Mr Fixit to the rescue of deflated ego
28th September, 2007
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It wasn't particularly large for a Brisbane pothole and the first indication of its existence was a thump as the wheel of the car passed over it. The end of the day was nigh and as I pulled into the shopping centre car park, potholes were a distant consideration - a bottle of wine, a snuggle with the missus and a feet-up, pre-dinner glass in front of the six o'clock news being a more immediate thought.
I had just left the bottle shop when I noticed my car seemed to be having a rest, assuming the nose-down attitude of a person leaning on one elbow. Could this, I wondered, have anything to do with the fact that the front left tyre was now square at the bottom? Karma, I thought, for only a few weeks had passed since, in retaliation for having had a parking space stolen, I had let down the offender's tyres. Perhaps she had somehow discovered my identity and had been following me for the past few weeks, awaiting a chance to swoop and take revenge. Resisting the temptation to smash my bottle of wine over the bonnet of the car and catch a cab home, I did what men do best in such situations: put my hands on my hips and stared at the flat tyre, willing it to reinflate. It refused, so I dropped down on one knee and inspected it, noticing a large split in the tyre wall. The bloody pothole, I thought. Changing tyres is one of those tasks at which men are supposed to be adept. Like barbecuing steaks, washing the dog and cutting the lawn, it's a "bloke thing". I was aware by now that passers-by were eyeing off the flat tyre and treating me to the odd snigger. Action, obviously, was required. "I'm so glad I decided to wear a white shirt today," I muttered as I dragged the spare out of the boot, extricated the jack and consulted the owner's manual. "Chock the wheels," it said. What what? I thought, not being in the habit of travelling with a set of handy wheel chocks. What was I supposed to do? Ask a couple of locals if they'd mind being human chocks and lying behind the rear wheels of my car while I changed the front tyre? Forget the chocks. So I double-checked the handbrake was on and the transmission in "Park" and, lying flat on my stomach, placed the jack under the car - taking care to lower my shirtfront into a grease patch - and started to jack it up. Nothing to it, I thought as the car started to levitate. I'd already loosened the wheel nuts and in so doing had covered my hands in grease which I then smeared across my face as I wiped sweat from my eyes. "This is way too much fun," I groaned, pulling off the wheel and grabbing the spare. Ten minutes, I thought to myself, and I'll be home and this incident will be but a memory. I was already imagining how I'd relate the story to my wife when I got home later that evening. "Got a flat tyre today but changed it in ten minutes. Nothing to it - if you know what you're doing." I was savouring this thought when there was an ominous creaking noise. A nanosecond later, the jack collapsed into a twisted pile and the car crashed to the ground. Or it would have crashed to the ground if I hadn't been holding the spare which, as disaster engulfed me, I pushed into the wheel well where it jammed, pinned by the car. Oh God, I thought. I had no jack and the spare was stuck in the wheel well and it would be dark soon. Apart from this, everything was peachy. I rang my wife.
"You wouldn't have Steve's number, would you?" I asked causally, Steve being her former neighbour and a man blessed with the ability to repair anything.
Steve, bless him, turned up half an hour later and changed the tyre in five minutes. I related my sad tale to my wife that evening. She made the observation that Steve and I made a good pair.
"He's Mr Fixit," she said.
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