Blevins Tire

First. I honestly think this company is called «Phillip Blevins.» Rather than, «Blevins, Phillip.» I could always be wrong.
Here’s the scenario: Driving along, about seventy in a fifty, because, hey. Nice day, I’m on vacation, the family is singing along with the radio and we are blessedly beyond cell range. Whammo. I hit a chunk of steel in the road. Huh. We drive along, nothing seems wrong.
Later, I see that the tire is going flat. I drop off the girls, head back to the gas station and add some air. Anyplace nearby that could fix a tire, asks me. «Sure, take a left, first right, go two point nine miles, he’s on the right. BEST place around.» Go outside, add some air, yet another stranger adds, «Did you understand how to get there? It’s kinda in the middle of nowhere.» Oh, and I thought I already WAS in that location. «I won’t take my truck anywhere else in Ohio. BEST prices.» So, two referrals. I wander down some county road, past farms, hills, dales, hollers… There can’t be a business this far back in the sticks… Hey. Wait. There’s a bunch of cars.
«Primitive.» «Rustic.» «Homespun.» All these would be too fine, in their description. «Musty,» perhaps. «Unpaved,» certainly. «I’m sure glad my wife isn’t here to see this,» naturally. But the folks are nice, they put me about sixth on the list of repairs, and I take a seat in the waiting room. Two hours later, the mechanic comes out. «We couldn’t save that tire, so we put on a used tire. There’s no charge.» Ass sphincter says what? No, really what do I owe you? «Nothing. We just put a used tire on there.
Holy familial inbreeding. Now THAT is unusual. Guy from out of town, probably never see him again, and you toss him a comp? Now, I can die a happy man. Just not for a few more years. I have to finish The Iliad.