Blocked: A Tire-Taming, Mud-Trudging, Window-Wrangling Junkyard Quest
Subtitle: Always Bring Snacks… and Maybe a Block of Wood
Mom got paid, so Milo skipped the usual mad doordashing and instead declared it a "You Pull It" day—junkyard mission time. The goal: replace a tire with a bent rim and fix the cursed window control.
We stopped at Speedway for gas, and that’s when the window button—the one that had been hanging on by a thread—launched itself into oblivion. The little plastic piece snapped out like it had somewhere better to be. Milo called me over to fix it. I fiddled with it, no luck. “Well, Milo Love,” I sighed, “guess you’re gonna be a real wet blanket now.” He laughed. “Just like being a paper boy again.”
Drinks secured, course set, we headed out. There was gaming, chit-chat, and then: arrival. Except… no cash. We rerouted to Sheetz, yanked $10 from Milo’s PayPal, and circled back.
At the gate, I signed us in. As I handed over a ten, I noticed a card reader. “This new?” I asked. Nope. It had always been there. I decided then and there to lie to Milo and say it was brand new. Felt right, less fight.
The drizzle started up again. I adjusted my blue umbrella hat and began the hunt, red wheelbarrow in tow. The lot was a mess—shallow puddles, junk strewn everywhere, the usual post-apocalyptic vibe. I spotted a tire propped against a minivan, grabbed it. One down.
Tried the same van for the window control—no luck. I wasn’t about to lug that tire around like a gym bro with a dumbbell, so I left it by the barrow and wandered. Every van was either wrong or already scavenged. I checked the list again. Walked more. Vans blurred into each other. My back started to whine. I climbed into the back seat of a blue-and-gray Pacifica and sat there for a bit, like it owed me money and emotional support.
Milo and Mom kept me company on the phone. Milo got antsy. I spotted a kid’s sneaker under a seat and waved it like a weapon. “Careful, Milo, or I’ll shoe you with this.” He cracked up. Even Mom almost laughed.
I was ready to leave. Muttering about how I never wanted a Pacifica as I heaved my bad leg over the high door edge, I spotted a block of wood. Pocketed it for later. The shoe stayed.
I wandered deeper. Found a two-window control, no mirror switch. Might work. Kept looking. Row 212: jackpot. Mirror and two-window controls. My brain played Zelda victory music. I double-checked—good to go.
On the way back, I found a little copper pan under a car. Score. Bent but still good for eggs. I checked out—$46 down but with a tire and control in hand.
Back at the van, I swapped the switch with ninja speed. The window purred. Victory.
Tire and milk crate packed, I sipped my Powerade. All was well… until it hit me. Was that the same cursed tire from the green ’02 Caravan? The wrong one from before? I sat straight up in my seat from a slightly reclined position that had been helping my back. Milo’s head turned slowly, eyes narrow. “Don’t tell me…”
We stopped at Country Fair. Zanden Bomb confirmed. I had grabbed the exact same wrong tire I tossed last time. “Mother f-bomb, Zan! Why didn’t you ask me?” “I thought I did?” Nope. Mom confirmed it. My bad.
I called the yard. The owner picked up. “Umbrella hat girl?” he said. “Yes sir.” Long pause. Then—miracle. “We normally don’t allow tire exchanges, but I’ll make an exception.”
Milo cursed under his breath as we turned around. He forgave me halfway there. When we pulled up and I walked through the doors leading to the lot, I stopped dead. The lot had changed. In just an hour, it looked like someone ran a weather simulation and lost control. Puddles had turned into ponds—one even looked like a crater-turned-lake, big enough to sail across if I were cat-sized. A forklift had shifted the concrete. I stood there staring for a second, then sighed and resumed the quest, wheelbarrow rattling.
I stepped into mud up to my arch. Gross. Gave my foot a cat-like shake. “What happened?” they asked. “Nothing. Just a wet foot.”
I’d learned the layout now. Dodge and Chrysler—check. Most tires too small. Spotted a promising one. Wrong socket size. I left the barrow as a marker and kept searching.
More caravans. All wrong. Too small. Too big. I was a chubby Goldilocks with back pain—make that agony. I gave up and stormed off to grab the socket I should have brought. Found it—my trusty double-header, 19 and 21mm—and the hammer. I also grabbed the 7/8” socket—normally a truck size, but I wasn’t taking chances. Snagged the milk crate too. I was going in for the final round.
Row 403. I returned like a battle-hardened vet. I set my tools in the barrow. Sat on the crate like a queen.
Socket fit like a glove. I paused. Would this tire actually work? I consulted ChatGPT—automotive edition. It said yes, probably, just double-check the clearance. Good enough.
Buzz—one custom lug off. Considered keeping them until I saw the spider nest. Nope. Not bringing home eight-legged stowaways. Buzz—tire off.
Threads looked okay, not like the one I returned, which was almost new, but it had plenty of miles left. Tossed it in the barrow. Halfway back, a bump knocked it loose. I sighed and muscled it back in.
Barrow bounced. Puddles splashed. My foot slid clean off a hidden ledge, plunging ankle-deep into a thankfully warm puddle. Balanced one second, submerged the next. No time for a dramatic shake or shriek—just quiet, resigned horror.
Doors opened like sci-fi airlocks. The yard guys saw me. I gave them a tired smile. “Mission accomplished.” They smiled back.
I loaded up, flopped in the van. Milo looked at me. “Always an all-day affair.” I nodded. He knew.
Iced coffee was still iced. Thank you, Styrofoam.
“Home, Milo.”
He pulled out. I drained the coffee. He talked about dashing. I didn’t listen. The adventure was over. Cue credits.
Oh, and the block of wood? Perfect hand size. Milo asked why I brought it.
“So I can block you with it.”
“Huh?”
I fetched it from where I tossed it on the dash, pressed it to his arm.
“BLOCKED.”