edge of the continent

Sometime between returning from a long but productive working lunch over Indian food in Hillcrest and finally packing up for the day, two of my car’s tires were slashed. In the parking lot at my office. In broad daylight. The lot is not immediately adjacent to the street, has only one entrance/exit, and is rarely filled with outside activity. It’s my hope that my car was picked at random; I’m uneasy with the possibility that it could have been otherwise.

My reactions to the incident have shifted from ‘dang it, I’ve got to put on the spare while wearing these pants’ (when I thought it was just one flat), to ‘aw, shoot, am I going to have to buy new tires?’ (when I heard the final hiss as the second tire finished deflating), to ‘You can’t be serious?’ (when the shop guy gave me the bad news).

Oy, poor Norah. She’s home now, with new shoes, a check up, and a wash. But here she was two days ago, listing to starboard on the flatbed that towed her to the shop: