respond tentatively.
    â€œI wonder...could you give me a hand?”
    And boom: I have that reaction where you’re sure it’s going to be some kind of grift.
    I mean, this guy has an actual flat tire. He’s not making that up. But I still feel like I’m a mark. That this is—somehow, someway— going to be a request for money. A new variation on the guy who roams the neighborhood with an empty gas can, saying he ran out and his wallet’s at home and could he please just have $5.
    I am going to get taken.
    â€œUm, maybe I could give you a hand” I manage. “This flat tire is stuck onto these bolts,” he says, kicking it. “Maybe frozen on.”
    He seems genuinely frustrated.
    â€œSo you can’t remove it to put on the spare?” I ask cautiously. “Exactly. Would you be able to give me a hand? Maybe if two people pull together . . .”
    I kind of relax a little. Okay. This is feeling less like a grift. “Yeah, man,” I say. “I can do that”
    â€œI keep slipping in the snow,” he tells me. “Can’t get my leverage right.”
    â€œLet’s both try,” I say, putting on my gloves.
    I join him at the side of the car. He’s got it jacked up, and the offending tire spins freely. We grip it together and prepare to pull. I just have time to imagine a nightmare scenario in which the jack slips in the slush and we are both crushed under the stylish automobile.
    â€œOkay,” he says, “one . . . two . . . three!”
    We pull as hard as we can. The tire spins a little in our collective grip, but does not come loose. It is almost impossible to get a good footing in this snow. After just a few seconds of pulling, I can tell we aren’t going to get it.
    â€œOkay, stop,” I say. “This thing is stuck.”
    We step back and examine the situation.
    â€œShoot,” the man says. “I could call AAA, but I’m on my way to something important.”
    â€œAnd they take an hour to come when it snows like this,” I observe.
    â€œShoot,” the man says again, looking skyward in exasperation.
    â€œWait,” I tell him. “I got it.”
    The man cautiously raises an eyebrow.
    â€œWhat about hitting it with something? I bet you could smack it from behind—like from the inside—and knock the tire loose.”
    â€œThat might work,” the man agrees.
    â€œI’ve got an old sledgehammer up in my apartment. Want me to go get it?”
    He looks at his watch and shrugs.
    â€œYeah,” he allows. “What the hey? Best to give it a shot.”
    I leave the man alone by his car and open the gate to my building. I trudge upstairs (third floor walkup) and find the ancient hammer; rusted, and with the handle covered in black duct tape. I wonder if the man is even expecting me to return? Maybe he has already called AAA. Maybe he thinks this was a pretense to get away from him.
    He’s still standing there, though, when I emerge from my building with the sledge.
    â€œYou want me to do it?” I ask him.
    â€œSure, it’s your sledge.”
    â€œYeah, but it’s your car,” I tell him.
    â€œI trust you.”
    I creep to the edge of the wheel well and take a knee. Chopping from the side—long and slow, like a batter in an on-deck circle—I hit the side of the tire as hard as I can. It jostles loose and bounces up and down on its