Last week I found out that my daughter's bike rack, which was still on the car when she gave it to me, had two locks and no keys. And it was locking in the spare tire, but that wasn't the only thing securing in the tire. I had some kind of weird bolt on all four tires and the spare.
I decided to get that fixed because I will be going to the Jack London Conference on March 20th, which means I have to drive up to San Francisco.

I dialed the first number that 411 gave me for “Lock and Key” and said, “I have a problem with my car…”
"We don't do cars…Click.”
He hung up? I wasn't finished.
The guy had a thick accent maybe he didn't understand me?
I called the second number. The people chattering away on phones in the background sounded the same as the first call.
"Uh, I have this problem with a bike rack…" I said in a rush.
"You bike? Click."
What the? Hey! That sounded like the same guy.
I called the last number.
"This Num-ber Haz bin DISCO-neck-TED!"
Oh, great.

I dialed the operator and said, "Please give me a number that won't hang up."
She gave me the Emergency-24-hour-Lock-Smith-Service.

I know, I know, I thought the same thing - this was going to be painful to my pocket.
But I was desperate. I had visions of getting a flat tire in some podunk town off the interstate where a vagrant would approach me saying, “Hey, Lady, you like beer?”

The guy that answered for the Emergency Service, Sean, was real nice. He said he could fix it.
"Okay, but how much do you charge?"
He responded with the famous salesman line, "Well, it depends."
"Okay, roughly, what will this cost me? One arm or two legs?"
"We charge $75 dollars just to come to your door."

That white space was the space above is symbolic of the silence following my sad realization. I would not be getting my tires fixed any time soon. The cash register in my head was chinging and kachinging. $75 bucks! Just for starters!
But then Sean said, "I also teach at a Locksmith College and if you come to class in Van Nuys tomorrow, I'll give you a discount. Ask for George.”
Woo. That made me feel strange because that's my nickname, George, for “George Sand.” It also is the name Glenn and I use when we go into restaurants.
"George, Party of two!"
You can hear it better.

The next day, I drove to the Locksmith College.
As I got to the corner of Van Nuys and Oxnard, I saw a sign that said, "The Key to success in life is to follow your dreams."
Heh! That's weird; I thought. Here I am driving to get keys, and there's a sign saying something about keys. Then I looked at the car in front of me. The license plate read "SqueKey."
Woo. Too weird.

I pulled up to the locksmith college (which was also a detective agency - cool!); I walked in and said to the woman behind the counter "I'm here to see Sean."
"Sean?" she said and she looked at me as if maybe I had gone to sleep with my gum in my mouth without realizing it, and my hair was sticking straight up in one gooey mass, or like I had just arrived from the Planet Insanely Stupid.
So I touched my head (No, no gum there) while the receptionist stared.
That's when I remembered seeing the truck with "lock and key" written on the side of it, (Remeber - "We don't do cars.") slowly driving towards my house as I headed for the highway. In my head 4 guys were sneaking the TV out the porch window. (Oh, man this is heavy guys…)
Nahh! They wouldn't rob me. Lionel would eat them. Lucie would bark them to death.

Shoot.
Bang!

I walked back outside and spoke to some locals hanging out in the parking lot, "Anyone know a Sean ...or a George?"
(Now, why didn’t I tell the receptionist about “George?”)
A guy said "Are you the lady with the bike rack? I’m Sean," and he offered his hand.
I was so relieved to know he was real and not a figment of my Planet Insanely Stupid mentality.
The guys in my head robbing my house, disappeared with a “pop!”
Shoo, that was close.

In minutes, I was surrounded by eight future locksmiths piled around my car, who were about my age. Off in one of the many garage type buildings a man was singing a Mexican melody. Eight guys and a song? I felt like I was in my element.
George, a short stocky guy who looked like everyone’s best friend, introduced himself and started picking the locks on the bike rack. The "Class" stood around and made comments. Every time someone said, "George can I get you a file?" or "George this looks like a non standard lock," I would begin to answer. I thought they were talking to me.
George worked on the locks for about 40 minutes. I was worried he wouldn’t ever get the bike rack off.
My tires went flat in Firebaugh again in my head, and this greasy guy with three teeth started to offer me the booze-de-jour from his brown paper bag, “You like this lady?”

"Oh, wait. Let me get something," George said.
He ran back to the garage and got another bike rack lock “I’ve been saving this for about 7 years. You see this? This is exactly like her lock. You should never throw stuff like this away. Now we can figure out how it works easy."
I had visions of his wife buried under mounds of locks and old shirts and man-stuff at his house.
Well, he was a nice guy, so I guess he was worth all the clutter. Besides, he who is without sin must cast the first stone, and I am a class “A” clutter queen.
Finally, George opened the two bike rack locks effortlessly. He made keys faster than it took Governor Arnold to say, “Gay marriages are fine.”
Before I had filed my nails, George handed me two perfect keys.
"But your tires are still locked because they have those special locking lug nuts. I think you need to go to a dealer."

Locking love what?
George ran to make duplicate keys and I asked the guys about the cost of the locksmith course.
"Oh about 5 or 550."
"$500 dollars?"
"No, five thousand dollars and it costs $10,000 for the tools."
"Woo! So you guys are all independently wealthy?"
"Nah. We're rehabilitating. We gotta learn a trade."
"This is all for free?" Notice how I didn't skip a beat. I am so good.
"Yeah the state pays, but it's hard. It takes years to be good at it."
"Wow. But George makes it look so easy."
"He's been doin' it for 16 or 20 years! He started when he was 14!"
Here's where the guys start joking about how George's Dad locked him in a closet and told him to break out.

I didn't ask the class what they were rehabilitating from. I had visions of them walking out of prison arm in arm. The concept of giving people, who had possibly been behind bars the education and means to escape them, just seemed like a large laugh waiting to escape my body.
Nah, they probably just got laid off from some start up or something.
As I was contemplating the class’s former lifestyles, the robbers in my head came back and started removing computers and stereo again assisted by the “rehabilitated” class.
But no, they wouldn’t do that, would they? Not now, that they knew me.
I picked up my cell phone to distract my thoughts and asked for the closest Rav 4 dealership.
I called and was surprised to find it was “just around the corner. Ask for George.”

I said goodbye to the class of possible future escapees, George promised to help me write a detective story, and I shot on over to see “George.”
What again? Woo. Must be George day.

On the way over, I passed that sign again, "The key to success in life is to follow your dreams."
The name of the Dealership made me sure that the universe was talking to me, "Keyes Toyota."

I pulled into service and asked about the locking love nuts.
The salesman stuck a little metal stick in my tires to show how my treads were “This tire is completely bald ma’am.”
Why do they say bald tires? Tires do not have hair.
He acted like my hair wasn't blonde and kept explaining, while I shook my head and said, “Uh, huh,” and tried not to drool as I fell asleep. "Man talkzzzzzzz."
I woke up when he said, “You need to buy four of our SALE tires for only $449.”
"Oh, man. (I paused.) Well, I won't be doing that anytime soon."
He quickly looked me up and down and pulled me into his office conspiratorially like I was suddenly his cousin. “There's a tire store just down the block, go there,” he said out of the side of his mouth as he nervously closed the blinds over the tinted windows.
I felt like I had just been entrusted with Keyes actual key to success.
Why was he so scared? What were they going to do to him? Shoot him? Lock his love nuts?

Carlos at the Tire Service store told me that the best thing to do was to cut off the locking lug nuts.
(Oh, LUG nuts. And what the heck is a lug? And why are all you guys holding your crotches?)
They would replace them with plain nuts for only $65 dollars.
"Carlos, would you switch the spare with one of the other tires? And where can I get lunch?"
“For you, I would do this. You go get something to eat, up the road and when you come back, I will take care of your car. Which tire shall I switch?"
“The one with the least hair.”
He looked at me funny, so I pointed to the balding right front tire.

Then, I quickly drove to MacD's, and I had a "bank error in your favor." I changed my mind when I got to the pay window and ordered salad instead of the nuggets. But the next window had already packed my order and they must have thought the salad was additional. I got the nuggets too. First time I escaped McD’s with MORE than I ordered. I figured it was karma. You should try it. Just change your mind at the pay window.

Back at the Tires Service store, I sat and ate lunch and read my Penny Warner myster while Carlos released my car from bondage.
"Everything is done," Carlos said long before I was ready.

I paid my bill; he handed me my keys, and I felt like I had dreamt the whole thing.
My car looked fine now. No locking lug nuts. No bike rack. It looked like it had been…REBORN!

This car is perfect now, I thought.

Then my thoughts drifted sideways .... This car is going to go flat. One of the tires..
not going to think it.
Could be nails around here...
Not, not, not!
All the way home I avoided thoughts of flat tires.
See, I drove all over the country with that car. Up and down California too, at least 8 times last year and never knew that my tires were bald and locked solidly to my car. I never knew I didn't have the bike rack keys. So of course, I never had a flat tire.
Because … I didn't know.

But now… I know.
Now, my tires are free to explode at any moment. Free to hit a big rusty nail or a giant pothole or a meteor from Planet Insanely Stupid.

Well, at least now, my brother-in-law can get at the brakes, which is the reason why I found out my tires were locked onto my car in the first place.
“I can’t even see your brakes because I can’t get at the tires! They’re locked on!”
And it only took $115 dollars to get my car ready for him. I am so proud!

That’s it from LaLa land.
Check your tires; do not let the locking lug nuts impede your lucidity. Don’t go flat.
I'll be dreaming of all of you finding your keys because in my dreams you all are successful.

One more time...
Locking Lug Nuts!
I just love the way that sounds.

Now, fine folks, your job if you choose to accept it is to email Carol Wood at Carol@hazelst.com And tell her to have a brake!

(Can't you just hear the Mission Impossible music?)