Flattened.

My small laptop bag was packed with the essentials for my weekend. The little amount of laundry that my mom would begrudgingly do was all neatly stuffed into a bag. I was consumed in the air of optimism as I looked ahead at the upcoming weekend. Of course, all of these romantic notions were popped as I was driving up the small ramp from the student parking lot. It was a loud whurr that I've heard one too many times in my life; it was a flat tire.

My driver side rear tire has been giving me trouble for a while now. Every couple of months it gets a little too flat for comfort and I have to refill it. It's nothing I've been particularly concerned about, since it hasn't been losing air at a rapid rate. But today it was just plain flat. I pulled over into a parking spot and instantly two guys (whom I've seen before, but I don't know their names... I think they were music majors.) offered to help me change it. "Don't worry, it just needs some air. But thanks for the offer!" I told them, and went to phone the campus police.

Me: Hello? Hi. I have a flat tire, and I just need some air. Do you guys have a pump or something I can use?
The Man: You'll have to call maintenance, they have an air tank you could use.
Me: Okay, thanks.
*Calls maintenance*
Me: Hi, I have a flat tire and need some air put in it. Do you guys have a tank of air or a pump?
Steve (the Maintenance guy): You'll have to call campus security.
Me: Um... they told me to call you.
Steve: Oh... hold on. [Hey, campus security told him that we have an air tank... yeah... ok...] Just bring your car down to the smoke stack, behind the sports center, and we'll fill it with air.

And I did just that. Steve the Maintenance Guy was awesome! He pulled out the air hose and filled up my tire, and then after he noticed that the air was escaping rather quickly, advised that I drive it to Wal-Mart. We talked for a little bit and he filled it up again (because it needed it already) and I quickly sped off before it could have a chance to flatten further. It was a scene reminiscent of those movies where the young pilot flies off on a suicide mission, and his mentor is there on the air strip saying, "Go get 'em kid!"

Well, I did. I sped all the way to Wal-Mart, holding my breath every time I had to yield to a pedestrian, and safely navigated to the tire garage located 'round back. That's when they told me it would be at least an hour and a half, and I suddenly felt any plans I made for early this evening soar off with a bitter wink goodbye. But I had no choice, I couldn't take this poor tire on the turnpike for forty minutes. So I handed the keys over, grabbed my laptop, and walked across the parking lot to Panera. And so, as I sit here writing this very entry, and enjoying some of the best chicken noodle soup in the world, I can't say I know the future for Tiger (my car). If they can just patch the tire, it'll cost a mere $6.50. If I have to buy a new one, I won't be very happy.

As soon as I sat down I hopped on iChat and told Puff, my roommate. "God forbid you actually have to sit and wait for 90 minutes," he said. What can I say? That's how I roll.