One rainy Friday night my friends and I got a flat. Our car had run over a pothole two blocks from the expressway, and we pulled into a gas station between Armitage and North to change the tire. The driver popped the trunk, and I got out of the backseat to help him. He had a spare, a jack, and a crowbar, but they were buried under sports equipment and several boxes of promotional fliers. We started unloading the trunk, and water was getting in my eyes. Suddenly, from across the parking lot, we heard a shout. A hero was about to appear.
“Did you ask if we need any help?” a friend inquired. The man had reached the car.
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“That’s right, he-op,” he said.
“We already have these,” I said.
I showed her the card; the address on the car was somewhere on Cicero. It appeared that Chuck the Car Whiz did not work for this particular gas station.
“No, no, the Wid does not need he-op,” he said, turning a nut. “Owwwwwww! That’s some tire! Heeeeeeeey-ah!”
“Phew,” said Chuck the Car Whiz. “Damn it, the Wid is strong.” He fit the tire onto the frame and started reapplying the lug nuts. He hummed to himself. “Rub-a-dug-dug, I’m putting back the lug,” he said. The driver grimaced. After Chuck finished replacing the tire, he helped us reload the trunk.
