The evening began like any other: I went to Des Moines to see Nickelby, and drove back at a leisurely pace of 70mph. Things were fine until about 10 o’clock, just a few miles from the Ames exit on 35. At that point, there was a huge bang: my left rear tire.
The car limped to the shoulder and I assessed my options. As luck would have it, I had neglected to grab either my gloves or cellular phone on the way out. With the temperature at a brisk 2°F with windchill, those omissions were seeming less than smooth. I checked my wallet and confirmed my AAA card expired four days ago, so my plan to siphon enough gas to spell out the letters ‘CALL AAA’ and set it afire was out.
So it was time to consult the manual. After flipping through the first few pages, which inexplicably gave me the history of the oPPBuick Motor Division (maker of cars that are “SUBSTANTIAL”, “DISTINCTIVE”, “POWERFUL”, and “MATURE”) I found the page giving me instructions on what to do in case of a flat. First I was to pull over to level ground (bummer if you get a flat in the mountains, I guess) and “everything you’ll need is in the trunk.”
I popped the trunk — light was out, natch — and lifted some stuff out to uncover the tire flap. Except, hello, what’s this? An aerosol-ish can labeled Gold Eagle Tire Inflator & Sealant. Now this was promising! Maybe I didn’t have to change a tire barehanded in the butt-ass cold after all. I retired to the interior of the car to read the tiny type.
Apparently, whatever they put in that junk is some sort of freaky chemical, because it comes with a little warning (“flammable”) sticker to place on the tire after you’ve used it. Naturally, freaky chemical doesn’t work when it’s below freezing, so they recommend placing the can on your heater vent (“DO NOT use a flame.”)
So I did that. Waited. Listened to bad radio music (“Waiting for Tonight.”) Waited some more.
Then I grabbed the can and shook it. The effect was something like a Slurpee that had been left in the freezer, then thawed for a brief time. I flipped the can over to read the temperature clause again and noticed the tire’s outlet should be at “5 or 7 o’clock.” Took a gander. Mine was at 12:20. I slipped the car into gear and ever, ever so gently rolled forward what I thought would be a half-revolution. 10:45. I gave it another go. 9:00. Fuck it.
By this time, of course, I became aware that I had to pee like nothing else. So I shook up the slushy super chemical, twisted that sucker on, took a look up and down the highway and disappeared down the side.
I was relieved when I came back up, but not for long. The “super” chemical wasn’t. I pushed, turned, held, pulled. Other than a few tricks of light from the passing semi-trailers, nothing doing on the ol’ tire. I threw the can — which henceforth will be known as Useless Chemical — into the trunk. Then I lifted up the tire cover and unscrewed the jack. After some groaning, it came free.
Next was the tire itself. I twisted the massive butterfly thing to a certain point, but then it would go no more. I tried throwing my weight behind it, but no luck. I decided to slip in the passenger side of the car, warm up, and regroup.
The manual was just as I remembered it: useless. The remove-the-tire stage was a single photo and caption. I put the book down in disgust. Then I noticed the high-mounted lights close in my rearview.
What was this? A helpful trucker? No, it’s a… sheriff. I got in the car of Deputy Brian T. and he ran my license just to be sure we could be friendly. Oh my, could we ever: he was pretty hot, with a clean-cut look and some nice little glasses that were working for him. “Would you like me to call a tow truck?” Brian asked, helpfully. I was digging the warmth of his car, but not so much that I was going to wuss out.
“That’s OK,” I said. “I think I’m just going to give it a go.” Okay, he said. He’d be right here to watch. I exited and went back to give the thingy another twist. It was truly going nowhere. I managed to get Brian to take a look. He bent over into the trunk (the uniform was working, too) and gave it some heave. Nothing. “It’s rusted,” Brian pronounced. “Some WD-40” would probably do the trick. Alas, there was none in his car. The “donut” was not coming out.
We repaired to the interior of his cruiser — Impala, not Crown Vic (“I guess they went with a Chevy because it’s cheaper. I like the Crown Vics, though”) — and he radioed in to “44” that the “subject” was going to need a tow. With a little time to kill, we got to chatting. Brian has two kids, 2 and 4-nearly-5. He works an 11-to-7 shift and will sleep at 7 if they have a sitter, otherwise might not be until 2:30. He’s got two radios, one that does statewide (troopers) and one regional where he can pick up Ames PD and the like. No computer, but that’s fine with him because he likes having people sit up front. That way, after awhile you can smell if they have alcohol on their breath. (Many people smoke when they drink, so it’s hard to get a reading right away.)
About this time the tow appeared, and I met J.R., a young, trim guy in a blue do-rag, Carhartt jeans and cowboy boots. J.R. (I got his name from a sewn patch on his work shirt, of course) told me I had two options: he could put on the donut “and you can still drive tonight” or he could tow it. I told him to give the temporary a try. He leaned deep into the trunk, the upper half of his lithe body tensing as he threw some weight into the twisty thing. Nothing. Some more efforts. Nope. A flashlight, a change of position. Nuh-uh. I was enjoying the view, but it wasn’t going anywhere.
J.R. tried a little kicking, but even that didn’t work. By this point, my options became one: tow the beast. So that we did. I swung up into the truck and we swung out into the lane. Deputy Brian, bless his heart, had watched us the whole time and ran interference as we re-entered the highway.
“Bye, Brian,” I said as the cruiser pulled away. “Oh, was that Brian ——?” asked J.R. It was. The two had worked together before. “He seemed like a nice guy,” I said. He is, J.R. agreed. Then, to the tune of Randy Travis‘ “A Man Ain’t Made of Stone,” we cruised to the service station. J.R. seemed to relax. We talked about his work — roughly the same hours as Brian, turns out — and then a little bit about his background. He went to ISU as ag business, got started doing the service station work part time and “I just loved it,” he said. He did a lot of partying when he was in school, he said, and all of his important learning took place outside the classroom.
Like Brian, he asked after my own studies. As with the other, I dodged the question and returned to the speaker, because both these guys were friendly, relaxed, and enjoyed what they did. It was actually refreshing, and after J.R. dropped me off at the apartment, I realized that I had genuinely enjoyed their company.
Too bad it took me a hundred bucks and two freezing hours to have it.
