Solution in a Can

For once, I had time management in hand. I was due at a law firm at 10:45 a.m. to interpret for a deposition. So 10:00 a.m. found me coiffed, made up, briefcase ready, and walking out the door. Somewhere, in those few split seconds before I got into my car, Murphy must have heard the sound of me being pleased with myself.

Not far from the house, the thought penetrated my mind: should the car really be tipping that much to the other side? I realized I was subconsciously fighting the steering wheel. But I had just replaced my tires.

Regardless, I stopped in a safe place and got out. Sure enough, the front passenger tire was flat. Not just low. Squashed. There wasn’t enough time to change the tire, go home to change clothes, and get to the assignment. That’s when I remembered the can of Fix-a-Flat that’s been rattling around in my car for the past year or so.

The instructions told me to (if possible) get the tire valve in the 4 or 6 o’clock position: obviously, this was a product intended for 50-year-olds like me and anyone else raised with analog clocks. I got back into the car and inched forward, then got out and checked. Nope, now the valve was at 8 o’clock. I backed up a little. Too far. In the end, I settled for 5 o’clock and bent down to connect the little hose from the Fix-a-Flat can to the valve of my squashed tire. It wouldn’t screw on.

It was uncomfortably warm. Sweat dripped down my face, taking my makeup with it. I looked at the Fix-a-Flat can. Maybe it was the angle I was working from. Mindful of the tic-toc of passing time, I looked around for observers, and then sat down on the ground beside the offended tire. The screw-on hose was still a little resistant, but it was eventually connected to that valve. I placed my thumb on the trigger and pushed hard.

Sssshhhhllllppppp!

In less than a second, I was covered in Fix-a-Flat. The tiny hose had popped free and residue trickled out onto the ground.

There’s always a roll of paper towels in my car. I wiped some of the foam off my arms, hair, knees. Idly, I wondered what someone would think if they passed this overweight, middle-aged woman sitting on the ground in a business suit, sprouting little bits of white foam.

I text-messaged other interpreters, including the one who’d sent me on this assignment. No one was available to cover for me. It would take forever for roadside assistance to get to me. But there was a Discount Tire down the road a ways, and they would have me (and my new-but-flat tire) in their computer system. I drove very slowly, wobbling lamely into the parking lot. An attendant came out. He took in my disheveled state, the empty can of Fix-a-Flat on the seat of my car and the very flat tire with only a hint of a grin.

Within seconds, he had taken my name and my keys and I had made a beeline to their restroom to clean up as best I could. I called the law firm and explained the situation. Not to worry, I was told, the previous deposition is going long, and they weren’t even ready for me yet. Friends text-messaged to see if they could help. An employee offered me a bottle of water.

As I sat there, gathering my scattered wits about me, I couldn’t help but think about the many times in life when I expect a neat and easy solution to be at my fingertips. Fix-A-Flat for life’s little problems, as it were. But when things go wrong, it’s rarely the canned miracles that save the day. It’s the friends and strangers who cross my path. It’s my own willingness not worry about how I might “look”, but just wipe the foam and mascara off my face and hand the keys to someone else for a while.

In the end, I made it to the deposition a full two minutes before they were ready for me. As I sat down on the lush leather chair, in the quiet gravity of the conference room, I reached for a glass of water. I relaxed. And I got a whiff.

The odor was unmistakable. “It’s eau de Fix-a-Flat,” I muttered to the court reporter apologetically. And she smiled.

SWAT's that?

Shortly after my 18th birthday, I went to downtown Quito to get my driver’s license. There was a written test, after which an officer sat down with me to review my answers. Halfway down the page, he frowned and pointed to question 17: “Where do people pay their fines for traffic violations?” I had written, “They pay the officer.”

“That’s not the right answer,” he said sharply. And I answered, “It didn’t ask where they’re supposed to pay the fine – just where they do.” The officer’s eyes crinkled at the edges as he tried to hide his smile. I got my license.

Over the years, the police and I have continued to develop this somewhat odd relationship founded largely on amusement. Granted, the amusement is generally unidirectional, but I’m not about to quibble.

Like the time I was driving through Kansas and got pulled over for going two miles over the limit. As the policeman approached my car, I grabbed my map and rolled down the window. Waving the map at him, I burst out, “I’m so glad you’re here, Officer! Am I on the right road?” We reviewed my route, and then the officer said he was only giving me a warning ticket. Any guilt I might have felt at my feigned ignorance disappeared when he followed that with “because I see you’re from Texas – and don’t know any better!”

Then there was the state trooper who pulled me over on the way from Houston to Dallas. In the back seat, my two little boys carefully guarded an aquarium, complete with hermit crabs. It was a birthday present to my elder son from his uncle and aunt. I still haven’t exacted my revenge on them for it. At any rate, the trooper gave me a ticket for the expired registration (oops!) but let me go on the speed once he got a whiff of those hermit crabs.

And who can forget the patrolman who pulled me over after I’d dropped my kids off at school? I didn’t have my license with me. The officer grinned and suggested that if I wanted to drive my children to school while barefoot and wearing a bathrobe, it might be good to at least grab my purse on the way out.

But in all these years, none of my encounters have ever involved SWAT. Until today.

I was on my way to an assignment; the radio was on, and the traffic report warned of snarled traffic ahead. Sure enough, brake lights started flashing as cars slowed down. Not wanting to be late, I eased over and off the freeway into East Dallas.

Not terribly familiar with the roads in that area, I took the first westbound street with a name I recognized. Unfortunately, it didn’t go straight into town. After a few blocks, the left lane suddenly ended, forcing the driver to turn left. I was in the left lane. I didn’t want to go left. It was getting late and I was distracted by the to-do list that kept rolling around in my head. So I did what I righteously criticize others for: I came to a full stop and then edged the nose of my car toward the right lane, hoping someone would let me move back in.

In doing so, I accidentally cut off a white SUV, forcing it to swerve slightly. The driver kept going. The car behind me – also white – slowed down and let me move into the right hand lane. I glanced in the rearview mirror to wave my thanks. The white car behind me responded with flashing red and blue lights. Oh joy. I glanced ahead. The SUV had lights on top also. My illicit move had neatly sandwiched me between two police cars.

Meekly, I drove into a side street, stopped and rolled down the window. I couldn't help giggling a bit. The officer approached, shaking his head. He was laughing. “I’m so sorry!” I told him, “I’m on my way to court and got off the freeway to avoid traffic...”

“Court?” he asked, suddenly not laughing so much.

“Henry Wade,” I gave him the proper name for the juvenile courthouse. “I’m an interpreter.”

For some reason, that made him laugh again.

“Well, next time try not to cut off a SWAT car!” He gestured, and I saw the white police SUV approaching from the front. Dallas SWAT. The driver rolled down his window. He, too, was chuckling as he pulled up. I babbled an apology. The officer who pulled me over told his SWAT buddy, “Yeah... she’s an interpreter.”

And for some reason, that only intensified their mirth. After a few seconds, they both drove off without another word to me.

I didn’t mind. I’m sure we’ll meet again to laugh another day.