The tire didn’t hiss, slowly deflate, then comedically flap-smack the ground with each rotation, like in the cartoons—which Zach realized at that moment was his only point of reference regarding flat tires. Instead, there was simply a loud pop before a grindy hum until he pulled over.

“Shit.”

A flat tire when it’s dark sucks. A flat tire when it’s dark and raining really sucks. Based on how long it took him to remember where the button was for the “flashers” he wasn’t feeling good about his chances of getting it changed out quickly.

Zach turned off the car, unhooked his safety belt, then pulled up the hood on his North Face before getting out to survey the damage. Rear passenger-side.

He had no idea how to change a flat.

He quickly ran through the list of things he did know about cars: How to drive them; How to call an Uber. Oh, and he could fill his own gas, but only when ‘full-service’ wasn’t an option. His dad had promised to show him when he got his license, but every-other-weekends were usually over too fast as is, so there never seemed to be time for that kind of thing. His mom was completely useless when it came to cars, save for how to negotiate a favorable lease—though, her firm provided her with whatever was trendy at the time and a car service if required, so she never had to worry about that kind of thing, either.

Who even does handle this kind of thing? AA? Wait, no, that’s for alcoholics. “Siri, look up the number for Triple-A.”

Zach put his hand up over his face, too-bright eye-level headlights from a lifted pickup suddenly turning night to day. The massive, foul-smelling diesel seemingly rattling his teeth, he instinctively moved back, toward the shoulder of the road as the headlights dimmed, leaving just the soft-orange glow of the running lights. The engine shut off, the door opened then closed; A baseball cap floated along the massive hood, eventually revealing the man underneath it.

Zach felt that uneasy feeling he always got in his gut when confronted by the Race of Giants. A silly name, but one that he and his also-slight friends in high school had used as a catch-all for the athletes and others who seemed to have won the genetic lottery. As an adult he had learned to let this feeling go—he was a successful, grown-ass man! (Though, a lot of the process of “letting it go” was based on the geography of his particular interests: Working in software; Yoga and Running; Tea and Cocktails; D&D.)

“Hey, bud. Having car trouble?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. It’s a flat. I’m just going to call triple-A.”

“You don’t need them for something like this. I got you, man. You gotta spare?”

Shit. Did he? He had no idea, had never looked for it? “Uh, yeah, I think so?”

“Why don’t you pop the trunk and I’ll take a look?”

Zach still felt that old, familiar “flight instinct” in his stomach, but he was cold and wet and he imagined it would take AAA quite awhile to show up, so he opted to let the man do his thing.

“Oh, sorry, let me get that—“ Zach grabbed his backpack and threw it onto the passenger seat. He watched as the man deftly pulled up the cloth covering, popped off some kind of cardboard, then undid the mechanism on the spare before yanking it out like it was nothing and placing it near the flat. He grabbed the tools that were also stored near the tire (who knew?!) and went to work loosening the lug nuts before jacking up the car.

“Yup, here it is. Looks like you picked up a piece of rebar from that construction site over there.”

Zach took a small, bent piece of metal from the man. It looked to be part of a metal rod, with projections coming out of it, that had been cut at an angle near a bend. “Yeah, looks like it. Thanks.”

“You run this by Tire Farm and they’ll get you set up with a replacement. I’m Greg, by the way,” the man said, wiping streaks of road grease onto his Levi’s before offering a hand to Zach.

Zach shook it, feeling is soft-pink hand might get crushed, and offered, “Zach. Zach Leaon. Thanks for helping with this.”

“Nah, no prob. I’ve done a million of these.”

Zach looked at Greg—his NAPA hat, hockey player haircut, Grunt Style t-shirt, well-worn Romeos. “Really? A million? That seems like a lot.”

“Okay, maybe not a million, but quite a few. Comes with the territory. It’s my side hustle. I buy cheap-ass cars, fix ‘em up a bit, sell ‘em off. Rinse-repeat, know what I mean?”

No. “Yeah.”

“I don’t make much—enough to buy a new piece of shit and fix it up—but the extra pays for ammo, you know, that kind of shit.”

Gulp. “Yeah.”

A few cars passed by, their lights illuminating the scene, allowing Zach a glance at Greg’s truck. He was into stickers: A white-line abstract that appeared to be deer head inside a bigger deer head; Something called Bowtech (like, bow and arrow bows?); He felt silly when he realized that the two bullets next to the “A” signified Greg’s apparent fondness for the Second Amendment.

Yikes.

He looked at the back of his Camry, suddenly self-conscious of his own bumper stickers. He didn’t have many, but they told a story. It hit him that Greg and he were not likely to see eye-to-eye on much. Funny thing, this: How your could tell so much about a person based solely on the uniforms they chose to wear. Not uniforms in the literal sense, but uniforms all-the-same. A fedora combined with an anime t-shirt sent a much different message than Nike shorts and a Champion sweatshirt. A beard and a pipe told a different story than a crew cut and Red Bull.

Humans were so tribal.

But wasn’t he guilty of the same thing? He wore a hoodie and Vans because that’s what software engineers wore. He only wore camouflage ironically. He drove a hybrid because he cared about the planet and all that, but mostly because all of his friends and coworkers drove hybrids or electrics and he didn’t want to explain why de didn’t.

“Almost got it. I’m going to hand-tighten these before I lower the car, then I’ll give them a good crank. You probably still want to have the dude double-check my work when you go to get the other tire fixed, though. Just to make sure you’re safe.”

Greg was looking out for him. He had stopped, in the dark and the rain, to help a stranger with car trouble. He would get nothing out of this, and—Zach knew—he wouldn’t accept anything for it even if Zach offered. He felt suddenly guilty. Things had become so political, so “us versus them,” that he’d lost sight of the Real behind all the Fake. He had done his fair share of Twitter fighting those with whom he’d found disagreement, but it was more than just that. He’d lost touch with much more, allowed himself to be “sucked in” to a culture war that really only existed where Clicks-n-Views were the principal currency.

And Greg knew who he was helping when he pulled up, Zach though. His car also had tribal identifiers—but Greg did it anyway.

“Alright, bud. There you go. You should be good to drive.”

“Thanks, man. Really. I appreciate it.”

“No sweat, brother. Take care…”

Zach watched the man walk back toward his truck, knowing that they’d likely never see each other again. That seemed strange, wrong. This man—Greg—had shown up right when Zach needed help, and provided it. He stopped, in the dark and the rain, putting himself in potential danger, to help. They had been strangers, but now they were linked, weren’t they? Didn’t this kind of stuff matter?

Shouldn’t it matter?

“Hey, uh, Greg?”

“What’s up, Zach?”

“Can I grab you a beer?”