THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1997, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, February 16, 1997 TAG: 9702160066
SECTION: LOCAL PAGE: B1 EDITION: NORTH CAROLINA
TYPE: Column
SOURCE: BY PAUL SOUTH, STAFF WRITER
DATELINE: BUXTON LENGTH: 66 lines
Hatteras Island was flying past the driver's side window within the legally prescribed speed limit.
I would get to my meeting in plenty of time, on a Monday that was shaping up to be pretty decent. Battleship-gray skies stopped raining, and the 53-mile drive from Nags Head was like a walk to the corner for a paper.
Then, a muffled pop from beneath the car burst the illusion that sometimes even Mondays can be all right.
I had a flat. The right front tire went toe-to-toe with a sharp-edged scallop shell, probably dropped on N.C. 12 by a rude but recently well-fed seagull.
And on top of that, it started to rain in big, hard, cold drops.
My beloved Mazda limped down the highway, like a running back with a turned ankle. I was about a mile away from Buxton and maybe, just maybe, some help.
I passed one self-service gas station, the one with just gas and sodas and chips and packs of Nabs. (Nabs are crackers in northeastern North Carolina).
Then, I found The Red Drum.
I had passed this place at least 50 times in three years, not knowing if it was a combination gas station/restaurant or what. The car with its worn-out tire wheezed into the lot.
``Can somebody help me change a tire?'' I asked.
Danny Couch came from behind the counter wearing gray coveralls and told me to pull around to the garage. I followed his orders. As he came out of his shop, he said ``I've got the flu, but I own this place, and my help is sick, so I've got to be here.''
I apologized for dragging him into the rain.
``No problem,'' he said.
Later, in the garage, surrounded by the smells of oil, grease, gasoline, rubber and metal, Danny Couch went to work. With the self-assurance of Dale Earnhardt's crew chief, Danny removed the bad tire, shards of tattered tread tumbling to the cold concrete.
``Scallop shell probably got it,'' he said, as he opened up an inch-long puncture on the black sidewall. Within a few minutes, he had a new tire on the rim, had balanced it, and put it on the car.
He checked the other tires, pumping air into those that needed it.
``Might need to keep an eye on that one,'' he said, pointing at the left-rear wheel.
We went back into the shop.
``How much do I owe you?'' I asked, a touch of trepidation in my voice. Having been raised among the big city auto repair robberswho made Frank and Jesse James seem like missionaries, I expected the worst.
``Let me see what I paid for the tire,'' he said, eyeing a file folder. ``Don't worry about the labor. You look like you've had a tough day.''
I paid him, punctuating the transaction with profuse thanks.
I drove on to Cape Hatteras School. And aside from being a minute or two late, the day was back on even keel.
The night's drive back was a slow one, my recently healed auto wheeling cautiously through big, wet, white flakes of snow.
On that drive back, listening to '60s music from an Edenton station, I thought about Danny Couch and his kindness, made manifest despite the flu.
And I thought about something Martin Luther King Jr. said once about folks and their life's work. How it didn't matter if you swept streets, wrote stories, or fixed tires, as long as you did your very best, kept a smile on your face, and kindness in your heart. That's the stuff that makes angels sing.
I've never seen an angel. But my guess is that anytime a tire pops in Buxton, near where Danny Couch works, a heavenly choir starts its warmup.