Greg Berg’s Fists of Fury

Greg Berg’s Fists of Fury

I’ll make this quick- really!  Late on Wednesday afternoon, Kathy noticed that for some reason the rear passenger side tire on my car was completely flat.  I counted myself lucky that it happened when I was safely parked in my own garage and not on some wild good chase to who-knows-where.   It turns out that I drove over a screw and the rest I history.

I wish I could say that things went quickly smoothly from that point on, but they didn’t.  First came the considerable matter of cleaning out my trunk so I could get at the spare tire and tools.  Ninety minutes later, I was jacking up the car and removing the flat. . . which I’ve done before, but this time around everything seemed to go wrong.  The worst was when I finally had the nuts off the flat tire and it was time to pull it off of its perch, and try as I might I could not get that tire to budge.  I even had Kathy come take a look in case there was something that I was missing – maybe some extra nut that I hadn’t noticed yet or whatever.  But she couldn’t see anything that would prevent the tire from just sliding off. Finally, with all kinds of energy and stress welling up in side of me, I clenched my fists and slammed them into the tire, yelling  “UUUHHHH!  I HATE THIS!!!”  And lo and behold, that’s all it took to shake the tire loose. It was like something straight out of a sitcom and I thought Kathy would split a gut, she was laughing so hard.  And as sweaty and tired as I was at that moment, I laughed a bit myself.

By the way, I brought the tire in place to the tire repair desk at Sam’s Club.   (Normally I’m not inclined to partronize any of Sam Walton’s establishments, but by this point I was in quite a hurry.)  They told me that they would have the thing fixed in about an hour.  I came back in 90 minutes to find that the tire apparently was not fixable after all because it looked like I had driven on the tired while it had been flat. And because they hadn’t asked for my phone #, they couldn’t  call me and let me know.    So I headed back home not with a fixed tire but with our old friend Mr. Flat instead. And for a fleeting moment, I was tempted to start writing the Second Book of Job. . . except that I know that compared to some other people in my life, I am ridiculously  blessed- even in this little miniature nightmare.  I’ve got two arms, not the strongest on the block (maybe not even the strongest in the house) – but they work. . . and eyes and ears as well, all in good working order.  And as long as my young voice student Austin is in the hospital, battling back from a debilitating stroke, I refuse to let one flat tire make me feel too miserable.  Or at least in this case, I am looking back in some horror that I allowed this to become something tragic.

Note to self-  Next time, remember the Fists of Fury first!