Real Men Know How to Replace Flat Tyres

• By ebotpandayan
• Posted in Uncategorized
• On February 14, 2018
• 6 Comments.

“There must be something wrong with the car,” my friend Nestor, who was at the steering wheel, said. I heard an explosion under the car, similar to a burst tire, but I brushed it off. “A window is open, maybe?” Nestor asked me. The car was programmed to detect open doors while in motion, I wanted to say, but told him to stop the car instead and check it out.

Much as Nestor knows a lot about cars, he, like me, cannot deal with problems like a flat tire when they happen. Besides, I didn’t want to be bothered; I was busy with my phone putting together the correct letters for a word in a game called 4 Pics in 1Word. It took me three days—dammit!—to solve that one, and now this?

We were driving along La Union Province on our way home when I saw men on the roadside holding signs that read “Grapes Picking.” These signs convinced us we were near vineyards. A man approached us, offering his red cardinals at 400 pesos per kg. “Four hundred pesos for one kg?” I said, surprised. He claimed his grapes were “the best in the west, “his exact words. I joked that it might not be as good as ours in the garden, and he asked where that was.

In Austria.

Oh, Australia, nice!

Right, I said and tapped him on the shoulder.

His vineyard is just a block away, he said, as he mounted his motorcycle and sped south along the national road, our car trailing a few feet behind all the way. A block away, my foot! I forgot that when in the Philippines, asking for directions and getting the answer “malapit lang po” (just nearby) means think twice! We reached the vineyard after a 2-kilometer walk. As we pulled over our car, a horde of street vendors peddling boiled peanuts, saging na saba (cooked bananas), boiled corn on the cobs, crackling pork skin, hard-boiled quail eggs, etc., gathered around the car even before we could step out. I ignored them and followed our winegrower as he walked down the side of the road, disappearing down the steps leading to his garden. Walter stayed in the car while Nestor checked out the stall selling plants and flowers. The vendors stayed around the car, hoping the purao (Ilocano for white) in the vehicle would buy something from them. He did not.

We sped away after paying for the red cardinals I picked myself. That was when Nestor noticed the sound of the flip-flops. “We have a front-tire blowout!” That was Nestor; his voice was a tad higher after he got out of the car and saw what had caused the funny noise. “The vendors!” I was fuming mad—mouthing expletives like I was born with a mouthful of them. It could only be them! I joined Nestor to inspect the burst tire. We were both speechless, staring at each other. “What do we do now?” Nestor asked after he recovered from the initial shock. “You tell me, you know much about cars,” I said.

“You have a jack?” Nestor asked.

“A what? Oh, yes, I might have, but I’m not sure! “

“You must have one in your compartment.”

The compartment was jam-packed with our luggage; the ice-box was over-stuffed with Vigan longanizas; a sack with ten kg of shallots; fruits; and other produce from Ilocos Sur, plus two pots of bougainvilleas in bloom— one called Ms Universe, the other Popcorn.

We have to dislodge everything before we can find what we need. I could not find the jack. Could it be that, on a subconscious level, I was hoping to find a Jack hiding somewhere in the car? What I found were two identical yellow-and-red span triangles, which you display on the road to warn motorists of the danger ahead. Reflectors, that much I know about them. Oh, I found other things rolled up in a tool bag: screwdrivers and cylinder pipes, but no jack. Nestor sent me a funny look. Sorry, sir, maybe this is my car, but I never, ever, not for once, checked if I had this and that in it! They came together with the purchase of the vehicle, which I was aware of. I wouldn’t know how to use them, anyway. I only have to call the Motorist Association, just like Walter does in Vienna when shit happens with his car. One has to be a member. I am not. And neither is Nestor.

“Do you have a spare tire?” Nestor asked.

“I have, in the compartment under the boot floor,” I said, “but I don’t know how to take it down. Do you?” I asked.

“Malandi ka! Palagay mo sakin?” (You, slut! What do you think of me?), his tart reply.

There was this sari-sari store (variety store) on the roadside just where we pulled up our car. Parked right in front of it was a pedicab; the driver, a young boy, was perched on the driver’s seat, observing us. Quite good looking, Nestor and I noticed. Nestor didn’t waste time approaching him to ask whether he knew how to change a flat tire or knew someone who could help. The young boy said he would summon a car mechanic, but before he could, an older man approached us and said he had witnessed what happened and knew someone from just the other side of the road who could do the job. This someone has everything, he said. We have a dilemma here—Toyboy or Daddy? Well, under a different circumstance…

Two men in their 70s and a younger one arrived with a jack and other emergency car gadgets. We showed them where the spare wheel was, and the younger man quickly began detaching it with such ease. The two seniors worked on the flat tire with little effort. It took them less than thirty minutes to finish the job. They even helped us put everything back in the compartment we had removed earlier. Nothing was said about our little pots of bougainvilleas thick with flowers as they put them back in the car. Yes, wadafak’s the matter with you guys, traveling with pots of flowers?

The younger man was genuinely surprised as I handed him three hundred pesos. Give them to the two guys, he said. The two seniors were about to cross the road and didn’t expect compensation for their help. They smiled and thanked us profusely—real men who know how to change a tire, a necessary skill for all drivers. Do you think Nestor and I can ever acquire this skill and put it into practice without ever getting our signature outfits greasy? Have you gone mad?

“Dios ko, what would we have done if this had happened along the expressway?” Nestor asked as he ignited the engine.

Wait for our fairy godmothers,” I wanted to say.

February 14, 2018