After a short and pleasant weekend visit her grandfather pulled out the maps to give me extensive advice on the best navigational choices for the Iowa country roads.
"If you take this route over through Lowden it is pretty strait without a lot of curves."
He carefully drew the route with his fingers.
"But if you go through Oxford Junction, you'll have only 6 stop signs instead of 7 between here and Cedar Rapids."
The retired country vet certainly knew how to navigate his section of Iowa. We gave due consideration to all his options and said our goodbyes.
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The drive was perfect. It was a clear, Sunday afternoon in the middle of summer. We got to Cedar Rapids in no time and soon was on a divided highway headed several hours north to Minneapolis.
We were relaxed and making good time, so of course something happened.
BAM!
Whomp whomp whomp whomp whomp whomp whomp whomp whomp...
Flat tire.
We had the good fortune to get the flat about 200 yards from an offramp with a gas station, so the car bumped along to the gas station parking lot.
It's Sunday. We were in the middle of Iowa, no where near even a small town, and we have a flat.
I wasn't excited about to have to change a tire and drive a couple hundred miles on a tiny spare tire in our 1993 Honda Accord. I got out the spare anyways and discover that for some unknown reason, the jack was missing.
It's difficult to change a tire without a jack.
As I kind of just stared at the car puzzling over my options, a man in his late 20s approached with his girlfriend following behind.
"You have a flat?"
"Yeah... And I don't have a jack and only a cruddy spare tire."
The girlfriend chimed in. "We should see if Zack's around."
Apparently their friend Zack was in the tire business. They gave him a call on the spot and he agreed to come in and help us get a new tire. They explained his place of business just happens to be just on the other side of the highway interchange and he'd be there within 15 minutes.
After thanking them, we set off on our flat to the other side of the highway where and found a huge converted barn with piles of hundreds of tires everywhere. The place looked like it's going to fall appart.Zack eventually arrived. He looked 40ish. He was dirty. He had just met us and was swearing up a storm. But he seemed friendly enough.
I toured the yard with him, looking for a used tire the right size. We're pulling piles apart in the summer heat. He opened up a couple of sheds with more stacks of tires. Eventually we found a contender. Zack "believes" it will work.
He then instructed me to pull the car into the garage/barn. The inside was messier than the outside. A grumpy three legged dog gave us what I interpreted as a "Hello. I'm going to tolerate you, but don't get too close to my master and me or there will be trouble." The dog laid down possessively against the car.
Then things got a little frighting. It was a perfectly beautiful day. The sun was out, but it wasn't glaring inside the barn. Zack closed the garage door behind us. Our eyes had trouble adjusting to the new darkness. We didn't know the way out. Eventually I could see well enough to observe my wife's expression that said, "We're not going to make it to Minnesota today or perhaps even out of this garage."
However, all was fine. Zack proceeded to work on replacing the tire, occasionally swearing at the car or the dog. In no time, he was finished.
Then it was time to talk cost. Uh oh. Zack prefaced his cost tally on the rationale behind weekend rates since he had to come in for us. I wondered how much regular business he got during the work week. But we just slightly nodded waiting for the number. For the used tire, and the labor, and the trouble of coming in on a beautiful Sunday afternoon...
Thirty five dollars.
"Will you take a check?"
He did.
Indeed, we made it out of the garage in one piece and all the way back to Minneapolis.
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