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April 3rd, 2025

The title? A Flat Tire On The Road To Recess.

For decades — the idea for my one and only potential book has changed more times than a Kindergartener changes their favourite colour or Middle Schoolers need to change their seasonally fashionable wardrobe…

It was a title just sitting there, waiting for a book — Basically, if you taught or administered in a school, you can count on one thing: —your carefully planned day was about to be interrupted by something weird, loud, dramatic — or all three — and you’d need a quick, calm, creative solution... preferably before the bell rang for recess, lunch, the next class or dismissal and bus patrol. Basically, in the world of schools, a well-planned day is just a suggestion. The real job? Staying calm, staying creative, and figuring out a workable solution. Sounds easy enough. (suitable emoji)

*******

Early Background: In high school, I bought my first car —a very used, (oops) pre owned 1950 MG TD. It wasn’t the most practical choice, but it was fun. Top down, windshield folded flat, wind in your face — it even came with a hand held crank in case a faulty battery or the starter fail to start the engine. The many dents on the back bumper were evidence of its frequent bump & push-starts. It eventually became that yellow one that remained with us for the next 25 years.

Many post-war (1945 to around the mid 50s) English cars weren’t known for their reliability. Breakdowns were routine, and keeping them on the road required a worn-out repair manual, a bit of creativity, and often, a sense of humour.

My second MGTD, a 1951 cherry red, was in much in better shape, and by then I could tackle almost any mechanical problem by myself — though winter driving in a car with no heater or proper wipers was a test of character. Just ask Nancie, my wife and forever co pilot of 62 years and counting, who deserves a medal for all of those frosty joyrides and commutes our first winter together.

Eventually, I began restoring the yellow MG, transplanting a very reliable up-graded, modified, 1959 Volvo B 16 engine into the drive train — a frame up project that took 16 years to complete. It was all done somewhere between our marriage, three jobs, finishing university, buying a home, raising two kids, and settling into a teaching and administrative career.

Teaching, like driving a second MGTD had its share of surprises. Unexpected student issues or classroom challenges often reminded me of being stranded on the side of the road, searching for a quick fix. Oddly enough, thinking through car problems (like - Won’t start? It’s either spark or gas) often helped me solve most all on going or surprise school challenges. Don’t panic. Just keep it simple. Hey —you’ve been in a school setting since you were 6 years old. You can figure it out.

I’ve always admired Carl Hiaasen — that Miami Herald reporter/journalist who turned Florida mayhem into comedy gold. Funny, sharp, and a bit outrageous. I once dreamed of writing something kinda like that, maybe built around the idea of life’s unexpected stalls — literal and figurative.

The problem? Most of the real stories on hand which somehow I’d considered using — school notes, student letters, discipline reports, school events, etc. were too personal, legally questionable, and simply way too private to ever think of publishing. So, again the book kept stalling.

Then, about a week ago, a friend made an amusing comment in an email that sparked something. A stretch, yes — but it gave me a starting point. A different and unique tack appeared. At last, I had found a way into a story. that kinda fit the title.

But, —-Unfortunately, it had nothing to do with school. It involved an entirely new approach. And, the plot becomes really convoluted.

But, it all started to take shape, maybe something like a TV series. A larger general theme with smaller episodes, one differing from another within the larger working framework. After decades of breakdowns, detours, and ideas that went nowhere, I’m finally turning the key in the ignition.

And, the engine turned over and sputtered to life. It can only improve. Faint heart never danced with fair maiden! Here goes.

*******

It began, as many of my misadventures do, with an ill-advised deviation from my intended trajectory. One moment, I was en route to my destination with unerring precision; the next, I found myself meandering into a particularly inhospitable patch of rural Outer Banks NC, swampland. The shift was neither voluntary nor logical. My Garmin GPS, as though possessed by an unseen force, recalibrated without my intervention, rerouting me not to the nearest paved road, but inexplicably, to Roswell, New Mexico.

The event occurred near a railway crossing, precisely as a violent electrical storm surged and thundered across the sky. There was an eerie dissonance in the air, as if the very fabric of space-time had slipped out of alignment. A burst of energy coursed through my vehicle, and in the blink of an eye—or perhaps less—I was no longer in Mississippi.

I had arrived. —Instantly.

Warning indicators lit up my dashboard with an urgency I’d only ever seen in science fiction disaster scenarios. All four of my run-flat tires, it seemed, had suffered an unquantifiable failure, and my vehicle now sternly advised me not to exceed 15 mph. Moreover, it suggested—rather insistently—that I seek out a high-end tire retailer immediately. It was an oddly specific demand, given the my unusual surrounding, barren, sand covered circumstances.

Curious, I stepped out and kicked one of the rear tires, as if such a primitive test could verify its structural integrity. As I contemplated the feasibility of rolling that compromised wheel a good distance away into Roswell on foot, I became aware of an unfamiliar sensation: the unmistakable intrusion of soft, insistent fingers slipping into my pocket.

I turned slowly.

Three eyes, wide and unblinking, regarded me in the pale luminescence of a Chihuahuan desert moon. The face before me defied conventional human anatomy, yet it conveyed something undeniable—curiosity, intelligence, and, I suspected, a mild sense of amusement at my stunned expression. A voice, though no lips visibly moved, echoed through my consciousness:

"Please John, follow me. Follow me. Follow me."

I sighed. "You only need to say it once. I’m not that dense. I kinda had a High School ex-girlfriend once who was far less subtle," I said shyly, forcing a smile.

Before I could protest, I found myself moving—though my legs remained curiously stationary. One of her (I assumed ‘her’ based purely on linguistic convention) five hands maintained an unshakable grip within my pocket, and with no further ceremony, I was airborne.

We entered a corridor lined with mirrored surfaces, its walls reflecting endless iterations of other three-eyed entities observing me in absolute silence. It was reminiscent of the Home & School gatherings or Principals’ Meetings I had attended over the years—an audience of inscrutable expressions and an overwhelming sense of being judged, and somewhat undervalued.

We halted abruptly.

And there she was. An unbelievable moment in time.

Nancie. My wife. Encased in a silver space suit, equipped with what seemed to be an air tank of sorts.

Her voice reached me not through sound waves, but directly into my thoughts.

"John, you're needed here. Your knack for jury-rigging incompatible systems—like that time you transformed a 6-volt negative-ground Volvo engine into a 12-volt positive-ground MG - has piqued the interest of four distinct alien civilizations. They dwell deep beneath Roswell, unable to escape because their saucers are inoperable, and, inconveniently, they lack spare parts." Simply put, they also lack the ability to MacGyver stuff and make it work like you do.

I gawked. "So… you’re telling me that for 64 years, you’ve been covertly ensuring my safety just so I could someday repair extraterrestrial spacecraft?"

She shrugged and nodded.

The alien hand still firmly lodged in my pocket made it difficult to focus. I cleared my throat, trying to summon what little dignity remained. "Alright, but if that’s it, what’s in it for me?"

The three-eyed being’s expression shifted, her grip tightening ever so slightly.

Oh my. This was going to be interesting. Sigh.

Suddenly, from somewhere an odd tune from distant past actually started playing softly in my head.

Should I stay or should I go?

The tune continued, volume increased...

Oh! Hola!

Darling, you got to let me know
Should I stay, or should I go?
If you say that you are mine
I'll be here till the end of time
So you got to let me know
Should I stay, or should I go? (The Clash, June 10th, 1982)

I stood there not moving but not unmoved.

Another thought — will my book ever get published?

An immediate loving response softly flooded my mind, “Would you rather be published or simply come and live that dream helping us, in service? Roswell could not only be a giant step into the Universe but also become a portal to other dimensions. Come live your life with us and become a significant, helping component of ours. Let your flat tires simply evolve, and be of real service throughout all space and time, a forever adventure John. A part of our purpose here is to watch over Earth and occasionally intervene when the going gets really messed up, bad for the planet, and truly threatening for humanity.

Should you stay or should you go? Please, be with us, don’t say no.

The tune continued, with volume and back-beat increasing…

Verse 2]
It's always tease, tease, tease
You're happy when I'm on my knees
One day it's fine, and next it's black
So if you want me off your back
Well, come on and let me know
Should I stay, or should I go?

[Chorus]
Should I stay, or should I go now?
Should I stay, or should I go now?
If I go, there might be trouble
And if I stay, it could be double
So come on and let me know

Please be with us, don’t say no.

Three-eyed being’s expression shifted, her grip tightening ever so slightly once again. I fully sensed, in a momentary heartbeat, yes! Nancie was both a hologram in a silver space suit and my new very best friend — Three Eyes. (my first clue - Nancie never wore silver, not even on Hallowe’en).

Aliens, and space/time reality sure aren’t in fact what most people kinda thought they were. But, the aliens need help, Our earth needs help. Humanity is in danger, and I constantly seek purpose and redemption.

I say YES, and now you know.

Let’s get with it, gotta go…

Later, …thinking about the next chapter in the book: If words need saying, they’ll show up — eventually. I live in hope… and mild confusion. This literary event right here, right now might somehow take flight - or crash like the alien spaceships I’m currently obliged to start fixing.

Which brings me to three new issues and a thought in the story:

These aliens travelled light-years across our galaxy, but somehow forgot the cosmic equivalent of a spare tire.
And, if they’re so advanced, why did they crash-land here like beginners in a parking lot?

3. Then there’s Nancie. First off her passport photo doesn’t match anymore. Or maybe it does. Or maybe it will. Time will tell — or bend. Our time together now feels a bit slippery. Reality, somehow kinda optional?

4. Have you ever wakened from a really bad dream about being very lost? Unable to complete an extremely important task, in a totally unfriendly and unknown place, and it’s impossible to find your way back? My present moment feels a lot like this.

Plus, I’m supposed to somehow reconcile interstellar adventures, with golf clubs gathering dust, windsurf gear waiting in a slowly decomposing 18 year old van, camera lenses pointed at sunsets, and friends who still think my biggest journey in life is getting to the 18th hole, or finding my way back to shore still holding on to the boom.

Can I live in both worlds? Walk two paths at once - the life that I know, and this other life I can barely describe without sounding unhinged? Or must one life stop so the other can continue?

Or maybe worst of all, do I abandon the story entirely? Close the laptop and let these words simply drift away like lost signals in deep space?

Maybe this is kinda what they call a writer’s block.

Writer’s Block? (Bad news) Yes, and rightly so according to author and literary critic William Thomas. (Good news) —Short stories are a literary genre.

Remissions - Ongoing thoughts, and updates…