Last night on the way home I got a flat on the freeway. Rather than switching the tire for the space saver spare that seems to be the inevitable component of all new cars today, I decided to go ahead and have it towed to the tire station where I'd bought the tires, 50,000 miles ago. I was pretty sure that the tires were still okay. Most likely just a nail or something had pierced its tread. Or at least that is what I hoped had happened.

The tow truck driver agreed to give me a ride home after dropping off the car. As soon as he found out what I did for a living, I couldn't stop him from talking. Not that what he had to say wasn't interesting, but as he outlined one idea for an invention he had concocted after another, I started to wonder if he truly was on to anything, or if this was all just the ravings of a meth head. Crystal meth is often the drug of choice of tow truck drivers, or so I understand. I started to look at him a little more closely as he kept chattering incessantly, but I wasn't really certain if this was the product of a drug addled mind.

By the time he got me home and let me out of his truck I was pretty weary of his ideas. To hear him tell it, he had solved everything from how a tow truck driver could break into a car without leaving a scratch on the door panel, to solutions for matters that I didn't realize were problematic, such as band aids that changed color to tell us when they needed to be replaced.

The next day though, was the real surprise. As I pulled up to the service station, much later in the day than I had anticipated, it seemed to me that the tire looked a lot less flat than when I had left it. In fact, I started to wonder whether it had been completely flat at all - at best, the tire looked a little deflated.

I walked in and started to explain why I was there. "I had my car towed here last night because it got a flat -" but the shop manager cut me off. "I already took care of it." He just smiled.

"Wow." was all I could say. "How did you know it was mine?"

He just kept smiling and explained that it wasn't hard - a flat tire - parked in the first stall in front of his shop. A brand of tires on the car that they carried. He was just happy to be of help.

Automatically I asked, "What do I owe you?"

Of course, he just waved me off. Nothing.

Later, outside, he started to pull out his wallet and add that there was something I could do for him. For a moment I thought he was going to ask for a cash tip. But he just added, "Oh, just forget it. It's all right."

Then he explained that it would be nice if I could phone his toll free customer service line and explain that I had received good service from them, but finally said that his corporate headquarters would be calling me anyway. So I suppose they did know whose car it was after all.

I walked away with a glowing feeling. Not often that a tire shop, or any mechanic's shop for that matter, can impart any kind of good feeling other than maybe, I didn't get ripped off. But this time, full service indeed.