You Don't Know Jacks.

I don't know jacks. I do know the answer to the question: how many people does it take to change a tire in Myrtle Beach? Apparently, it's six. Six people; three jacks; one big truck.

No one would mistake my 1999 Volkswagon Passat, Squidward, for his predecessor, SpongeBob, to be sure; but Squidward has been a fairly reliable car. I noticed a slight "shimmy" on the way to Myrtle Beach, but promptly pulled over, inspected the tires, concluded that they were okay, and proceeded to the The Public Defenders' Convention. A tire-man, I am not. At the conclusion of Monday's classes, I emerged to find a flat passenger-side front tire. Diane said she would be happy to call AAA, as she was a member of long-standing, and that she had only once before availed herself of their road-side assistance. "Oh, foolish woman!", I proclaimed, "Am I not a man? Does not my car trunk contain a spare-tire and tools with which to attach it? Set aside your cellular phone, and marvel at my competence!" (Actually, those weren't my exact words, but that was the gist of it).

As it happens, neither my tools, nor my skills, were equal to the task. I did, indeed, remove the spare from the trunk, and jack up the car to remove the wounded tire; however, one of the bolts required a special tool, which I was unable to locate. Nearby condo denizen, Istvan, a Pittsburgh private investigator, detected my distress, located the missing link, and helped me to get the old tire off the car. Getting the spare on would be another matter altogether.

My manhood bruised, but my resolve to change the tire intact, I thanked Istvan and told him I'd be okay on my own. As I attempted to attached the spare, a light breeze rocked the car, which promptly fell upon my pathetic, cereal-box-prize-quality jack. Istvan had continued to chart my sorry progress from his 10th floor condo unit, and was back with his wife and two sodas. He managed to extricate the jack from under the car, and we went at it again, this time with the old tire underneath the frame to provide a measure of support. Again, the merest breath of a breeze knocked Squidward off kilter, and again the car remained sans-a-tire.

The security chief, pictured at left with Istvan, had been observing my plight with a mixture of amusement and sympathy. "That's a pretty lousy jack", he opined, "I'll see if I can get you a real one".

As this was transpiring- as Istvan, the Security Chief, and I were busy doing man-things- Diane, accompanied by Istvan's wife, called AAA.

This is the jack the security guy brought. Sadly, it couldn't hold hydraulic fluid because of a leak. The security guy evidently didn't know jack, either. Now, we really looked stuck.

Within a very short period of time, Al's Towing, dispatched by AAA, arrived to save the day.

Er, that is to say, Mike, dispatched by Al's, dispatched by AAA, dispatched by Diane, saved the day.

This jack finally did the trick. Diane may not know jack, but she at least knows people who do.