Sitting in the waiting room of a tire store on the least comfortable chairs I've ever encountered was not how I imagined my Saturday morning. Predator is on AMC, or at least I think it is Predator. I've never actually been aware of watching the film though I know my mother frequently watched it when I was a child.

Ah, Arnold just shouted "get to the chopper." It's Predator. Despite his unique voice, Schwarzenegger looks shockingly understated on screen. But I'll be honest, I'm more focused on keeping my laptop from sliding off my bag in these slick, Armor All-saturated chairs than I am on the aesthetic dimness of Predator. Still though, waiting here is more enjoyable than yet again being compelled to defend the existence of transgender people. That's how the day started....

On Thursday, my front driver's side tire popped off its rim in the middle of a freak snow storm. The temperature plummeted to 19 on cue, leaving me woefully unprepared and fumbling with a jack without gloves or a coat. My wife did most of the work in the end, my grip strength is not great on warm days, and without gloves I was functioning fingerlessly. Without her I'd likely have walked home in that same biting cold.

That's why I'm in this tire shop. They seem to think it is repairable and I hope it's true.

Wait, the Predator's camouflage is damaged by water? What a marvel of intergalactic design.

I like the sound of pneumatic drills. The buzz and hum sounds productive, despite the not-uncommon result of lug bolts cross-threading on tires and being impossible to remove. The scent of rubber mingles with the acrid tang of burnt industrial coffee as the little TV showing Predator grows inexplicably louder. Suddenly this often bustling shop feels oddly empty. A man leans against the counter up front and is appraising me, slumped over a keyboard and existing in a state of hazy, transitional gender.

That's happening more now, older men in particular appraising the state of my masculinity. He's trying to convince the man at the counter to sell him used tires that he can, again, resell. He's confident this will work despite that this store we're both frequenting sells used tires with the added benefit of putting them on for you. This angle is backwoods hustle and the weekend passion of older, largely bored, Arkansan men looking to make a buck and call themselves industrious. My grandfather would make saddles, jewelry, and sculptures out of wire to satisfy the same need to "piddle" on a brisk Saturday.

I suppose I'm doing the 21st century equivalent of this. Rather than roam the land for tires to sell or leather to work, I'm peering into a tiny screen and whiling away the minutes and inevitable hours spent in waiting rooms through writing. All the while I'm aware of the becamouflaged glances of the men around me who fit the archetype of Arkansan male. When you think about the south, you think of these men in their layered camo jackets, their battered but trusty work boots, and their wind-chapped skin and calloused hands. Even on a good day I could not pass for male in this company. Even the young men working the shop carry themselves with more machismo than most cisgender men I interact with on a daily basis.

Tire shops, garages, these are bastions of the certain type of man we don't see much outside of them. There's more of them now, each one bringing a different degree of cacophony. The shop once felt empty is now overflowing with the essence of outmoded commonality and their unrefined, boisterous voices.

Oh, Christ. I forgot my old name is still on my tire account. That was just shouted out here.... I didn't recognize it as mine until all the trucker hats in the room turned and peered into my soul with a burning look of 'woman.'

All of that to ask what happened to my tire. Back to waiting I go but now with the distinct discomfort of being clocked. I'd been clocked the entire time but now there is a present and suffocating feeling of observation turned into revulsion. It's confusion, but the extrapolations of minds eager to find an outsider and alienate them trend toward hostility more often than not. I am an outsider here but like the others I am reliant upon the skills of others and in this we should be equal. But one noun has broken the illusion of peace.

The man seated to my left wants to say something about my shoes. They're bootleg flyknits and I can tell he knows they're not genuine. It's amusing, he's the one who's been staring at me the most but unlike the rest of the rugged men around us, his focus is on the details. He wants to see my screen, he wants to understand and inquire but is uncomfortable. He's between these worlds, between mine and that of the tobacco-chewing, coffee swilling men around us. Every time my eyes casually dart his way his posture stiffens, he recoils into a church-like propriety. But he can't shake the feeling he knows more than he realizes. I moved my foot again and his eyes dart to my shoes.

His shoes are quite nice. They're well-kept Nikes though I'm not staring long enough to get more details. They are better kept than the rest of his wardrobe for sure. And he knows it makes him different in a sea of heavy jackets and nondescript cologne. That dedication to his footwear is the rip in the veil.

Predator just ended. Now it's Eraser. Another Schwarzenegger film I haven't seen. The man leans in and I can feel him about to utter the question he’s wrestled with for the better part of an hour.

My old name blares over the din once more and they hand me my keys. I wasn't charged for the tire, at least.