Since the High School Reunion post had positive feedback (yay!), I thought I’d share another high school story. Except, this one is more of a confession. A confession to my parents about what really happened to the tire on my Mustang.
I had a flat. A serious, on the ground limp, flat. The kind of flat that a can of flat fixer wouldn’t fix, and the kind that needed serious service if not a brand new tire altogether.
Being 17 years old, of course I called my daddy for assistance with all car matters. Like all dads, he knew everything about cars and could (and can) fix just about anything. Or at least put the temporary donut on so we could get it to the Wal-Mart service center.
Daddy ended up paying about $50 to have the tire sealed. The Wal-Mart guys pulled a six-inch nail out of the tire. “Where the heck were you driving that you managed to run over a nail that size?,” my dad asked.
“Um, I dunno.” And I ran off.
He joked about it for a couple of days and kept asking me how I ran over such a large nail, etc. and so forth. I’d always mutter out something and then leave the room.
Now for the confession: Remember my friend with whom I sold donuts to a guy in rough area? Yes, that one. Well, she drove my car around in a trailer park. I don’t mean in someone’s driveway, I mean in an actual yard of someone’s trailer. A couple of days later, the tire sunk to the ground.
So there it is: I confess that the nail in my tire in the 12th grade was because my friend drove up, into, and over someone’s yard.