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 recognized 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 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 to the trunk and inspected the antenna. I eyed it, rattled it and – satisfied – reached down to tie my shoe. And 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 either happening on a winter night seemed rather dismal. However, at that very moment a large, white utility truck with a flatbed trailer was parked perpendicular to my car and was lying 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?”

His name was Brian, and he was hanging out of the truck’s open door looking eager to help. So 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 the type that people always say looks 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. 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 was hauling a trailer full of home air conditioning systems – seasonally ironic – and had driven approximately 1,500 miles in three days. 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,” 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 seven-year-old daughter, which he said sadly wasn’t much. At this point, completely enthralled 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 join him.

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 said.
He urged me to work hard and was adamant that I finish school. No minor acquaintance that I had met in Massachusetts 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 the span of twenty minutes, this stranger came to mean more to me than half the staff at my daily job. And the experience of changing a flat tire 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.

Brian never did come to lunch. When I went to check, the white truck across the parking lot had gone, probably humming along the highway with its new haul.

Melissa Mohoney is a Collegian columnist and can be reached at [email protected].