The Flat

Stranded on a country road winding through the woods.  Worse, I didn’t have my cell phone.  By have, I mean I didn’t own a cell phone.  Most people didn’t carry cell phones back then, in yesteryear.  I’m that old.  I was all alone with my car on the side of the road.  No way to reach anyone, no idea how to fix my tire, no conception of where I was or where to walk for help.

Worst of all, I had clearly landed in a horror movie.  All I needed was a couple of drunk college kids with no fear and a camcorder.

Decision time.  Do I wait with my car, hoping to flag down a passing motorist, hopefully one with no criminal record or weapon?  Or do I set off down the road, with no phone or red hood, to find a gas station that could help?

After sitting in my non-air conditioned car for half an hour, the answer seemed obvious.  I got out of the car, standing up in my grey sweatpants and t-shirt, and double checked the doors were locked.  Then I double checked I had the keys.  Thankfully, I did.  Taking a deep breath to store up my courage, I set off.

Only five minutes into the walk, I looked up and there was a huge building.  Like a department store, but in the middle of nowhere.  There were cars.  And people.  Lots and lots of people swarming around the building, slowly making their way toward the front doors.  It took me only a moment to realize that every single person there was dressed up.  Not necessarily prom dress-level, but certainly fancier than my sweats.  As I walked down the long drive I came up to the cardboard sign advertising the golf tournament that day.

I had gotten a flat only a few blocks away from a country club. 

A church mid-wedding, a biker bar mid-brawl, there are certainly more uncomforable scenarios possible to wander into, ignorant and underdressed.  Still, I felt every smidgen of high school level confidence draining away.  Worse, I didn’t even know what I was going to ask. 

I couldn’t face the main doors, so turned to the side where I noticed a secondary door, opening directly into a shop.  What kind of shop, I have no idea.  My nerves vibrated so strongly I could only make out the middle aged man standing behind the counter.  “Hey.  My car got a flat tire… and I don’t know what to do.”  The man paused for a moment, clearly considering what, exactly, was wrong with me.  “Do you have a spare?”  I hesitated before responding “I don’t know.  How do you know if you have a spare?  Where would a spare be?”  This clearly wasn’t the answer he’d been hoping for.  His chest dropped as he sighed. “Usually they’re located in the trunk.”  “I’ve never seen a tire in my trunk.  I mean, it might be there.  Is the tire really obvious?  I certainly haven’t removed the tire from my trunk.  The car used to be my grandpa’s though, so maybe he did.  I’ve never checked.  How would you check to see if a tire was there?”  As I babbled on, the man realized the best solution was to get me out of his shop.  He called a teenage boy over and directed him to accompany me to my car.  Tall, on this side of lanky, the young man barely spared me a glance as he walked outside and got on a golf cart.  I hastened to catch up, once more babbling out my story of the flat, and my complete ignorance of spare tires.  Deciding it would be better not to engage the crazed girl sitting next to him on the cart seat, he didn’t respond, only asking for directions to my car. 

We drove down the long driveway, down the road, and there was my car, waiting patiently on the grass.  Getting down on his knees, the young man took a tire iron to the lug nuts.  “Man, these are really on tight.”  He strained as he pushed, but could only get the lug nuts to move incremental amounts.  “Sorry, I’m sure it was whoever put the tire on at the shop.”  Trying different lug nuts, he kept getting nowhere, and I stared at him trying.  Suddenly I remembered something my mom used to say, and I debated before speaking aloud.

“I think you’re suppose to turn it to the left.”