A flat tire, and an angel
Jul. 4th, 2006 10:18![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mapsedgeIt sounded like a gunshot. Or, perhaps more appropriately given the holiday, a firecracker. A loud POP from the left front wheel well.
We were on our way to buy fireworks for the July 4th family get-together / block party, and went to our usual place at 210 Hwy and 291. As I pulled onto 210, the van struck something in the road.
"Did it hurt the tire?" Michelle asked.
"Don't know," I said, "Since I can't see it while I'm driving."
We started to pull into one gravel parking lot, changed our minds and crossed the street to go to the same tent as last year. We parked, and as I got out, I heard it: a loud hissing. Going to the tire, the cause was clearly visible, dead center and on top: a small metal square shape, sitting like a malevolent coin on top of the tire. The air from inside the tire was escaping around it.
"Guess it did," was all I could think of to say. With both kids, we were a half hour's drive from home, and not driving anywhere.
I went about the process of removing the spare and the jack. Once the van was lifted, I started to remove the tire. A man came over. He owns the auto auction whose parking lot serves as the home for the fireworks tent. He supposed he could plug the hole and we'd be on our way.
In pulls a white pickup truck, driven by a middle aged black man who asks directions to another fireworks vendor. The truck has an air compressor, toolboxes along each side of the bed. "Tell you where you want to go," Auto-Auction man said, joking, "If you'll fix this man's tire."
"Got him a flat, does he?" the brown-skinned man said, getting out of his truck, missing or ignoring the joke in favor of the task. His hands, not large, were nonetheless stained and dirty, rough, calloused. His eyes wouldn't meet mine. I don't know if it was because he was uncomfortable with the difference in our race, or because he was tired after a long hard day, or if he's just one of those people who doesn't like looking others in the eye. He inspected the tire, and, finally making eye contact, started issuing directions to me to turn the wheel to the right and put the vehicle in neutral.
This is familiar ground for him, and he was in charge. I was grateful, and carried out the orders.
Once removed from the tread, the object was revealed as 3" long, 3/8" aluminum T-bolt. The air escaped from the tire in a rush. Auto-Auction man shook his head, saying, "Aw, shit...I can't plug that. Too big."
"Too big by half," agreed the black man. Turning to me, he said, "You take that off o' there and bring it on over t' the truck."
In half an hour, the tire was removed from the wheel using hand tools, patched from the inside, put back on the wheel, and back on the van. Through most of the job, it was raining lightly, but he didn't grumble or complain, just went about his work. He rose, rolled the newly patched and inflated tire to me saying, "Put 'er back on now."
"How much do I owe you? I don't have any cash, but I'll gladly write you a check, or buy you your fireworks."
He ignored the question. I got the tire back on the van, and he came over the look again for leaks. "Can I pay you for you time?" I asked again, and again, he walked away.
Once the van is back on solid ground, I ask again as he's putting away his tools. Finished putting away, he gets in his truck , and drives away. Maybe he wouldn't accept payment because he was off duty. Maybe because he had to improvise a little after finding his regular cements had dried up in the heat and wasn't confident of the patch. Maybe he didn't want to take money off a white man in a parking lot. I don't know.
I do thank God that the man just happened to pull into the parking lot we just happened to end up in after changing our minds about where to shop before the tire went completely flat. Maybe not an angel, maybe so, but I'm grateful.
We were on our way to buy fireworks for the July 4th family get-together / block party, and went to our usual place at 210 Hwy and 291. As I pulled onto 210, the van struck something in the road.
"Did it hurt the tire?" Michelle asked.
"Don't know," I said, "Since I can't see it while I'm driving."
We started to pull into one gravel parking lot, changed our minds and crossed the street to go to the same tent as last year. We parked, and as I got out, I heard it: a loud hissing. Going to the tire, the cause was clearly visible, dead center and on top: a small metal square shape, sitting like a malevolent coin on top of the tire. The air from inside the tire was escaping around it.
"Guess it did," was all I could think of to say. With both kids, we were a half hour's drive from home, and not driving anywhere.
I went about the process of removing the spare and the jack. Once the van was lifted, I started to remove the tire. A man came over. He owns the auto auction whose parking lot serves as the home for the fireworks tent. He supposed he could plug the hole and we'd be on our way.
In pulls a white pickup truck, driven by a middle aged black man who asks directions to another fireworks vendor. The truck has an air compressor, toolboxes along each side of the bed. "Tell you where you want to go," Auto-Auction man said, joking, "If you'll fix this man's tire."
"Got him a flat, does he?" the brown-skinned man said, getting out of his truck, missing or ignoring the joke in favor of the task. His hands, not large, were nonetheless stained and dirty, rough, calloused. His eyes wouldn't meet mine. I don't know if it was because he was uncomfortable with the difference in our race, or because he was tired after a long hard day, or if he's just one of those people who doesn't like looking others in the eye. He inspected the tire, and, finally making eye contact, started issuing directions to me to turn the wheel to the right and put the vehicle in neutral.
This is familiar ground for him, and he was in charge. I was grateful, and carried out the orders.
Once removed from the tread, the object was revealed as 3" long, 3/8" aluminum T-bolt. The air escaped from the tire in a rush. Auto-Auction man shook his head, saying, "Aw, shit...I can't plug that. Too big."
"Too big by half," agreed the black man. Turning to me, he said, "You take that off o' there and bring it on over t' the truck."
In half an hour, the tire was removed from the wheel using hand tools, patched from the inside, put back on the wheel, and back on the van. Through most of the job, it was raining lightly, but he didn't grumble or complain, just went about his work. He rose, rolled the newly patched and inflated tire to me saying, "Put 'er back on now."
"How much do I owe you? I don't have any cash, but I'll gladly write you a check, or buy you your fireworks."
He ignored the question. I got the tire back on the van, and he came over the look again for leaks. "Can I pay you for you time?" I asked again, and again, he walked away.
Once the van is back on solid ground, I ask again as he's putting away his tools. Finished putting away, he gets in his truck , and drives away. Maybe he wouldn't accept payment because he was off duty. Maybe because he had to improvise a little after finding his regular cements had dried up in the heat and wasn't confident of the patch. Maybe he didn't want to take money off a white man in a parking lot. I don't know.
I do thank God that the man just happened to pull into the parking lot we just happened to end up in after changing our minds about where to shop before the tire went completely flat. Maybe not an angel, maybe so, but I'm grateful.