Recently, I had a tire mishap.

While travelling along at an acceptable highway speed (over the speed limit, but not enough to warrant an O.J. Simpson style low-speed car chase), sunglasses on, tunes cranked up (I keep the volume knob at 11 — not as a tribute to Spinal Tap, but because my ears are getting older), I heard a, “bam,” followed by a, “thump, thump, thump.” My pretty red truck vibrated to the beat of the new music coming from underneath.

Struggling, I maneuver Red into the sanctuary of a nearby parking lot, managing to stop at the first available spot that looked like I might be safe from texting drivers. A quick walk-around revealed that my right, rear tire was shredded to the point of looking like Christmas tree icicle decorations — that smelled like freshly burnt rubber.

I like to think I am the kind of guy that solves problems and fixes things. My previous truck was a 20-year-old diamond-in-the rough, built to do what trucks are supposed to do — haul a stack of plywood inside the bed, with the tailgate shut. It was a working truck and was a big part of how I solved problems and fixed things. However, if that truck had a flaw, it was the spare tire, bracketed up under the bed, with access requiring two sets of hands in a space barely spacious enough for one set of hands. My solution to this poorly engineered situation was to never get a flat tire — thus removing my need to ever crawl under my truck and fill my face with falling mud and grime.

But, here I was, standing in a parking lot with a blown tire. I took a quick look back, into my past, and realized I hadn’t changed a tire in 35 years. More importantly, 35-years later, I am at an age when I don’t WANT to crawl around on my back, trying to fish a tire out from under a truck. But, that is what I did — and that was when I realized the spare tire in my brand new truck was not held in place like the one in my 20-year old truck. I couldn’t figure out how to get the danged thing out of its new-fangled harness. My solution (because I am a solutions kinda guy) was to grab my hammer and commence to smacking what looked to be a giant wing-nut that appeared to be holding the tire in place. About the third smack with the hammer, it occurred to me that, if my solution should work, and I was able to dislodge the tire form its mooring, it would probably come falling down on my head and squish my melon into the asphalt.

Not a good solution.

As I recuperated from the strain of swinging my hammer three times, I contemplated my next move (actually, I just laid there, breathing heavy and wondering if I still had my AAA membership). That’s when I heard the voice, “You can’t do it that way. You need your key.”

I found the strength to drag myself out from under my truck, curious to know about the mystery voice that spoke about a magical key. “Huh?” I grunted (partly as a response to his comment, but mostly as a reaction to the back spasm).

“Use your key to open this port.” The mystery voice came from a strapping young man, in his early 20’s, doing his best to not laugh at the old man crawling around on his back, while smacking the underside of his truck with a hammer.

I did as I was told and my new guardian angel “showed” me how to access the tire, “showed” me how to jack up my truck, “showed” me how to change the tire, then “showed me how to throw the old rim onto my truck bed — I “showed” him how to close the tailgate. We talked and he told me his name is Mason, he works in the construction trades on a large project near Lake Michigan, and we compared notes on the fine art of getting things built. He adamantly refused my offer of money — saying he just stopped to help someone that looked like they needed a little help.

Thanks Mason. I like the way you fix things. The world could use a whole bunch more like you.