Who knew that you aren’t supposed to see little wires sticking out of your car tire? Not me.


Well, OK, I knew it was suspect. It certainly wasn’t usual. I could have mentioned it to my husband, but I like to avoid stressing him out. Plus, I like to assert my independence by handling my own problems. Maybe it would last until the end of the week, so I could run to the garage and get them changed before he noticed. Since he didn’t drive my car often, I thought my chances were good.


Then, one scorchingly hot afternoon, I was tooling along on U.S. Route 22, taking the Veteran’s Memorial Bridge exit, when the car developed a persistent pull to the right. I turned the music down from its usual ear-splitting level and listened. Thunka-thunka-thunka-thunk!


Well, this didn’t bode well.


Reluctantly, as my office was less than a mile away, I pulled over. I heard that thunka-thunka once before, when I got a nail in my tire, and ended up buying a new wheel rim after trying to reach the house.


I hate cars. Anything mechanical, really.


So, I was on the shoulder of the highway, the sun was baking down, traffic whizzing past, and I was wearing four-inch stilettos, so walking to the office was out. Now, I could have called my husband, but he works in Coraopolis, and I’d be a puddle by the time he got to me. Plus, y’know, the whole avoidance thing?


So I called Lynnellen, our community editor. Lynnellen and I are besties, and I knew I could count on her to come riding to the rescue. Also, she was much closer than my husband, and, hopefully, I could avoid the whole telling-the-husband-I-was-riding-on-bald-tires thing. In further pursuit of hiding my misadventure, I called on my sister’s mechanic friend to change the tire out, so I could drive the car home sometime that day. Preferably before my husband got home. It wasn’t so much as hiding it from him as delaying the inevitable disappointment. My husband does exasperated very well.


How was I supposed to know Lynnellen was having a bad day? I wasn’t even in the office; I was out in Avella land.


I asked Lynnellen if she could come fetch me, and she agreed, then asked me where in Steubenville I could be found.


“Do you know where the bridge is?” I asked.


“Do you know how many (expletive) bridges there are?”


The answer is three. I was too awed to answer. Lynnellen is one of the classiest people I know. She doesn’t curse.


Maybe I should have called the husband.





(Wallace-Minger is the staff writer for the PA Focus and can be contacted at swallace@pafocus.com)

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