Flat-tyre failure and the hissing of punctured pride: Hunter Wells

Hunter Wells had never changed a tyre in his youth; that was a job for the AA. Photo / 123rf

THE FACTS

• Hunter Wells recounts disappointing a farmer known as “The Hat” with his lack of farming skills.
• Wells failed to change a flat tyre, relying on a woman for help, embarrassing The Hat.
• The Hat, frustrated by Wells’ ineptitude, resorted to drinking Scotch to cope with the disappointment.

Hunter Wells of Coast & Country News recounts yet another time his youthful townie ways bitterly disappointed the farmer known only as “The Hat”.

I thought I had demonstrated amazing enterprise and resourcefulness.

I also thought, finally, I would bring a swell of pride to that bosom.

Nuh-uh! Of course not. Nothing I ever did would please The Hat.

He just sat staring at me – gnarly old hands grinding away at grizzled bristles, deep eyes rolling, head nodding in disbelief and tutting away.

Understandable – The Hat had invested heavily, trying to convert this urban animal into something of a young farmer.

But so far, he had only succeeded at failing.

The Hat was a man who’d weathered storms – droughts, downturns, salmonella epidemic, facial eczema, rye grass staggers and fly strike – all manner of nasty stuff.

But what just about broke this man was his disappointment in me.

I’m sure I saw a tear as he shuffled off after hearing of my latest misadventure.

I had been dispatched to pick up an order from one of those rural farm stores – a “provider to the agriculture sector” – but there wasn’t one thing in that vast repository that I would ever want or need.

Nothing.

“Now see if you can do this without stuffing up,” he challenged me.

I couldn’t. About 40km from home, I got a flat tyre.

Suddenly, this boy needed a man. I had no idea how to change it.

So I knocked on the first door and pleaded hopelessness and helplessness to the lady of the house.

Eureka! She could and would change my tyre.

And she would ring The Hat, whom she knew and explain when I was back on the road.

Everything was coming together just tickety-boo.

Except I had just brought further shame and embarrassment on him.

Imagine the gossip at the saleyards when word got out that The Hat’s boy, his hired help, rather his hired help-less, didn’t know how to change a flattie. And I had asked a woman for help.

No shame. It didn’t matter to me if the tyre-fixer was wearing a dress or overalls, a toga or a loincloth. The tyre got changed.

“Haven’t you ever had a flat? Or changed a tyre?” The Hat asked.

Well, yes and no.

Yes, I have had two flat tyres in town.

And no. I’ve never been hands-on with the tyre change.

That’s why I’m a member of the AA. They do it for you. But they don’t teach you how to.

I didn’t even know where that lifting thing and spare tyre lived until the nice AA man went ferreting in the boot.

The Hat poured himself two fat fingers of Scotch and sculled it – probably hoping the coarse warmth of the alcohol might purge some of the pain.

For both our sakes, I hope so. Cheers.