How to Change a Flat Tire

I was a little late getting in this morning. When I arrived at the shop, the folks on the retail side were talking, moving, getting into the flow of their day; I already knew what I would be doing: the gray ’87 needed buttoning up after a fraught but eventually successful transmission install; the white ’89 needed new front suspension components. I also wanted to get the rear suspension and brakes buttoned up in anticipation of its upcoming engine and transmission jobs.

Fifty-five years in, I’ve finally found my dream job, restoring Volkswagen Vanagons alongside a great group of people. It turns out, when you strip away all the bullshit, all the trappings, all the expectations, the cliché comes in hot: figure out what you love to do, and do it.

I went to a workbench with my coffee and blueberry muffin and began reviewing the boxes of parts and hardware on the floor, figuring out where to start the day. Up at the front of the shop, the door next to the front desk opened, flooding the gray space with sunlight.

A young woman walked in. She was around 5’2”, with black hair dyed in blue and purple streaks. She wore dark eye makeup, a black oversized jacket, black t-shirt, and black pants. I heard her speaking to our service writer.

“Yeah, I live right around the corner here, and, um, I have a flat tire. I don’t have a jack or anything so I was wondering if you guys have a jack or could help or anything?”

“Yes, we could take a look, we would need—”

I walked up and interrupted.

“Mornin.’ Where’s your car?”

“It’s right around the corner. I was saying I have a flat and don’t have a jack.”

“Let’s go take a look at it.”

The two of us exited the shop into the crisp March morning.

“Thank you so much,” she said. “I’m from Iowa originally and my dad and brother are car guys, they usually take care of this stuff for me but I’m here and they’re there.”

“No problem, we’ll see what you have and what we need to do,” I said. “How long have you been in Denver?”

“About a year. I love it here. It’s nice to be in a place where there’s so much going on.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a bartender. Good money.”

“Yep, I’m sure.”

“Are you from Denver?”

“No, I moved here thirty years ago from Louisiana. I’ve always liked it here, too.”

We arrived at her Honda CRV. The right front tire was completely destroyed.

“Let’s look in the back and see what we have,” I said.

She opened the trunk.

“Yep, here’s your jack, your lug wrench, and your spare. So you’ve never changed a tire?”

“No, I should probably learn how.”

“I had three rules for my daughters: always keep a chicken in the freezer, never trust anybody who doesn’t like The Beatles, and know how to change a flat tire.”

She laughed. “Good advice!”

I pulled the spare out and brought it around.

“Okay first you loosen the lugs while the wheel is still on the ground, like this.”

She watched intently.

“Underneath the car here, you see that little part sticking out?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s the jack point. Line up the jack right here and use this thing to turn the end of the jack. Always make sure your e-brake is on and you’re on fairly level ground and out of traffic. Got it?”

“Got it!”

We got the car off the ground, removed the flat tire, and put on the spare.

“Get the lugs snug, then let the jack down. Like this.”

I brought the car down.

“Now tighten the lugs like this.”

I stood on the lug wrench and pushed down, going around to each nut.

I put the flat tire in the back along with her jack and tools.

“So what are you going to do now?”

“I’m going to go get a new tire.”

“Good answer. Don’t be one of those people who rides around for months on a donut spare.”

“I won’t. I’ll do it right now. Thank you so much!”

We shook hands and I returned to the shop, telling the crew I’d taken care of it as I walked back to the gray ’87 to install its air filter housing. Leaning over the engine bay, I felt my stomach drop.

Not here.

She didn’t look like Megan, not her face, anyway. But she had the same chill, happy demeanor and possessed a similar style. She didn’t look like Megan, but she could have been Megan. I helped her out of a jam, not a big deal in the grand scheme of things, but now she knew how to change a tire.

Why wasn’t anybody like me there to help Megan when she needed it? Why wasn’t I there?

Enough.

I’ve learned to control it, to put it somewhere else, to write about it later. I forgot about the girl and her flat tire and went about my morning, working on Vanagons and listening to the Mexican mechanic’s club music.

Around noon, a recent client came in with his tricked-out ’84; it needed a new transmission mount. I did the quick job underneath and chatted with him while my coworker worked on his van’s shifter, which needed a slight adjustment.

The door at the front of the shop opened, flooding the gray space with light. It was my young friend from earlier. She held a paper plate with aluminum foil stretched over it.

“Hey there,” I said, walking over to her.

“Hi! Thank you for this morning. I went straight to the tire store and got a new tire and even got an oil change. I made these cookies for you. They’re chocolate chip caramel. I hope you like them.”

“Oh wow!”  I said. “That’s so sweet of you. And nice work on getting your car dialed in. And,”

“-And,” she said, “I know how to change my tire now. My dad said to say thanks.”

“My pleasure. If you need anything else—anything at all—you let me know.”

She handed me the plate.

“Oh damn, these are still warm!”

“I just pulled them out of the oven. I live right around the corner. Well, take care, see you later.”

“See you later. And thanks again.”

I shared a few of the cookies with my coworkers and the tricked-out Vanagon guy, then took the rest home at lunch. I admit I was far more touched than I should have been over a plate of cookies. But the sun was warmer. The day was better.

She wasn’t Megan. She was another young lady in need. I was able to help her. But not nearly as much as she helped me.

Perhaps these tired old skills, these tired old ideas, housed in this somewhat tired man, can still be useful. I can’t help Megan. But I can still help.