This will be the third entry in Zine #1.
One night, Andrew was driving us home from class when he felt a sudden shift in his car. “Something’s up” he says, pulling us over and onto the highway shoulder. A car is kind of like your body, when something really goes wrong, you feel it. Julien gets out from the passenger’s seat and walks to the wheel well nearest him. “The tire is blown”, he declares confidently. “But just to be sure” He says as he kicks it a couple of times thud thud. I walk over to Julien and take a look for myself. The tire looks lifeless. It’s dark, beaten, rubber corpse hugs the ground. Her body may be finished but her spirit lives on in the great highway in the sky. I imagine the Michelin man is greeting her at the pearly gates where she will continue to spin for all eternity. But when the Michelin man closes a door, he opens another. This tragic loss is now an opportunity to perform the manliest of feats, a tire change. “A simple job.” I think to myself having seen it done before while also hoping the other two actually know how to do it. “I just helped Kenny change the tires on the van, it’s not hard.” Julien says, taking charge. Kenny is Julien’s father and like many fathers, takes pride in knowing their son can change a flat. He tells Andrew to pop the trunk so we can get the spare tire. The spare lives in a secret compartment under the floor of the trunk. Flipping up the carpeted floor, we find the spare with a jack on top. The jack comes in two pieces, the pump mechanism and the arm used to wind the pump. The way the two pieces connect is not very intuitive so we consult the instructional sticker posted on the inside of the trunk. The 10 year old sticker has very little to tell us except that someone found it so frustrating as to try and rip it off. Rothko would be proud. No matter, I’m sure we can figure it out. Julien tells us that most cars have a reinforced area under the car body next to each tire. This is where you place the jack. Andrew slides the jack under car’s reinforced area, pulls out the arm, and fumbles around for a few minutes in silence. I get frustrated watching him. “Let me try” I say, taking the arm from him. I’m trying to fit the arm in a few different ways but nothing is working. My initial excitement has turned into fear as I realize that this puzzle is beyond me. Minutes turn to hours in my mind as I toil away trying fit this round arm into a metaphorical square jack. What does this mean if both Andrew and I, two engineering students, can’t assemble a simple car jack? Have we learned nothing at all? I feel Julien’s eyes on me. They’re not mad, just disappointed. “My hands are just too cold.” I say to him as I hand over the arm and step aside. My hands really are cold but my pride is colder. Andrew and I stand on either side of Julien as he leans over and in one motion, connects the arm to the jack. Click. I’m amazed and a little bitter. “Andrew, do you have any gloves?” Julien asks. “Yeah, I think I have some in the trunk.” he responds. Andrew returns from the trunk with a pair of thin black gloves. “Just what the doctor ordered.” He says, handing the gloves to Julien. “Yeah, and I got my PhD at the university of shut the fuck up.” It’s 9pm, we’re all tired, hungry, and freezing.
None of us have enough layers on to manage this cold. Andrew and I are waddling around like penguins trying to stay warm. Julien calls me over. “Devon these gloves are shit, I feel like my fingers are going to fall off. You take over.” Julien got around a third of the way. If I can do another third before my hands freeze off, Andrew can finish it off. I take the gloves and begin to crank the handle. I’m moving at a snail’s pace because we have such little leverage with the arm that I have to make tiny turns. I start to think that maybe the jack is broken because I have made zero progress. Now I’ve lost all feeling in my fingers. “Andrew take the gloves.” I say. He takes over for me as I pull my hands into my sweater, trying to warm them. I notice fewer and fewer cars passing us by. Everyone is at home now, wrapped up in warm bedsheets reading a short personal essay from their favourite author, and drinking a hot cup of chamomile tea. I’m awoken from my daydream by the sound of a frustrated voice. “Hey Devon, can you shine a flashlight down here for me?” Andrew asks. I pull out my phone and light up the undercarriage of the car to see that the jack has nearly made contact with the car. Ok good, we’re almost there. Julien is getting the spare ready so I take over for Andrew. I’m turning and turning and turning but I don’t feel the car raising. My fingers are burning and I’m growing impatient. Julien puts the spare down and comes over to me. “Devon, what the hell is taking so long!” He’s watching me turn the arm. I feel a pit form in my stomach as a realization surfaces. “Devon, you’re turning it the wrong way.” I feel my face go flush with embarrassment. The cold is now the last thing on my mind. I was turning the arm the wrong way. We’ve been out here freezing because I was turning the arm the wrong way.
Powered by pure frustration, I watch Julien wind the jack the rest of the way. I want to redeem myself so I rush to the tire iron to take off the busted tire. The car is raised and I take the iron to the first nut. I’m just about to crack it loose when I realize that if I did, the car could be knocked off the jack, taking Juliens hands with it. I tell Julien to lower the car. He does so until the tire touches the ground firmly. Channeling the strength of the Michelin man into my hands, I connect the tire iron to the first nut and crack it free. Andrew takes the gloves once again and raises the car so I can swap in the spare. I recall a prior summer where my own father showed me to bolt a tire on. He told me that you follow a star pattern so that each bolt is torqued equally. This is important for performance and safety reasons I’m told. I hear his voice in my head “Use the star Devon, use the star.” I secure the spare tire to the car then Julien lowers the jack. The tire shrinks as the weight of the car presses the rubber to the road. The tire is quite low but it’s a miracle that there’s any air in it at all. Andrew, now complete in his understanding of the jack arm, disassembles it with ease. I restrain myself from chucking the busted tire into the woods and instead hastily load it into the trunk along with the jack. We waste no time getting into the car, starting it, and blasting the heat. With the job done, the three of us stare at each other. I expected to see excitement but see only relief.
The drive home passes in the blink of an eye. I feel different somehow, like something in my soul has changed, grown even. My entire perception of time has been rewritten by the hours I just spent in the freezing cold. I feel like I could take on the world. From the comfort of my room, I imagine what Henry Hudson felt trying to cross the Northwest Passage. Dealing with a tired, hungry crew, trying to keep everyone on track. And if a crew as experienced as his still struggled with swallowing their pride so that everyone could make it back home alive.