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How Changing Tires Brought About a Change of Heart
My husband has the quality that, in India, is called having a “black tongue” which is like an evil eye, but transposed to the spoken word. Someone says something bad, and very soon, that bad thing happens.
I have often witnessed his “black tongue” in action, like the day the youngest two donned sandwich bags on their feet for the sheer joy of “skating” around the house. All my kids have done this in their turn. (Sadly, cheap activities like this no longer amuse the teens.)
We've had sandwich bag skate-a-thons for years and years with nary an incident. My husband called once during his commute to inquire if the kids were engaged in some educational or stimulating activity. “Skating with sandwich bags?” he sputtered incredulously. It was as if he had never witnessed the likes of this inanity. On second thought, maybe he hadn't. Maybe it was a clandestine activity reserved for Papa Bear’s absence. “That sounds extremely dangerous, Vin,” he chided. “One of those small guys will get hurt. Have them stop immediately.”
I rolled my eyes, because living with this man requires so much patience. I began slowly explaining that it wasn't a big deal when, “whack!” came the sound of a sudden hard smack. A young speed skater had been interrupted by the edge of an open pantry door. I was inexplicably annoyed with my husband. See the accident he caused while sitting on the phone in traffic?
I recall the first time I witnessed the power of his spoken word. One Friday night, just a few months into our marriage, we were doing what any other young couple might: My husband was teaching me how to change a car tire. “You really need to know this” was his justification for spending Friday night this way.
I'm not sure why, but he had to start this activity late in the evening, just as it was getting cold and dark. Have I ever mentioned that I hate the cold and the dark? No matter! This was his chance to use his droplights and ultra-bright flashlights. No minor inconvenience, not even a sulking young wife, could stand in the way of this educational enterprise.
We had bought a huge, used Mercury Marquis with 140,000 miles on it and no air conditioning. All of our “garage” work was done in the parking lot adjacent to the brick apartment building. There, he told me each step in the tire-changing process without ever touching the car. He just stood back with his short-sleeved arms clasped. He wore shorts and flip-flops while I chattered and huddled into my sweater. This had to be my worst Friday night ever.
Then, it started to drizzle. No matter, his cheerful demeanor said. This was nothing compared to those Indian monsoons! Not every guy was caring enough to teach his wife how to change a tire, all by herself...in the cold, and in the dark, and in the rain. It felt like a demented version of Dr. Seuss.
Here was another difference. I didn't really grow up in India – we emigrated when I was five years old, so the only monsoon I could relate to was the deluge of tears I was angrily holding back.
He had me apply the parking brake, turn on the hazards (yes, even for the practice run), chock the wheels, and pull out the bottle jack. Or was it the scissor jack? To get to the spare tire, (this predated today’s fashionably skinny spares that might consider carrying you a few hundred yards down the road), I had to climb completely into the back trunk. This car was made before the 70's oil crisis. The back trunk was so deep it could have doubled as an above ground pool, if you provided an open garden hose. Hoisting that tire out of the depths of the trunk was no small feat. He continued to stand back and nod his approval.
He admonished me to carefully locate the spot on the chassis where the jack must be applied, lest I cause the car frame to buckle. Great. As if my silent treatment wasn’t supplying enough tension. Remove the hubcap. Loosen the lug nuts. Jack up the car. Take off the old tire, and put on the new. I managed the rest of the process in a rhythm, hardly noticing the cold as the raindrops enjoyed a moment of fame in the flashlight's beams.
That was on a Friday night. Three days later, as I was driving down the highway in the trusty, rusty Mercury Marquis, I had a tire blowout. I calmly applied the parking brake and put on the hazards. I was alone, but I certainly didn't feel that way.
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