Midnight Mass in Seeksvill: Chapter 1

A self-assured anthropology professor gets a flat tire outside an abandoned donut factory, on the edge of a town with a strange relationship with the letter e. Things only get stranger from there.

Oh, the wheel. Older than — well, I don’t know what — and still round. Right now I’m sitting in a parking lot, leaning up against the front passenger side of the wheel on my car. It’s flat. Like really flat. Flatter than earth for some. If I had a pocket knife, I’d puncture the heck out of it for stranding me.

I’m in what must be the outskirts of a town called Seeksvill. I know this because I passed a sign a few minutes ago. And let’s think about the obvious here — where is the ‘e’ in vill? Poor settlers were probably short one wagon wheel when they decided to name the place.

Or maybe it’s the rest of us who are short a wheel. Why do we end vill with an ‘e’ anyway? It’s not like you can mispronounce vill. Oh well.

Anyway, I haven’t seen much in the way of vehicles for a long while, so I know I’m going to be waiting a bit for someone to drive by. Good thing I have my novel with me — Why I Am Not Writing A Book. Besides the extremely clever name, it’s excellent, funny, and mysterious all at once. Author must be brilliant and very good looking.

I’m about to give the tire another kick when I hear gravel crunching. Not the normal kind — the slow, deliberate kind, like someone driving with the confidence of a man who’s been right about everything his entire life, even when he wasn’t.

A pickup rolls into view. Old. Rusted. The colour might once have been blue, or green, or whatever shade trucks turn after forty winters. Actually, I think it’s called patina. Behind the wheel is a bearded old man who looks like he was carved out of the same wood as the truck’s dashboard.

He pulls up beside me, window sliding down with a squeal that sounds like it’s begging for retirement.

“Flat?” he says. Not “Hello.” Not “Need help?” Just “Flat?” Like he’s confirming a diagnosis he already made from fifty yards away. I’m waiting for him to hawk a loogie.

Of course it’s a bearded old man in a pickup. Of course that’s who Seeksvill sends. If the town had a welcoming committee, this guy would be the president, treasurer, and mascot. I move to the side a bit, just in case.

“Yessir,” I say.

“How’d it happen?”

“I must have driven over something sharp,” I say. Sharp. Unlike you. Geesh, I don’t know how it happened. Who cares?

“Well, is it the sidewall or tread?” Okay, man, the tire is flat. F-L-A-T. I can feel annoyance coming on.

“Well, it’s kinda important, Mister. See, we have two tire places in town. One does sidewalls and the other does the treads. Brothers own ’em. Jimmy and Joey.”

I look at the flat tire. “I don’t see anything on the side, so it must be in the tread. Can’t we just go see the brothers and they can figure it out?”

“Well, that’s not so easy, Mister. What kind of car do you drive?”

What kind of car do I drive? The kind with four tires and one of them is flat. Let’s go already.

“It’s an Audi,” I say.

“You mean one of them imported cars?” he asks.

“Yes. German. Like BMW and Porsche and Volkswagen.”

“Whoa, no need to get snooty, Mister. I’m askin’ because Jimmy fixes the sidewalls, but only works on North American cars, like Chev and this here ol’ Ford. Joey fixes tread punctures and only works on dem imported cars. Like Japanese.”

Do Japanese cars include the kind made in Germany? I swear I’m losing it here, waiting for the old man to say, “Ha, gotcha!”

He doesn’t say that, though.

“Well, Mister, let’s start with Joey first, seeing your car is Japanese.”

I stare at him. Joey. The tread guy. The Japanese‑car specialist. The man who apparently believes Germany is somewhere between Osaka and Kyoto.

“Right,” I say. “Joey.”

He nods like I’ve just passed a test I didn’t study for. “Yup. Joey’ll know what to do. He’s real good with them foreign treads.”

“My tire isn’t a sidewall issue,” I say, pointing at the very obvious, very flat tread. “It’s the tread.”

He squints at it. Then at me. Then at the tire again, like he’s waiting for it to confess. “Well, Mister, sometimes a tread looks like a tread, but it’s actually a sidewall. You gotta know what you’re lookin’ at. Could be on the inside, ya know.”

I blink. Twice. “It’s… the tread.”

He shrugs. “Joey’ll know.”

Of course Joey will know. Joey knows everything. Joey is the oracle of Seeksvill. Joey probably decides who gets to leave town and who mysteriously stays forever.

The old man jerks his thumb toward the truck. “Hop in. Joey’s place ain’t far.”

I look at the truck. It looks back at me. The passenger door has the structural integrity of a graham cracker. The seat is a colour I’d describe as “vintage nicotine.” The floor mat is a suggestion rather than a physical object.

But what choice do I have? I’m not walking to Joey’s. Not in Seeksvill. Not with a flat tire and a novel about not writing a novel tucked under my arm.

I open the door. It groans like it’s filing a complaint.

The old man grins. “Don’t mind her. She only screams when she’s happy.”

Of course she does.

I climb in, the seat sinking like it’s relieved to have company. The truck smells faintly of gasoline, pine, and something that might have once been a sandwich.

He puts the truck in gear. It lurches forward like it’s been startled awake.

“Name’s Earl,” he says.

Of course it is.

* * *

Want to know what happens next? Midnight Mass in Seeksvill is available now in paperback on Amazon.ca and Amazon.com, with the Kindle edition coming soon.