My car stalled today. This is not newsworthy. My car did not start up again. This is. If you've driven on Hwy 65 through Blaine, MN you know it to be a very busy Hwy, especially at 4:30 when this event occurred.
My son and I were headed to his soccer practice, and poof, nothing. No power. A police lady pulled behind me and turned on her hazards. My battery was too weak to do the job. I was out scraping the battery terminals. Problem? I needed a new battery.
"Immediately enter the vehicle!"
The police lady megaphones me. I close the hood and obey.
"Why is she yelling at you?" My son's window was down.
"She doesn't want me to get hit, likely enough."
"Put your car in neutral and steer toward the shoulder!" That's her again.
I do, she shoves my car into the ditch, smiles and drives off. Like she's done me a favor. What a kind lady.
I don't want to be in the ditch. I just want a new battery. And presently, I want a jump. I want some car, any car (well that's not true, I don't want a Prius or some funky electric hybrid--they'll electrocute me) to stop and give me an old-fashioned jump.
So I reach in back of of the Escort, and pull out my jumper cables. Then I stand behind my car, holding them up for cars to see. I hold. And I hold. And I wave and I hold. For an hour. One stinkin' hour. Thousands of cars whip by me. Drivers peek, but don't dare risk looking. Then they'd have to feel bad. As it is, they can whip by me and say, "Oh, I would stop but it's so busy, and I'm in the wrong lane, and someone else will stop soon, and I heard on the news . . .blah, blah." So they stare at me and my son in their rear view mirror until we're specks, and you can't feel guilty about blowing by a speck.
Yeah, I'm a 6'5" guy. I don't expect a single lady to stop. But the guys. Man. I even have a kid out there with me!
I know the problem. Cell phones. We all expect that everyone has help on the way, but I'm an hour from home. I need five minutes of someone's time. One hour later, from the OTHER side of the highway, a pickup rumbles down into the ditch. It's the kind of guy who always helps. Before I describe him, close your eyes. Who helps on highways? You already know! He was one scruffy man. If I'm ever in a jam and I have a choice, let me run into a scruffy guy, the more unkempt the better. Don't let me bump into clean shaven, well-dressed, nice-car guys. They rarely stop because they have one life to live. Their own. Give me a smelly guy in a rusted truck.
If you've lived over forty years, you know what I'm talking about.
So the scruffy dude jumps my car. Three minutes is what it takes. Does he wait so I can thank him? You know that answer too. Of course not. I grind out of the ditch and get my kid to the last part of practice.
Yeah, we have to be careful. But thank goodness for scruffy guys who don't give a rip and don't rationalize that I probably have a cell phone. In that one guy, I found more kindness than I did in ten thousand well-dressed men.
Thanks, scruffy guy.
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