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.