Changing Another Tire

The last changing a tire story resulted in a point for the men in the war of the sexes. This one, it's a point for us women.

I jogged down the stairs to warm up my car outside my apartment one freezing morning. It was so cold I had an icicle hanging off my nose in about a minute. Now, I know that some cars don't have to be warmed up in the winter, but mine gets a little sluggish if I don't. (Also, I've been driving the same car since I was 16, and I'm STILL driving it to this day.)

A few empty stalls away, one of the downstairs tenants was fumbling with a flat tire. I'd seen him around, but hadn't really said anything to him before. He had his long hair pulled back in a very neat ponytail and his forehead was banging against his car's paneling as if he was about to cry.

He'd gotten his jack underneath the car and had raised it so that the tire spun every time he tried to loosen a lugnut. He was also thumping his little stick tire iron against the lugnut, unable to generate enough torque to actually move the damn bolts. And the tire spun again.

I popped my trunk and pulled out my cross-piece tire iron; it has much better leverage. "It'll go quicker with this," I offered. "And, uh, you really want to loosen the nuts first, and then lift the tire off the ground."

And I wound up teaching him how to change a tire. We fitted his donut wheel on, and I tossed my tire iron back in my trunk.

He pushed his ponytail back behind his shoulder. "Thanks for not making fun of me. I know, I'm a guy, but I'm a philosophy major."

As if being a philosophy major was an argument against not knowing how to change a tire. That logic is fallacious.

I smiled and replied, "No problem."

"Yeah, I usually try to get these tires before they go completely flat. Now I gotta drive to the shop, again."

I paused, halfway through closing my trunk, and tried to think. I licked my lips, already cracking in the sub-freezing air. "When was the last time you checked your tire pressure?"

"What's that?"

And I didn't have the courage to explain it. The poor philosopher was already so embarassed because a woman had to change his tire for him that I just couldn't do it. I couldn't tell him that you don't have to drive around on your tires until they go flat of their own accord.

That is one of the minor regrets I have in my life. If I could do it again, I'd be honest with him. But all I can do now is hope that he's learned, and do better next time.

Oh, and whatever repair shop he ROUTINELY went to, the mechanic must've been either a) amazed that every flat tire this guy had didn't need to be patched or b) an asshole.

Changing a Tire

I worked one summer out in the deserts of northeastern Nevada as a shovel bum. For those of you not immersed in the underworld of archaeology that means someone who spends her time surveying and excavating potential or real archaeological sites.

I once was asked by one of husband's cousins what I did, and I replied, "Well, I'm kinda bumming around with archaeology right now."

He brightened up. "Oh, my daughter loves dinosaurs!"

"Umm, that's palaeontology. Archaeology is human only."

For awhile, I volunteered in Kansas and then drifted away from archaeology. I regret that. (Mostly because I couldn't afford graduate school.)

Anyway, this post is about the battle of the sexes. Gender and its role is various societies is of course fascinating to anthropologists/archaeologists, sociologists, psychologists and psychotics.

How does the battle of the sexes figure into Sunshine Valley, Nevada? (Among one of the many places we surveyed.)

Let me try to paint how remote this was. If you think rural Kansas is out of the way, it's civilization compared to rural Nevada. There's usually a gas station within a 100 mile radius.

When we were bouncing along in the van down the dirt (not gravel) road, I looked out toward the distant mountains. I couldn't see the range's base because of a vast, hazy mirage. It wasn't a mirage of anything, it was just liquid, wavy tans and browns. Suddenly, a massive brown mustang leading a pack of wild horses burst out of the illusion and ran distantly alongside the van before melting back into the mirage.

Other people saw them too. I hope that answers that question bubbling in your mind: well, weren't they part of the mirage?

One of my friends I made on this trip was a local bank president in nearby Elko, and she talked about how she and her husband used to trap rattlesnakes for dinner.

You'd think the women out here would be pretty tough? Well, not all of them. This was our first clue: at lunchtime, a pencil thin girl unfolded a bandanna and sat on it so she wouldn't have to sit her butt against the sandy ground. We - both male and female - did our best not to laugh. At least where she could hear us.

Another day, we were rattling down another dirt road between the sage brush and tangled junipers. Today, a couple of the girls were stating that women were of course superior to men. Oddly enough, the men in the van were ignoring them. So were I and the bank president.

I guess I should clarify my personal opinion - there are too many idiots on both sides and in between the gender fence to be able to decide. I personally believe that it doesn't matter what sex, nationality, skin color, creed, blah blah blah, you are - you can still be an idiot.

Or you could be brilliant. At least, I hope you're brilliant.

And these girls kept prattling on about their inherent superiority, and how they don't need men to survive.

Well, in the van, a totally unsurprising thing happened. We got a flat tire. I think a rattlesnake tried to bite the van. Why not? It'd be more dramatic.

So, as I'm climbing out the van, I glanced back at the chatterboxes. Their faces suddenly paled. One quavered, "I've never changed a tire before."

Me: "What, in your whole life?"

She shook her head and licked her lips. "No."

"Then what do you do when you get a flat?"

Reply: "I just call my husband."

I wanted to head-desk the desert. So it was up to me, the boys and the bank president to change the tire. Which we did with practiced ease.

Grudgingly, I think this is a point for the males in the battle of the sexes.

I also thought of a great idea that summer: the archaeology diet. You can eat only what you can carry, deep in the middle of the Nevadan desert. You'll be tan and skinny in under a month! Downside: work, heat, dirt/sand, rattlesnakes, scorpions.

Here's a picture I took that summer with a disposable camera. My digital one had melted.