Stranded

Henry couldn’t believe his luck when an old weathered gentleman stopped his pickup to give him a hand. The left front tire of his Toyota Prius had gone flat while he drove through the dessert in Arizona. It had been his dream to drive cross country with his girlfriend, Cathy. Problem was it hadn’t been Cathy’s dream. She remained in Brooklyn, shacked up with Henry’s best friend.
The old dude gingerly exited his pickup and asked Henry if he had a spare.
“No, I didn’t think I needed one. The tires are new and I needed room for my stuff.”
The old man eyed Henry’s New York license plate. “Figures,” he said with a smile. “Maybe if you got a real automobile instead of this hippie clown car, you’d have room for a spare. I guess there’s nothing we can do here. I’ll take you down to Lenny’s Garage. Hop in it’ll be dark soon.”
Henry got in the pickup hoping his savior wasn’t a serial killer. They drove in silence through the vast wasteland, only the occasional ghostly shadow of a cactus providing a reprieve from the tediousness of the landscape. Finally the old man spoke, “Are you some kind of hippie?”
Henry wasn’t sure how to answer. The only hippies he could think of were from Adam 12 reruns he’d watched with Cathy. Not wanting to get thrown out of the pickup he muttered, “No.”
Lenny’s Garage was what Henry expected, two gas pumps, a garage, and a fat greasy mechanic named Lenny. Lenny informed him he didn’t have any tires for his hippie car, so it would have to be towed. As Henry handed over five hundred dollars to Lenny, and got in his car, he couldn’t help but wonder if Cathy hadn’t been right.