‘That’s what neighbors are for’
After driving over a spare tire that was lying in the street, I got a helping hand
“911, what’s your emergency?” the dispatcher said tome.
“Sorry, it’s not an emergency,” I replied. I told her Iwanted to play it safe after a vehicle had just swerved sharply around my precariously parked car in the middle of the street. I hoped that if a police vehiclewas nearby, it could park behind me to possibly prevent a potential accident.
I had just run over a truck-size spare tire thatwas abandoned on the road. I presumed it had just fell off a large pickup truck. The metal device to hold the spare tire underneath the bed of a truck alsowas on the road. It looked like it rusted off.
I tried driving around the tire. I couldn’t do it in time. Thump! By the time my car came to a stop, the tirewaswedged underneath the chassis betweenmy driver-side front and rear tires. Itwas jammed so tightly that I couldn’t drive forward or backward.
Iwas stuck. In the dark. Before calling a friend or a towtruck, I called police to be safe.
I turned onmy hazard lights, hopped out ofmy car, and tried pulling out the tire from underneathmy car. Itwouldn’t budge. I tried rockingmy car back and forth while kicking out the tire withmy foot. Of course it didn’twork.
This all happened within eye-shot of my home around 6 p.m. Monday. A neighbor had just returned home near where my carwas stuck. He suggested using a jack to lift upmy car just enough to pull out the tire. But he didn’t have one handy, and neither did I.
My car, a 2004 ChevyMonte Carlo with 300,000 miles, is held together with rust and promises. I call her “Old Betsy.” Every dashboardwarning light is simultaneously activated every time I startmy car. I never knowwhen to “check engine” because that particular light has been on since the Obama administration.
I refuse to junkOld Betsy, or fix everything that’swrong with her, or pronounce her dead until I absolutely have to. So I plead with her again and again: “Come on, baby, just giveme one more year.” I haven’t seen Betsy’s jack in years. My trunk is loaded with so much stuff, mostly sporting goods. I also haven’t seenmy spare tire in years.
I have the mechanical skills of a Frisbee. Brute force ismy only skilled labor. Otherwise, I’m stuck. Like a stranger’s spare tire wedged under Betsy.
“You should ask Shawn,” my neighbor told me. “He’ll have the right jack.”
I hustled to the home of that neighbor, Shawn Ellison, who has more tools in his garage than I’ve likely owned inmy life. I rang the doorbell while keeping an eye on my stranded car.
Fortunately, Shawnwas home from work.
“I’ll be right there,” he told me. Shawn pulled out a rolling jack, surveyedmy odd predicament, and crawled underneathmy car to search for a lift spot. He didn’t think twice. Iwould have searched for a pair of gloves and an excuse not to do it. While Shawn disappeared undermy car, a Valparaiso police officer pulled up behind us and turned on his flashers.
“I ran over a spare tire,” I told the officer. “No, itwasn’t mine.”
Hewas understanding and patient as Shawn adjusted his jack under the car. It didn’t reach it flush so Shawn said a small wooden blockwould do the trick. Small wood block? I checkedmy pockets. Nothing. Howabout an old baseball mitt or three Frisbees stacked together, I thought. I have a trunk-full of alternatives.
“I’ve got one,” Shawn said, hustling back into his garage.
I crawled underneathmy car to make suremy exhaust pipes didn’t get damaged by the spare tire. Old Betsy already sounds like someone who has been smoking for 70 years. She doesn’t purr. She growls.
The next thing I hear is the sound of a power sawfrom Shawn’s garage. He not only found awooden block in less than a minute, hewas sawing it to size for this job. Incredible. He returned to the scene, hoisted up the jack, and liftedmy car a few inches. I yanked out the spare tire and rolled it to the curb.
The officer, Steve, joked that itwas his easiest call that day.
I drove Betsy home, hoping shewasn’t permanently injured bymy stupidity. Her rusting side molding on the driver side was bent down even more than usual. By a stroke of serendipity, the incident somehowstopped the loud noise I’ve heard every time I openedmy driver side door. It nowopens quietly like it did years ago.
I ran back to Shawn’s house to thank him. He savedmy butt. Iwanted him to know. I’d still be there scratchingmy head and rocking Betsy. He downplayed his rescue effort.
“That’s what neighbors are for,” he said, shakingmy hand.
From what I’ve learned over the past 10 years as Shawn’s neighbor, the two of us are different in most everyway, including politically if campaign signs are any indicator. He’s a guy’s guy. I’m, uh, a guy.
None of that mattered. When I needed help, hewas there for me. No questions asked. No complaints. No problem. I then sent a Facebook message to thank that other neighbor who offeredme a hand. His name also is Sean. “That’s what neighbors are for. Anytime, buddy,” Sean Corbett replied.
Iwalked home thinking it’s too convenient for most people to erect imaginary fences between us – politically, socially, racially, ethnically, financially, you name it. Sometimes it takes an accident or incident to “thump” us out of our familiar avenue of thinking.
I’m still mad atmyself for not swerving in time to dodge that tire. But Iwould have missed the message it drove home for me.