In my long life, I’ve changed dozens of flat tires, although it’s been a few years since the last one.
A few weeks ago, on a hot county road, I spotted a young lady looking perplexed as she stood by her fancy red car, which sported a flat tire.
I’m the kind of guy who stops and helps when a circumstance presents itself. I pulled over and hopped out (perhaps an overstatement) of my car and let her know I’d get her back on the road in a jiffy.
My first challenge: I can’t find where the spare tire is hidden. Secondly, where’s the jack? The trunk offers no hints. I try to look confident. The blond woman, with tattoos on both arms and legs, looks concerned.
With significant back pain, I struggle under the red sports car, looking for clues. I’m sweating profusely. My glasses fog up. I can’t see, and my swollen left knee gets stuck on the undercarriage of this dang car.
I hear a second car pull up. Two young guys spot me under the car. Tattoo girl explains she did not run me over. With considerable effort, they pull me out by my ankles. Within minutes, they have the little spare tire mounted, using this weird little contraction that doesn’t resemble a jack.
I limp back to my car. Drops of blood dot my pathway. The boys ask if I’m okay to drive. Tattoo girl gives me a bottle of water and almost thanks me for my efforts.
Humiliated? Hell, no.
Like Don Quixote, I will drive on, looking for another damsel in distress.
My buddy Mark