So half an hour ago, I was sitting here on my sofa, reading a bit about the English Civil War, when my phone rang. I saw it was the Spawn, so I answered, “Hey, kid! What’s up?”
“I’ve got a flat tire.”
“Where are you?”
“At the high school.”
“OK; I’ll be there in a few.”
(Talk in background.) “[The Admirer] says he can change it for me.”
“I’m sure he can, but I’ll be there in a bit anyway.”
After breaking the connection, I rang Mrs. M, who was heading for her workout.
“[Spawn] has a flat, but [The Admirer] says he can change it.”
“Do you want me to go over there?”
“Well, you’re closer than I am,” I said. Now by that, all I meant is that she could beat me over there, so she told me she was en route, and a moment later, so was I.
It’s about a 10-minute drive from Spackle Manor to Mondoville High, so by the time I got there, several young men, led by The Admirer, were gathered around the offending tire. The Spawn and Mrs. M stood a bit back from the young men. As I walked over, my wife came over and said “I told you I was coming over. Now’s she’s a little embarrassed — too many parents.”
“OK,” I said, “I’ll bail. Tell her to meet me at WalMart to get her bad tire fixed or replaced.”
“No,” Mrs. M said — she’d cover that as well. So I shrugged and headed home again. I decided to blog about the event, with perhaps a rueful, self-mocking chuckle at how I seem to have been supplanted.
However, as I was turning the computer on, my cell rang again — it was Mrs. M.
“[Admirer] and the boys don’t seem to be able to get the tire off. They’ve gotten the nuts, but they’re saying there’s something that’s keeping them from getting the tire off. Can you call roadside assistance?”
“Sure,” I said, and now I have, and the garage guys are on the way. As day-savers go, it’s still pretty weak, but at least I’m not totally unnecessary.