TRUTH vs LOVE WITH A FLAT TIRE

The truth is, one dark winter evening I had a flat tire. Did I say dark? It was raining too, the sort of rain that smears windshields and makes visibility a game of driving between the smears.

Did I mention I had to pull over on the freeway between Washington and Portland. The whole thing had the sense of a bad movie with a convenient accident happening to a secondary character.

Or Ennis Cosby.

But I crawled around in the mud without incident, except ruining my car seat. Isn’t that what seat covers are for?

It didn’t work out as well the second time I ended up on the side of the road with a flat. The biggest difference was I had two flats at once.

This happened during a time I was living the single rural life, renting a room from a nice couple. Stay with me here.

The farmer drove past my breakdown, drove the ten miles to the farm, and came back with a gas can.

We talked in the car on the way home. He dropped me off the next day with another gas can. So I’ve got a car with two flats I’m going to fix with two gas cans.

You can guess how that turned out?

A few hours later the farmer drove past and waved, returning with another gas can. We smiled at each other after leaving my car again.

This happened six times. My car looked like a gas can sale.

I finally decided I’d have to fix it myself. So I did.

After I pulled up to the farm with newly patched tires I asked Old MacDonald about the gas cans.

“Ya see, son, this is a tough world we live in, and the truth is hard and cold. I knew you’d eventually learn you can’t fix a flat with a gas can,” he said in a voice that sounded like he was disappointed he had to point these things out.

“That’s why you kept bringing gas cans?” I asked.

“Of course I didn’t expect you to take a week to figure it out, but yes,” he said. “That’s where love for your fellow man comes in. Sure I could have helped more, but how else will you learn?”

“The truth is I took a week because I didn’t want to hurt an old man’s feelings when he can’t tell the difference between a gas can and a flat tire,” I said.

He leveled his gaze at me and locked in.

“Sounds like the truth. Imagine my surprise when you pulled up,” he said. “Let’s call it metaphor accomplished.”

“Call it what?”

“No matter, let’s round up those gas cans.”