MIRACLE OF THE MUNDANE

I had always feared I would get a fiat tire, but had never gotten one. That particular misfortune happened to other people. I would see them on the side of the road, doing their thing, and think, “That hasn’t happened to me. It might. I should rehearse, because I haven’t the foggiest idea what to do. I should really address it someday.” But I never did.

So there I was, driving from Washington to Williamsburg to play golf, when I heard something. I was listening to a Bach cello suite. I turned up the volume. But I still heard something. I looked at the cars on either side of me and figured the noise had to be coming from one of them. My car was relatively new and in fine shape. But the noise persisted, louder. It was me. I pulled over and slowed the car to a jog.

I didn’t know much about cars, but I knew I had a flat tire. There was an exit — the “West Point” exit, 20 miles from Williamsburg — and I took it. The sign said an Exxon was near. I determined to get to it, even if it meant totally ruining the tire, because I wanted, needed, people nearby when I stopped. If I couldn’t get there, I would hitchhike, then call a friend, already in Williamsburg, to tell him that I’d miss that afternoon’s round and that I required his help.

Understand, now, that up until then you could sooner have asked me to assemble a spaceship than change a tire. That had been the rap against me — humanist, you know, without an ounce of practical sense. A co-worker at a golf course once said, “That boy may read a lot, but he doesn’t know to come out of the rain.” Another friend said, describing a certain appreciation of comfort, “Jay’s idea of roughing it is going a day without MacNeil-Lehrer and Nestle’s Chocolate Quik.” The stigma was not undeserved.

I limped into the Exxon and came to a halt. This wasn’t a “service station” — those seem to be extinct — but a convenience store with some pumps outside. I approached the woman at the counter: “I have a flat: Can someone here help me?” No. “Well, is there any place around that could help?” Not on Sunday. She asked whether I had a spare tire. I blushed to answer, “I don’t know, really. I don’t think so. But if I do, do you have a jack?” No.

I then remembered the car salesman’s giving me a tour of the vehicle. I thought he had shown me a spare. I looked. Do you know that there is a compartment underneath your golf clubs that contains a spare tire? Of course you do, because now that I do, everyone does. And not only that, there was a jack — brand new, apparently standard issue.

Great. Now that I had the necessary parts, all I had to do was find someone to change the tire and pay him. Only there was no obvious candidate. And selfreliance called. A spooky determination settled over me: I was going to change that tire — me, no one else — and furthermore I was going to do it well.

There were instructions on the compartment cover, and I was actually excited, grateful for the chance to prove something. The wrench unfolded as it should have, and I got the hubcap off. Step One, finished. Loosening the bolts came next, and then it was time to raise the car. The instructions here were murky — the illustrations as poor as the text — but I got daylight between the tire and the asphalt. The fiat came off, and I rolled it to the side. Merit badges were due. I was cocky, greasy, and fired with mission. With time, I slid the spare on, tightened the bolts, and lowered the car to the ground, pulsing with accomplishment.

I strode into the store, smiled at the lady (“Yes, turned out I had a spare and a jack, ma’am — no problem”), bought a root beer, and went on my way — unflummoxed, undeterred, and unhelped, except by God, and a desire to be rid of a hindering suggestion of inability. I was close to smug, having undergone a rite of passage that conferred a new virility and a new confidence.

It’s nice to translate a Petrarch sonnet, sure, but it’s nicer to master the elementary and not to have to depend on the kindness of friends or access to professionals. Truly, I could not have felt more satisfied — not if I had been invited to join the French Academy, not if I had won the Masters (well, attended the Masters). I had gotten a fiat, taken care of it, and proceeded. I want to do it again.

JAY NORDLINGER