So I was making my Friday drive home yesterday at 4:30 pm, heading from the office to my own neck of the woods in Spring, 20+ miles to the north. I was waiting at the traffic light at Hammerly & Brittmore when my car (a white Dodge Intrepid) just died. I tried and tried to start it, but it just clicked at first, and then did nothing at all; without even enough current to flash the hazard lights.
Sucks ass, right? For about five minutes ... yeah. (follow me over the jump to find out how the rest of the evening worked out)
I know this will sound almost made up, but I swear on my son Jacob's eyes that it's true (anyone who knows me and how much I love my son knows I'd never make that statement flippantly). I've only changed a name or two for privacy reasons.
Soon -- as I was pawing through the stuff in my car to see if I had a full-on toolkit [I didn't] -- a police car pulled up behind me, and the Hispanic cop inside offered to push my car with his to the nearby gas station parking lot. There, I determined the problem wasn't battery terminal corrosion or blown fuses, and a few minutes later a guy walked up and wanted to help out but had loaned his jumper cables to his wife (I didn't have any with me either). At first, I thought he was Hispanic, but he turned out to be a Muslim named Abbas who worked at an industrial plant just down the road.
Abbas and I poked around under the hood for a few minutes until an older, scraggly white guy in a meshback ballcap sauntered up with some cables in hand. In a speech pattern eerily reminiscent of Boomhauer from King of the Hill he offered to let me use them to try to jump start the car. We hooked them up to my battery and Abbas' and gave it a try. No go, so we let it idle for a bit, hoping to build up enough charge to start my car.
While we were waiting, "Boomhauer" entertained us with a half-comprehensible story about getting his arm sliced with a carpet knife last week and how the doctor who'd stitched him up had been very careful to line the stitches up properly so as not to ruin his tattoo. He showed me her handiwork, and sure enough, the stitches were almost hidden in the eagle's wing. I told him he was lucky to have found a doctor who understood tats enough to take care not to mar his.
We tried the car another couple of times but had no luck, so Abbas called AAA (he had a membership) to send a tow truck. I thanked Abbas and "Boomhauer" and offered $10 to each for their help. Abbas refused, saying that he tried to help people whenever he could, hoping that someday when he needed help, a good Samaritan would be there for him, Insha'Allah. Altruistic self-interest, I suppose; regardless, I was grateful.
While I was waiting for the tow truck to arrive, some Hispanic laborers squatting beside the store drinking Coronas and listening to salsa and Tejano rock coming from the open window of one of their Camaros waved me over and offered me a beer. I hung out there and drank a couple with them for half an hour or so, listening to to music and grinning at them as they good-naturedly insulted each other, playing a south-of-the-border version of the dozens, I guess. "Pinche culo", "puñeta" and a heaping helping of references to "tu madre" were thrown around. I even offered one myself, cupping my crotch and saying "Aqui puto!" with a big smile. The dude who'd offered me the beer (a chubby guy with jug ears and a mustache) laughed so hard he fell off his plastic milkcrate.
When the tow truck showed up about 6:00, it was already dark. I said adios to my new buddies and thanked them for the beer.
The wrecker driver was a large black man in his mid-late 30s named Romalice, who seemed to know his job pretty well. He hooked my car up and loaded it up onto the back of his flatbed within five minutes and we were ready to go. The 18 mile, $90 tow took about 45 minutes, because we had to take a lot of backroads to avoid rush hour traffic, and because Romalice was a very conscientious driver. He was a sweet, simple guy who reminded me in the very best way of Bubba from Forrest Gump.
During the ride, Romalice and I talked about a lot of stuff, including politics. He was a little wary at first but was then delighted to find I was an enthusiastic Obama supporter and that we agreed philosophically about so much. I found out quite a bit about him and his family. They'd moved to Houston after losing literally everything when Katrina devastated Slidell, LA. He told me that they weren't going back, because he felt much more "empowered" in Houston, where there was more opportunity for a man like him.
He told me of his late wife, and how he met her on the playground in Jr. High School. She'd fallen down and scraped her knee and he'd helped her up and taken her to the school nurse to get it cleaned up. The next day she'd brought him an extra lunch that her mother had made for him as thanks. He said that by the time they'd finished their meatloaf sandwiches, he was in love ... both with her and with her mama's cooking.
They'd married as soon as they could and set about making babies with a vengeance. Over fifteen years, they ended up with nine children (yes, nine), one of whom was developmentally disabled (a ten year old little girl with hydrocephalism). They both worked hard to provide for their family; he'd been a hospital orderly in Louisiana and she'd been a day care teacher for small children. After they moved here, he'd worked in a WalMart distribution center warehouse for a while. He'd made pretty good money, but had to work 12-16 hour days regularly, which put quite a burden on his wife, having to take care of all those kids practically by herself.
When his wife was diagnosed with breast cancer, the awful chemo treatments and her general poor health made it impossible for her to keep up, so Romalice had to find another job that would allow him to be home more to take care of her and the children. When he told me of her death and the effect it had on their kids, it almost brought me to tears. But he wasn't feeling sorry for himself; he said "They say the Lord, He don't give nobody a burden too heavy for his back to bear. I think that's true."
Honestly, I think Romalice was the nicest person I've met in a year, with a folksy, faithful soul. When we got to my house and unloaded the car, I offered him something to drink and tried to give him an extra $30, but all he'd take from me was a bottle of water. We exchanged business cards and as he left, he told me he and his brother always threw a big crawfish boil at the beginning of crawfish season, and that I would absolutely be invited to the next one because he thought I was "a real awesome guy." I had a smile on my face the rest of the night.
It was the best damned car breakdown I've ever had. An experience like that can make you feel good for days afterward. Even my beloved Rockets losing to San Antonio last night didn't take the shine off my mood.
PS: Got the car back from the shop an hour or so ago; it was just a dead battery. I was thinking alternator and hundreds of dollars in replacement costs. And, my insurance company is going to reimburse me for the towing. Kick ass!
I also called AAA and Romalice's employer and gave them a glowing report of his courtesy, pleasant manner and professionalism. He wouldn't take my money, but this was something I could do for him.