A Letter to an Unknown Woman
I still remember this day as if it were only yesterday, except that it was about thirty-years-ago. If it weren’t for that special-order book, I would have waited another day, or at least until the rain had stopped. It was pouring out, a cold, cold rain. And it was more than pouring, someone should have started gathering animals, two by two, for the ark. My windshield wipers weren’t helping much even on double-fast speed, and the road looked more like a river than pavement. I parked in the lot across from the library and ran between the gaps in the traffic to the entrance. There was no way not to get wet.
While waiting for the librarian to get my book, I saw you, or should I say, I saw you seeing me. You were soaking wet, your long hair plastered to your head and dripping rainwater. You were on a mission and you found me. Only me in a line of others.
“You look like the kind of guy who has jumper cables,” you said.
Truth be told, I was wondering if you were hitting on me. I was going to say I didn’t have any jumper cables, just to end it there. I already had a woman in my life, and I certainly didn’t need another. Having one was sometimes one too many. But you looked desperate, and I, usually the desperate one in meeting women, decided right then and there that, yes, you were probably really looking for jumper cables.
“Yes, I have jumper cables,” I answered.
Of course, I did. I drove a CJ7, last of the real Jeeps before Chrysler bought the company and ruined those iconic classics by making them more dependable and rust-proof. I carried all the tools to keep my oil-leaking beast running: a hammer to whack the starter to get it working again, extra spark plugs, wire-drier, flares, WD-40, wrenches, screwdrivers, jumper cables, and a tow rope just in case.
I got drenched jump-starting your car. Truth be told (again), there weren’t enough cuss words in my vocabulary to mutter under my breath to keep me dry. Or warm.
Then you wanted to pay me, but I wouldn’t take your money, so you stuffed in my hand a couple scratch tickets you had purchased earlier. Was I looking at an angel? Was this God’s way of paying me for grudgingly helping a stranger, making me the next millionaire on earth? And for being at risk of getting pneumonia from this miserable rainstorm, to boot?
In the end, I didn’t win anything, not even a free ticket. The more I thought about it, the situation and you, the more I realized that you did, in fact, give me something. I had the experience, the tools, and the time to help you safely get back to your clan. In the process you helped me discover gratitude in all that I have, and that I should do good for no other reason than to do good. No payment on your part was necessary; neither was grumpiness and cussing on mine.
Perhaps you really were an angel.
Thank you.
Tim
P.S. The next time you have car troubles, if there is a next time, can it be on a nice and warm sunny day?
Photo credit of the wet windshield: Florinel Gorgan. Unsplash.com
Here’s an old photo of me and The Beast with 3 of my 4 kids ready to rock and roll (most likely to get some ice cream). By this time I already had galvanized sheet metal covering the rusted-out floor, and I had stopped washing my Jeep because by doing so, small pieces of the fenders and side panels would fall off.