I always figured as long as I had my cell phone, the whole irony and luck of the Irish thing would save me from flats. That was so not happening tonight, and thus I had to make the Call Of Shame, in the rain. And thunder. The sag wagon showed up promptly with a Warden delightfully free of any “I told you so” vibe, Son#2 happy to be out, and Son#1 totally stoked to be part of the rescue mission to save Dad from his own stupidity. “Dad, you know what you need? One of those bags, and you can put a spare tube in there, and a pump, and then you can fix it yourself.” I knew this would happen, that someday Son#1 would prove himself to be a smarter, better man than his father, but I was kind of hoping this would occur when I had a few more gray hairs, maybe even a grand kid or something, or at least till after he hit puberty. In my defense, I do have one of those bags, and all of those tools, but they have been scattered to all points of the compass, in two or three different piles. He said it with such sincerity, with such and obvious desire to help it made my heart swell with more than a little pride. Of course, none of this helped suppress the urge to reach into the back seat, grab his favorite spider man toy, and huck it out the window of our moving minivan. Next time I flat, I think I’ll call Patty, or at least see if the Warden can’t leave
