After an hour’s sleep, I awoke to a dim Louisiana sky. The time: 5 o’clock a.m. Time to make the doughnuts.
Slipping behind the wheel, I piloted the Cadillac over to the air pump that had been blocked the night before by an 18-wheeler. Boy, the Caddy sure felt low on the back right. Maybe it needed more air than I thought.
Down on the right rear.
When I got out of the car, I noticed, to my chagrin, that the tire was totally flat. Good morning, you ass, the Brougham seemed to be saying.
A totally flat tire.
Oh, and the large truck was still blocking the air pump. Undeterred, I uncoiled the air line and tossed it under the running 18-wheeler (I’ve learned on this trip that 18-wheelers seldom shut down the diesel engine, even when they’re sleeping at night).
Note the air hose threaded through the bottom of the truck.
Then I went inside to make change for the pump. By the way, I firmly believe that air should be free. I just paid $40, $50, up to $60 to fill up my Cadillac–I expect, in return, a.) good clean gas, b.) a good clean restroom, and c.) some damned free air.
Instead, I fed the machine 75 cents and it clattered to life. Attaching the nozzle to my deflated paperweight, I began to fill the tire with air. It simply hissed out.
“It’s not enough volume,” said the truck driver. Michael had awakened to find me under his truck.
“Well, then, I guess I have to call AAA,” I said, depressed.
“Nah,” Michael responded with a smile, “Let me hook you up to my rig.” And in a jiffy, Michael produced his own air nozzle, powered by his big rig. The tire inflated immediately
Hot damn. We were ready to go. But shoot. Where was Kim? While I waited for her to emerge from wherever, I filled the car with gas. Another five minutes ticked by.
I glanced down at the tire. Flat again. Double damn! How could this be? We’d driven all through the night so we could make New Orleans by 11 a.m. What a waste, I thought. It looked as if I’d miss my media meetings.
Just then, Kim came out of the gas station. “We’re going to make it!” she said, and I agreed (though I really felt like we were probably going to spend the day inside a repair shop).
I asked Michael to fill up the tire with air again, and he kindly obliged. I bought two cans of Fix-a-Flat, and we were good to go. The tire now held air for more than five minutes, though for how much longer was anyone’s guess. I needed to find a tire repair shop–and fast.
Not many exits off these Louisiana highways.
We eased down the highway at 50 mph and soon came upon Quality Tire Repair. After a few minutes, Quality Tire and I removed the offending wheel. They tested it for leaks and after about 30 minutes, determined that the valve stem was the culprit. They didn’t have a long valve stem, so they used a truck stem and a stainless steel extension.
We were back on the road, $17 poorer, but much safer. And I still had time to make New Orleans by 11 o’clock. Ten miles down the highway, the back end began to wobble again.
“You’re kidding me,” I said to Kim. We pulled off at a truck stop. Sure enough, the tire was at 20 pounds again. The truck stop’s tire guy wouldn’t be back for 45 minutes, but the owner said there were service centers in Baton Rouge–just a few miles up the road.
I filled the tire up to 35 psi and lit out for Baton Rouge. Halfway there, the back end felt so flat that I pulled over into the breakdown lane to check it. Fortunately, it wasn’t flat. Still, to be safe, I decided to add some additional Fix-a-Flat. To my frustration, however, the new valve stem wouldn’t accept the Fix-a-Flat nozzle. We’d have to make it on the air we had left. It was 18 miles to Baton Rouge.
By the time we pulled off the road for the third time, the back end felt totally flat. I crept into a Walmart Tire & Lube Center. They all stared at the car like a spacecraft had landed and the alien pilots needed some Zenonian lubricant for the flux capcitor.
“Take me to your leader,” I told the tire guy. He blinked vacantly. “Do you have a manager?” I asked again.
“Yeah,” he finally replied.
“Can you tell him I’m here and need some help with my tire?” I began speaking very slowly.
“Yeah,” he said.
The manager, who had an IQ slightly above room temperature, seemed to understand that I needed my tire fixed and pointed in the general direction of a tire store. That’s all we needed.
Tire store #2.
Kim and I leapt into the Brougham and took off for the next repair shop. In minutes, we’d found Spirit, which advertised a “full time mechanic, 6 days a week.”
I find it wise to remove my own wheel.
Four guys came out and immediately began work on my wheel. That felt good. I carefully guided the removal, taking special precaution with the Brougham’s irreplaceable fender skirt. Like Quality Tire Service, Spirit determined that the valve stem was to blame. They ordered the correct stem from NAPA, and one hour and $9 later, we were good as new.
This does lead to less-than-flattering poses, however.
I raced for the Big Easy. I needed to drop Kim off at the Louis Armstrong International Airport and then boogie downtown to meet with Jerry and Deb Shriver–old friends and media potentates.
Deb and Jerry at Elizabeths.
As I pulled into the airport parking lot, the back end started doing its infamous hula dance. Frustrated, I pulled over at a Shell Station, blew the tire up with not one but two cans of Fix-a-Flat, and made tracks for Deb and Jerry’s.
Deb is a dear friend from my days in New York. Both being from Alabama, we had an instant bond. Her husband Jerry and I also share a mutual love of food (he’s the food critic for USA Today). For lunch, we went to Elizabeth’s. Many pounds of bacon, biscuits, and fat later, we emerged, highly sated. The rest of the afternoon was spent telling stories in the front parlor of Deb and Jerry’s fabulous French Quarter home.
Deb: au repose avec chien.
I retired for the evening at the Garden District home of Jennifer Mills, a dear friend of Mrs. Murphy’s. Jennifer has just moved to New Orleans, but has settled into NOLA life like a pro.
My quarters for the next few days.
I adore New Orleans. I drilled in the city for four years as an active reservist for the U.S. Navy.
I’ve driven bigger boats than the Cadillac. (But the torpedos weren’t as large)
As such, I got to explore the many nooks and crannies of the Crescent City. I usually describe NOLA as the “Northernmost Caribbean town.” In truth, however, it’s probably better described as the food capital of the U.S. The city truly attracts the best chefs in America. The four seasons in the city are: oyster, shrimp, crab, and crawfish.
Just one of NOLA’s best seasons.
Plus the most famous thoroughfare in town is named “Bourbon Street.” How could I not love a place like that?
Late that afternoon, I decided to get the Brougham’s tire repaired properly. First, I went to Firestone. They referred me to their other store, which stayed open until 6 p.m. (it was 4:45). So I drove to Firestone II. Once there, the employee who greeted me asked me to wait in the parking lot. I waited. And waited. And waited. Did I mention this is New Orleans where the temperature is infernal and the humidity is usually high enough to curl Mr. Clean’s hair? Finally, after 45 minutes, I went inside to ask the manager if they were going to help me. She said, “No, we’re about to close. Come back tomorrow.” Super.
So I went across the street to Pep Boys. I had a good first experience with Pep Boys in New Mexico, so I gave ’em a shot. They asked me to wait until 7:45, which I did, patiently. Then a young and energetic fellow helped me out. We took off the fender skirt and the tire together and inspected the rim. I’d begun to get the feeling that the rim might be failing, as it had in Boston. Yet it showed no signs of stress or fatigue. Just to narrow down the possibilities, however, I instructed that we swap the tire with the good spare from the bad Boston rim.
Mounting the bias ply tire proved to be a challenge. Many shops no longer have the equipment to mount these old tires. The trick is to fill the them with a large volume of air in a hurry so that they seat to the rim. My regular shop, Estes Automotive, struggled for three hours trying to mount my tires initially. An old-timer there quipped that back in the day they used to fill the tires with ether, the throw a match in the tire, and “blow the sucker onto the rim.” That sounded entertaining, if not quite up to OSHA standards.
Fortunately, Pep Boys had device that blows 100 pounds of pressure into a tire all at once. It creates a mighty loud pop of air and usually inflates the tire. After one or two tries with the thing, the Pep Boy technician was clearly frustrated. Obviously, this was his first Brougham experience.
“I’ll hold the tire while you inflate it,” I offered.
“Man, that would be great,” the tech said. He filled the inflater with 100 pounds of pressure, then fitted it to my rim while I held the tire. BLAM! The force of the air blew my shirt off and teased my hair up even taller than normal. But thankfully, the tire was now inflated. Success, at last.
I drove away from Pep Boys and rejoiced that my tire might finally be fixed.
Jennifer’s old home welcomed me with a gorgeous guest house, which she loaded with treats, wine, cookies, and cashews (my favorite). I took a late-night swim in the twinkling pool, forgot about the tire, and then collapsed into the huge, fluffy white bed.