LESSONS LEARNED
Honey, Just Learn How to Change a Tire
Yikes!
It was a hot, humid August weekday morning the summer before I was to start college. I was driving with my sister to Long Island’s Jones Beach via the Grand Central Parkway when we got a flat tire. No cell phones back then, and neither of us knew how to change a flat. We pulled over on the shoulder far enough off the highway to avoid the risk of getting hit by traffic.
Spotting an emergency phone about 50 feet away, we went to call for help. No luck; the phone was broken. The next exit was two miles away, as was the previous exit. Since it was my car, we decided I would stay while my sister set off on a two-mile walk to call my father.
Trying to stay out of the heat, I sat in my old Chevy. It was too hot; I got out. Just as I opened the door, a guy who looked to be a few years older than me, driving a beat-up VW bug, pulled over, got out, and walked towards me. He looked ravaged, ruffled, and frankly, a bit dangerous. He came a bit too close. There was an odd look on his face; his foul breath smelled like yesterday’s breakfast. I backed away. Pressing up closer, he said he would fix my flat.
I told him I didn’t want his help; my father and sister were on the way. He said that since he was already there, he insisted on changing the tire. Against my wishes, he opened the trunk, pulling out my spare, the jack, and a wrench.
He quickly changed the tire, while I nervously hoped my father and sister would arrive soon. Finished, he stood up. I noticed that his pants were pushed out horizontally below his belt line. Huh! I started to panic.
Turning towards me, wielding my wrench, he asked me to bend over and check the tire. Not wanting to turn my back on him, let alone bend over in front of him, I muttered, “The tire looks fine.”
I tried to walk past him to get close to the road, but he blocked me. Raised in New York City, I thought I could handle anything until this. Grabbing my arm with one hand while still holding my wrench in his other, he tried to steer me toward the trees farther off the road. As I struggled, his now evident erection got bigger. Failing to get me to the trees, he pushed me against my car. I was in trouble. Where were they?!?
Finally, I saw my father and sister driving towards us.
“Dad!”
The ragged man with the foul breath turned and ran back to his VW. My father jumped out of his car, saw the look on my face, ran over, and tried to grab the creep. “Watch out; he’s still got my wrench!”
The punk threw the wrench at my father, jumped in his car, and sped away as fast as a VW bug could speed, but not before we got his plate number.
Running back to me with a look of dread, my father saw I was shaken. I told him I was okay.
Off we went to the police station to report the incident, where a gruff, burly, and unsympathetic cop said to me, “Honey, just learn how to change a tire.”
I did.
