Flat Tire Blues

Sorry about the tardiness of writing, but I've still been reeling over the events of Saturday night.

Saturday was a busy day, as my teacher training for Downward Dog started up. Yes I know, Jee you're in another teacher training, but the quality of instruction here is so damn high - and it's a great learning opportunity!

After slugging through 5 hours of yoga, going back to the first principles of sun salutation A's (everything in Ashtanga yoga is right there in the sun salutes - you just have to really look), I was more than ready to pick Hilary up at the airport. Hooray! She's coming home!

Hustling down the stairs, I realized that I was on the verge of being late. I hurriedly brushed the snow off the truck, but our parking stall is so freaking tight (see previous blogs) that I couldn't clean the windows on the right hand side. In the best of times, getting the truck out is a stunning display of timing, steering and spatial relations. When the back alley is covered in snow, and you can't see out of half the windows, it's damn near impossible. My sixth sense was screaming at me that I was going to tear the side mirror off, so I stopped and try to see-saw the other way.

I hear a loud chunk emanate from the back of the truck, but I pass it off as the bumper scraping.

With much cursing, and evil thoughts directed towards our cheapskate landlord, I eventually get the Nissan onto the main roads. Hang a right down Bathurst, and just as I was crossing Queen St, the truck's back end started to move funny. Huh? I pull over by the Pizza Pizza on the corner, and get out. My first thought was that snow had filled the wheel wells, but when I got a good look at my back right tire, my eyes bulged and my heart sank.

There was my rear tire slashed in 2 places. The truck had been driving on its rim for 100 feet.

That "thunk" in the alley, I slowly realise, was a piece of metal on the fence post cutting my tire to pieces.

HOW THE HELL AM I GOING TO GET HIL FROM THE AIRPORT?!?

***

There's a common design flaw in vehicles these days, where the spare tire is placed underneath the vehicle. To get at that spare, you usually have to collect a whole bunch of under-designed parts, and then stick a rod through a tiny hole, which will hopefully line up with an even tinier nut, which you then pray to sweet Jesus will catch as you spin.

It was hopeless. There I was, with a dead truck at night, in one of the main intersections in downtown Toronto. Snow is falling, the streets are covered in brown slime, and everywhere people are looking at me. I feel a scream welling up in my throat. My visions of picking up my girlfriend and having a nice relaxing evening are dashed - instead, now I have to figure out how to move this truck, before it gets impounded. A weird guy tries to help me, and throws some cardboard down, but after a while he gives up.

***

After twenty minutes, I realize that the truck will never move. I run home and call my dear friend Rob Frede, out in Etobicoke. Fortunately Rob was free for the evening, and was able to pick Hil up at the airport. In the meantime, I started making phone calls. CAA had a blistering fast response time of 48 hours for new members (thanks guys!), so I then started flipping through the yellow pages. Abrams towing promised to be there in an 20 minutes.

I'm beginning to learn that in Toronto, promises are cheap.

While Rob soon brought Hil home safe and sound, there wasn't much of a happy reunion. I was so down - how the hell am I going to pay $50 for a tire change, or $75 for the tow, and however much it'll cost for a new tire? I have harsh, irrational thoughts race through my head - about how much I hate this fucking place - how it can be so mean and fucking impossible to get ahead.

***

After waiting 2 plus hours for Abrams "20 minute quick pick-up", I decide to take matters into my own hands. I grab my toolbox, some WD40, a hammer, and hustle down to Queen St. There's the Nissan, hood flipped up, hazard lights flashing, still sitting on it's lowly rim.

The bouncer at the closest club, Healeys (owned by blind-bluesman Jeff Healey), lets me borrow his valet's orange pylons. At least now, I won't get run over by a cabbie making a quick right hand turn onto Queen.

And magically, things start to turn around.

The bouncer shows up with a shovel and offers to scrape the snow away. He was worried that the jack would slip out on me. I thank him as he shovels the sludge away, "I'm still miles away from getting at the spare tire, but thanks for your help!", I tell him.

"No problem" says the bouncer, "Just bring the pylon back when you're done".

He shakes his head when I tell him that the spare is buried underneath the truck. "Those things are impossible to get at."

I pull out the floor mats, and get on the old soggy cardboard. It's official now, I'm on my back in the black mud of Queen Street. I try spraying WD40 and bashing the spare tire loose with the hammer. It doesn't budge. I hit it some more.

Then I hear a voice and see an upside down face, "Hey - do you need a hand? I used to be a tire tech!"

Tire tech?!? More like an angel! I slide out from under the truck and meet my saviour, "Man, I could use whatever help you could give me."

"Sure!"

"I can't get the tire out from underneath..."

"I've worked on these things before, they're an absolute bitch." In the haze of the street lights, I get a better look at the guy helping me out. He's an older scruffy dude, with a beat up jacket, a scarf and a hoody, and like a lot of folks in this area, he's poor.

Together, the two of us being to work seamlessly. He throws his jacket into the back and slides under the truck. I run to get more floor mats to slide under him, so he doesn't get too dirty. With divine skill, he's able to guide the jack rod through 30 inches of blind metal, into the nut. I start spinning like crazy, and he starts hacking away at the tire. Back and forth we work, until eventually, the tire saint frees the wheel from the bowels of the truck. I pull it from his hands and let it fall on the sidewalk with a clunk.

"Holy shit! I can't believe we got it out!" I'm grinning from ear to ear as I pull the tire saint to his feet. We're now 2 guys officially bonded through working with our hands

"That goddamn mechanism is so corroded, you should soak that thing in oil!" he suggests,

"I was thinking more like leaving the spare in the back of the truck. I ain't dealing with that ever again"

"The mechanism wasn't even working, " he exclaims, "the only thing holding the tire in place was rust."

Knowing that momentum was on our side, we throw ourselves back at the truck. Next step, guide the jack under the truck. The tire saint goes under again to place the stupid thing, and I start spinning the handle madly. At the same time, he goes back and starts unscrewing the lug nuts.

We keep a running litany of the evils of modern truck design, as well as telling small details of our lives. I admit to the tire saint about how I've just moved to the city. He tells me how he's out of work right now, but used to be a dry-waller.

Ten minutes later we've got the thing licked.

I marvel at how much we've done, without even knowing each other's names. I take off my soaked gloves and shake the tire saint's hand, "My name's Jeff".

"My name's Dave" He introduces me to his girlfriend, this older woman huddled in a sports jacket, who'd been watching our efforts.

"Can I buy you a beer?" I offer

"Nope, I don't drink."

"Then how 'bout I score you some flow..."

"Man, whatever you could help me with, would be just great" he smiles,

"Kay, give me a sec!"

I run into Healeys, down the stairs to the closest ATM. I pull out forty bucks - the best forty bucks I've spent all week - forty bucks for restoring my faith in people - a bargain.

I snag Dave outside, and give him the bills. He's classy, and just puts it in his pocket without looking at it.

"Thanks so much!"

"No, thanks for your help Dave! You saved my ass!" I give him a big smile,

"I'll catch you around..."

We nod. With that, we part ways.