Gallup - April 23

Driving on a spare that I knew had a limited life span, I began to search for the next town to change out my tire. Entering into New Mexico I quickly came upon a little town called Gallup that happened to house the largest Indian reservation in the world, and was the largest Navajo reservation in the land.

Now please take what follows with a grain of salt: I full well know that this was only one day and one limited experience, and in no way can I ever truly KNOW what it feels like to be prejudiced against, ignored, shunned, or made to feel anything less than worthy due to my color of skin on a daily basis, but I at least now have the perspective.

Walking into the Pep Boys - chosen for its reputation as a franchise over a local, referred tire shop - I stood by the counter waiting patiently to be helped. What followed was an experience that opened my eyes.

I now know what a black man feels like. The level of purposeful neglect was unbelievable, and unexpected. I felt like I was being judged as if I had actually participated in the decision, creation, and acceptance of the reservations.

Ignored in favor of natives who walked right past me as if I did not exist, I finally had to stand gut to the counter and ask loudly for assistance. The first employee looked at me with a level of dislike normally reserved for in-laws and passed me on to a kid who was probably only 20 but was trying really hard to look important and 30, his uniform crisp and sharp and a self created air of importance surrounding him.

Talking to me as though I were wasting his time, he told me to pull my car around the back and that someone would help me shortly. Obediently following his instructions, in complete ignorance to the anger directed towards me, I pulled in front of an open bay one, "Tires" boldly written across in red letters contrasted against the white building.

For 15 minutes I waited as I watched and chatted briefly with a 16 year old who, though obviously working in this bay, had nothing better to do but come out periodically to look quizzically at Bessie, ask a couple of questions and walk away. Finally, after his third visit, I asked if he had any plans to fix my tire and he tilted his head sideways and peered at me as though I was growing a second head.

He then asked me for my work order and I shot him back the same look.

"Work Order?"

"Yeah, work order. If you don't have a work order I cannot do anything."

"But you're NOT doing anything." My obvious frustration seeping into this conversation.

"Can't do anything without one, you have to go back inside and get one."

By now I realized I had been duped and made my way back to the counter, this time helped by a managerial looking middle aged man who, though his apparel and balding head spoke to knowledge, his flustered speak and stacks of paper warned me that I was in for a long day.

Explaining my situation he took my name and keys and told me someone would get right on it. I begrudgingly made my way back to Bessie figuring that I could at least use this time to clean out the various piles of paper and bags of garbage that had accumulated over the past few days.

Something about me hanging out in the van - perhaps the assumption being that I did not trust them - continued the day on even further unsure footing. 30 minutes after pulling Bessie around back, the same kid who had sent me off without a work order came trudging over to Bessie and hopped in, shooting me a look of "fuck off" as he did, his air of importance lessened as he now knew I knew he was nothing but a shop mechanic, his crisp uniform the product of the start of his shift and nothing less.

Grinding her gears he struggled to find reverse and, not wanting to have to replace a gear box in addition to a tire, I calmly walked over and explained it that you had to push down first before up in order to get her into gear. Without so much as a grunt of acknowledgment he slammed her into reverse and drove off to another bay.

Instead of waiting inside I chose to sit out in the sun, as much to offer any help on figuring out Bessie's quirks as to enjoy the rays offered up from an infrequent visitor to my native Oregon. Looking back I think that they thought I was again watching over them, their distrust or anger not allowing them to see me leaning back to enjoy the warmth.

The whole time in Gallup one local was friendly to me, a woman of about 25 who, while walking by with her friend obediently in tow, asked me if my car was in the shop and, upon hearing that it was, warned me that I would be there for awhile. I spent the next 30 minutes pondering this a bit until she came back out and told me that my fair skin needed to get out of the sun, reminding me again of the wait I was in for. Explaining that I was from Oregon and seldom saw the glowing orb and wanted to soak up as much of its rays as possible, she laughed at me, shaking her head as she and her friend walked off.

I guess I really should have paid more attention to her as two and a half hours later Bessie was finally finished. Granted, I did have them take care of the rear alignment issue as well, the cause for the tear, but I could not believe the extent of the delay and by this time had given up caring.

Walking back in I paid for the work, my mouth shut except to answer questions, my fear being that should I open my mouth my true opinions would come flying out. Hopping back into Bessie I drove off back towards the 40, a newfound buzzing ringing in my ears.

It turns out the buzzing wasn't from the headache and I searched high and low on my steering column for its origin. Finally pulling over I took apart part of the dash and finally located a little piece of paper left as a gift, a parting reminder of their love for me and my kind.

Driving a little further I looked to see how far out of Gallup I was, to see if it was worth it for me to turn around and give them a piece of my mind, and noticed my odometer wasn't working, the product of a severed speedometer cable. Another gift. Boy do I feel blessed.