Changing a Flat Tire Changed My Life

With Guest Appearances by Herve Villechaize, Johnny Cash, & Billy Joel

I just want to die I thought as I drove down 51 South on a rare overcast afternoon. I’d been fixated on killing myself off and on for decades, but it was top of mind as I drove to pick up a piece of artwork I’d wanted so badly. It was the first piece of art I’d ever purchased, and it was outside the bounds of what I could afford. That stressed me out but not enough to pray for death.

I’d left St. Louis for Arizona a couple years earlier, trading toasted ravioli and humidity for an incredible woman whose splendor was only rivaled by the perpetually beautiful (dry) weather. My career was demanding but fulfilling. But the people I left behind were stuck in the same rut I climbed out of, and they seemed hellbent on sending me souvenir “Wish You Were Here” travel mugs. Their commitment to making sure I didn’t forget it was unrelenting. It was my inability to stomach that combo meal of guilt with super-sized servings of shame and self-loathing that made me want to die.

Rolling along listening to Johnny Cash’s cover of Nine Inch Nails Hurt, my mind drifted to thoughts of how I could divvy up the life insurance percentages to cover everyone that deserved it without leaving out anyone that felt they deserved it when BUMP-THUMP. BUMP-THUMP. Did I run over something? Did I just hit-and-run my will to live?

I pulled over at the next exit where fortunately, the commuter lot gods answered my unspoken prayers. I pulled in and got out to assess the situation. I circled the car and identified the culprit—a flat tire on the front passenger side. To quote Ralphy in Christmas Story, “FUUUUDGE!” I wished someone would rinse out my mouth with antifreeze or a 9mm.

I called AAA hoping for salvation and a new tire. Instead, I got a chipper representative who sounded like she was calling from a bounce house. After a lot of keyboard clicking and tongue-clacking about how she visited Arizona once and it was so beautiful, the rep cheerfully informed me that my membership had lapsed. I’d been a member for years and never ever used it, and apparently my card on file expired. No sweat, I offered a new card. Apparently that’s not how it works though.

This would be the ultimate AAA member perk.

Now what? Just change the tire, right? Wrong. I’d never had a flat tire, and I’m the most mechanically uninclined dude alive today. I should apply to Guinness for the most mechanically declined human being. That record would probably stand for decades. I retrieved the manual from the glove compartment and cross-referenced the instructions with a YouTube tutorial, replacing the tire with one of those dinky donut tire thingies.

Forty-five minutes later, I heaved the flat into the trunk, looked down at my greasy hands, and surveyed my work. I changed a goddamn tire. Now, I knew that if the apocalypse struck, I could rebuild society with my bare hands and a crowbar. I looked down at my handiwork and my thoughts spiraled. Now I’d have to contend with the next disaster: the implicit costs of going to the tire store and the explicit costs of a new tire, and of course warding off the upsell to four new tires. Plus, I’d have to drive 45 mph to pick up the goddamn overpriced painting.

I longed for the golden age of an hour ago—back when I had no flat tire and life was merely a slow-mo waterboarding. Despite everything else that was going on, at least I didn’t have a flat tire back then. Life wasn’t that bad then. It was fine. I didn’t realize how good I had it. An hour earlier, everything was dreamy, like an episode of Fantasy Island with a pug named Revel playing the role of Herve Villechaize.

Isn’t that always the case though, at least for those of us afflicted with industrial-grade negativity bias? Whatever you’re going through right now, imagine finding out that your wife has breast cancer. Or that your child was kidnapped, your house burned down, or your best friend was murdered. Or maybe you hit the unholy trifecta, and somebody killed your best friend, stole your kid, and burned your house down.

One day, we’ll reflect on these moments as the “good ol’ days.” We’ll long for today’s travails and express gratitude for the lessons learned. I’m not saying, “Oh, it could be worse.” I am saying that right now, if we cease the negative self-talk, today probably ain’t that bad. That perspective shift is a choice that delivers clarity like when you’re at the optometrist and after several murky rotations of which is better, this one or this one, she hits you with the sharpest, clearest vision you’ve ever had.

The great American poet Billy Joel once sang, “The good ol’ days weren’t always so good, and tomorrow ain’t as bad as it seems.” I’d remix that and add that this moment is all we have. And it’s exactly as it should be—beautiful.

p.s. Below is the piece of art I bought from local artist Lalo. Entitled “Jesus de la Cruz”, it still hangs in our home.