Sometimes we are given information that we ignore. It’s like someone up there likes us and is trying to get critical information to us, but we expect to be told openly, when the source likes symbolic language. .
Let me explain. My daughter and I decided to go out for supper last Sunday evening.
“We could go to Papa’s Restaurant,” she said. “They’ve got a really good salad, and chili soup I love.”
“I like the minestrone,” I said. “A good veggie-based soup.”
“Are you just going to eat veggies?” she said. “You need some protein.”
“I like veggies,” I replied. “Beef tastes good, but makes me feel gorged. I never did like the taste of chicken, but enjoy a good fish sandwich every now and then, but now I want two eggs, over medium, with grits. And a small tossed salad.”
”So, let’s ride by the Fork,” I continued, “to see if they are back from vacation yet.” I paused. “If not, we’ll go to Papa’s.”
“That’s OK with me,” she said. “I like the Fork too.”
Usually I go the back way, past the Bingo parlor, and the Cowboy Store, then parking where I can see Jon, cooking ,through the plate glass window. But this time, I decided to come in from the front. I did so, turning in about two feet before I should have, to hit the curb with an awful clunk , as I mounted, then passed over the concrete.
I don’t remember what I said as the car pitched to the right, but I do remember that the right front wheel was crunching asphalt by the time we pulled in to the side of the restaurant. We jumped out to see that the concrete had indented the metal of the aluminum rim, indexing a gash in the passenger side tire, wide enough to thrust two fingers into.
“Lord help us,” I asked, as I thrust two fingers into the breach.
“Well, they’ll never patch that tire,” I sighed, wiping the black dust off my fingers. I paused then said, “But there’s no use spoiling our meal. Let’s go inside and eat, then we’ll come back and I’ll change the tire.”
“You sure?” she said.
“I’m sure” I answered. “I’m upset at messing up my tire, but we came here to eat and that’s what we’re gonn do.” We’ll have plenty of time to put the spare on, before dark.
So we went in and ordered, a cheese omelet and sweet tea for Tara, two eggs over light , grits, toast and salad for me. By the time we finished eating I noticed the darker sky getting, so we walked outside to change the tire.
I opened the trunk, pulled out the baby spare, the jack and the lug wrench , carried the jack and wrench to the damage site, then opened the glove box to pull out the owners manual— when a 2 x 3 inch chrome decal jumped out and fluttered to the floor.
“This won’t take long,” I told Tara, as I put the decal back, then opened the manual to see that the jack should be placed next to the underbody a few inches behind the wheel well, where the sheet metal had been overlapped and welded. I set the jack, and began to crank its 3/8ths inch handle, to raise the car high enough to take the stress off the lug bolts, then shoved the bent — shaft lug wrench against the upper-right lugnut.
Each time I pushed the wrench against the lugnut, it would not go on well, so when I tried to turn the wrench it slipped off.
“No problem,” I said. “ I’ll break the other nuts loose and then coax this trouble maker off. “
In an act of faith, Tara brought the baby spare tire from the place I had laid it near the trunk.
“These lugs have been put on with an air wrench,” I said, standing on the manual wrench shaft and jumping to get enough torque to break the second lug loose.
The rest of the lugs were as tight as No. 2, so I jumped on the wrench shaft to break them loose ; I jacked the car until the tire cleared the asphalt, then removed those four lugs.
Now it was time to go back to the trouble maker. I could wiggle the aluminum rim a little, to take the pressure of the offending nut. But the wrench never caught hold, so the trouble maker did not budge.
“I have never been stranded this way before,” I said.
Just then, Jon, the night manager of the Restaurant came over with a real lug wrench, the monstrous cross-shaped type, with four wrench heads and enough right angle leverage to move a tank.
But no matter how Jon tried, he couldn’t get the wrench to grip the nut, for even his monster wrench was not equal to the task
“My wrench is a little bent,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
He returned with one of his assistants, who was carrying a monster wrench whose wrench heads were perfectly straight.
He couldn’t get the wrench to seat either.
“I hate for you to have to leave your car here,” Jon said. “At night it’s pretty grim.”
“Nothing else to do,” I said. Tara and I thanked them for their help.
“What are we going to do, Dad?” she asked as they left.
“Call Mark to come get us,” I said. I’ll get the car to the tire place in the morning.
Around 7 a.m. the next morning, I realized there had been a very important message in the decal that had been thrust from the glove box — for it bore the three bold red “A’s” — the emblem of the American Automobile Association, who provided free tows for members like me. Though my windshield bore the decal, I had never even thought of AAA because I have never actually had to call them before now.
Later that morning, I caught a ride to the restaurant, where I called AAA, and a blessed wrecker came to rescue me in the 95-degree heat, to pull my car onto the roll back, and haul us both to the tire place.
When we got to the tire place, we found that the lug wrenches would not engage the nut because it had been deformed by an air wrench. The sales guy said I had a bad lugnut, which he had to cut it off.
When I explained no one but his shop had ever touched those lugnuts— with the unspoken message that one of his mechanics had goobered up the lugnut, when he rotated the tire— he paid for the lug.
My carelessness cost me the price of a new tire, and a wait of more than 18 hours to get my car back. My inattention to the symbol thrust from the glovebox kept me from calling AAA for help that Sunday evening, as I ignored the sticker which blew out of the glovebox, to show me a way to Divine Assistance.
Leon Smith is a regular contributor to The Anson Record. He can be reached at leonsmithstories@gmail.com.