A heat dome hangs over LA,
causing the sun-stricken to swarm the freeways,
pitch tents by the shore, flaunt thong
bikinis, splash, wade, sprawl on the beach
where no patch of sand goes unclaimed.
The breeze is so elusive that
tents creep toward the water’s edge.
No beachgoer will break camp
as the sun slinks into the Pacific
without a longing backward glance.
It will be hot tonight.
There will be bodies on the road,
or so says Lavon, the tow truck driver,
an expert with a winch, who later that evening
will haul our Chevy from the side of the 710.
A shredded tire.
He’s seen worse: next to a cruiser,
a girl driver in handcuffs, reckless homicide.
He says, I tell everyone. Stay off your phone.
He’s tuned to Tupac and we’re rolling
in his cab past lit-up fast-food joints
and pop-up taco stands.
Most tire shops are closed.
But Lavon knows a place
in a neighborhood of low-slung warehouses,
coiled barbed wire and snuffed out
streetlights. A smell of sulfur hangs in the air.
Don’t worry, we’re almost there, he says.
We’re on a moonless street
when we come upon
a garage lit up like baseball.
The players move in the slow heat
amongst the brake lathes
and engine jacks.
All through the bacchanalia,
they’ve been here.
While beachgoers shake out their towels
they change batteries and switch out bad bearings.
While Buicks and Audis
collide on freeways, they practice their craft.
Every night is opening night
at the Alameda All Night Tire Shop.
But maybe tonight more than
others, the light shines bright
on these five men cutting, rolling,
patching tires, getting us on our way.