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At Some Point I Became a Wussie

By Bill Zahren
(Posted 02/20/01)

What kind of girlie man can’t change a flat tire? What kind of Momma’s boy has to call AAA to slap on a spare?

Me. That’s who. Oh the shame of it, the scandal of it all. Me, son of a mechanic and proud, self-reliant punk who clings to the Midwest, wind chill and all. Me, the mocker of Californians as clog-wearing softies who assume the fetal position when faced with a chilly rain.

I weep for my father, auto mechanic legend Gerald “Tweet” Zahren, now-retired co-owner of a fiercely independent auto repair business in tony Lake Park, Iowa (population 1000, including pets). Have I no testosterone? Have I become an alien in my own Home Depot?

The Fall of Bill commenced at 5:10 p.m. Friday, Feb. 16, when friend and fellow dot-com hundredaire CEO, Nathan Wright, scurried into my cube to announce he had a flat tire. First came the smugness. No problem, I told Nathan, I’ve slapped on the spare before. 15 minutes tops. I’m the son of a mechanic, blah, blah, blah.

We strode confidently out to the parking lot only to be slapped silly by a MINUS 89 wind chill. (Insert smug laughter from my California friends here.) We’re talking wind chill like only natives of Iowa, North Dakota, South Dakota, Nebraska and Minnesota really know. It was so cold that, upon coming inside from the brutality, you have to wait five minutes before drinking anything hot or your teeth will explode like frozen pop bottles plunged into boiling water.

We fumbled, rapidly losing feeling in our fingers, for the spare and the jack and the stuff. My smugness grew as I managed to remember to loosen the wheel nuts BEFORE jacking up the car. Otherwise, once in the air, the wheel will just spin when you try to remove the always-hyper-tight lugs. Just a tip from Mr. Spare Changer.

So we got the nuts loosened. Jacked the car up. Removed the nuts entirely and the tire wouldn’t come off. I grabbed it and heaved. Mr. Been Working Out couldn’t budge it. Co-worker Jeff Anker, who conveniently “had to pick up the girls” so he couldn’t stand out in the MINUS 78 wind chill with us, couldn’t budge it. After all that, I could no longer feel my cheeks.

Twenty years ago I would have stood there and gotten frost bite of the face like a real man. But instead we wussed out and retreated to the office. There, in a fit of weakness, I called AAA. What a girlie man. Triple A is for when your car explodes in the middle of nowhere. A Triple A card and cell phone are all you need to call in the cavalry.

I called, thinking briefly about disguising my voice and changing my name so they wouldn’t know I was the son of a mechanic, blah, blah, blah. Eventually the tow truck guy showed up in a truck that said “G&S Towing” on the side. I savored the irony. My father used to run “G&S Garage” back in Lake Park. It was almost like having my daddy bail me out at age 37.

The guy, a rangy man in insulated coveralls and a NASCAR hat, took about five minutes to jack the car up and spin the lug nuts off. Sure, smart guy, I could do that. But when he went to get the tire off, it was stuck as well. AH HA, I said to myself. I bet he has to dig out some special tool to get it pried off. About then the guy sat down on his butt, reared back with his left foot and stomped the side of the tire -- twice.

The tire popped right off. Oh, get down and kick it. I forgot the rule of automotive repair -- kicking it isn’t always a bad thing. Sometimes you have to use the old foot wrench or pull out the sledge (“Ford Wrench,” as my dad used to call it) and beat the shit out something, preferably while pounding it with curse words as well.

My father’s former partner, the late Stan Albers, was the author of some of the most eloquent cursing the world has ever known. Stan was the Van Gogh of swear words. So the G&S guy popped off the tire, put the little tempa-spare on it, tightened the bolts down and let the car down. Took him longer to fill out the AAA paperwork than do the actual tire change.

You know the guy was thinking, “What a couple of wussies these guys are. Can’t change a tire. You’d expect chicks not to be able to change their tire, but these two guys?” I think I can just shut up about being the Son of a Mechanic from now on.

When word leaks that I can’t even change a spare in MINUS 98 wind chill, I’ll be laughed out of the He Man Plumbing Wrecker’s club. I used to be a man. Now I’m just a male with a Triple A card and soft hands. Hold on, I need a minute here.

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