You would think that after three and a half years of driving, I would have known what a flat tire felt like. I should have known that the suspicious, gyrating rattle from behind me was not my radio antenna struggling to assert itself against its rusting socket and the January wind. I should have realized that just because the mysterious vibration disappeared as I picked up speed, did not mean it had gone away. And so, with the certain naiveté of a 19-year-old who was unaccustomed to car troubles, last month I drove to work on a, very obviously, half-flat tire.
With only mild concern, I parked, pulled myself out of the car, walked around the trunk and inspected the antenna. I eyed it, rattled it and satisfied, reached down to tie my shoe when –
there it was, hello flat tire. With seven minutes to go before I had to clock-in at work, I knew I had no time to change it myself or wait for AAA, and the prospects of self-help or roadside assistance on a night in the dark and cold seemed rather dismal. However, at this time a large, white utility truck with a flatbed trailer was parked perpendicular to my car, and was across about five parking spaces. Had I noticed this from the beginning, I might not have been so surprised when someone behind me said, “D’you want me to fix that for you?”
Brian, as I later learned his name, was hanging out of the truck’s open door, looking eager to help. And I, a damsel in distress with a deadline, decided it was best to take the help of a stranger. I quickly ran into the restaurant I work at, told my boss the situation and returned to find Brian inspecting the flat and rubbing his hands for warmth in the January air. He was in his 30s, a ginger with a crew cut and a green-plaid flannel coat. His face was of the type that people always said looked familiar, with an easy smile and a cordial, Southern drawl. I popped the truck to get to the spare, and would have pulled out the equipment myself, but Brian politely insisted that he do the work, and I was obliged to stand by and let him do the job.
“You don’t sound like you’re from around here,” I remarked.
“No, miss,” he said with a smile, “I’m from Arkansas.” And with the ice broken, he was happy to drown out the squeak of my strained jack with his story.
Brian had driven approximately 1500 miles in three days, hauling a trailer full of home air conditioning systems (a bit ironic for the weather). He had a wife and a daughter back down South, who from the warmth of his stories he must have loved very much. He asked me if I went to school, and when I replied, “Yes, UMass Amherst” (his face comically registered no recognition) he urged me firmly to finish my education. His wife had gone to school for business, but he never had, “and I make more haulin’ loads than she does with a degree. Ain’t that just the way it goes?
He had just started a college fund for his 7-year-old daughter, which he said sadly wasn’t much. At this point, completely endeared by his happy nature, I quickly assured him that someday it would be enough.
“Hey,” he said suddenly. “You hear about all those birds found dead in Arkansas?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said, “I read about it the other morning online.”
“Ain’t that just a shame. And a few weeks ago, they found all those fish dead too, out by Ozark, near me.”
I hadn’t heard of that yet.
“People, they’re tellin’ me the world’s endin!’” He smiled to himself. “But I tell ‘em, No, sir, not in Arkansas.” Brian chuckled at his own joke, and I couldn’t help but laugh too about a state I’d never seen.
According to the Gallups-Healthways Well-Being Index, Arkansas is the fourth most unhappy state in the country. Even Arkansan birds are falling out of the sky and the fish are beaching themselves, which might actually be the doing of fireworks and natural population die-out, according to CBS News. But Brian was just about the nicest, most helpful stranger I had ever met. He was friendly, talkative and ultimately, I felt that he truly cared about my well-being.
He instructed me not to drive on my spare tire over 40 miles an hour, and to get a new tire as soon as possible.
“These idiots on the highway with their spares are gonna get themselves killed!”
He urged me to work hard and was always adamant that I finish school. No minor acquaintance that I had met in Massachusetts – ranked 11th most happy – ever cared that much.
As we lugged my flat into the trunk and put away the wrenches and jack, I could not help but feel more than gratitude for this man. I felt like Brian was an old family friend rather than a transnational trucker I had met by chance in a parking lot. In 20 minutes, this stranger meant more to me than half the staff at my daily job. And the experience of changing a flat tire, which could have been a frigid ordeal waiting for AAA in the dark trying to make the rusted wheel-nuts move, was actually the highlight of my day.
I offered copious thanks, to which he said it was nothing. He was waiting for the call to go pick up a car that had to be moved back down south, and he was happy to have something to do.
“Well, if you’re waiting much longer, you should come in. I’ll fix you up with some lunch,” I said. It was really all I could do to repay him.
“Well,” he said, “I just might.”
With that, we shook hands. He wished me luck, and I wished him a safe drive back. I gathered up my things and headed in to wait tables. As the afternoon wore on, Brian never did come to lunch. The white truck across the parking lot had gone, and was probably humming along the highway with its new haul. I couldn’t give him a meal, but I could give him a story – a story of human kindness fit to inspire us all.
Melissa Mahoney is a Collegian columnist and can be reached at [email protected].
