The Roadside Mentor

A ‘sworn enemy’ reminded me about the power of compassion.

Question: What would you do if you were in a position to help someone you were supposed to hate, a person you’d gladly bitch-slap into the next zip code?

I was faced with this dilemma six years ago. Driving to Southern California, I spotted a well-worn blue Ford F-150 parked somewhat haphazardly off Highway 60 just west of the vibrant megalopolis of Aguila, Arizona (population 565). The Ford’s driver, a grizzled 70-something sporting denim bib overalls, a weathered Stetson and a gloriously white 18-inch ZZ Top–style beard, stood next to his vehicle with his head bowed in resignation, hands on hips.

Without thinking, I did something that only a certifiable lunatic would ever do in the SoCal urban jungle: I pulled over to help.

As I slowed to a stop on the road’s gravel shoulder, the man looked in my direction, squinted into the mid-afternoon sun and gave me a shrug, a gesture I took as the universal sign of “What the hell now?”

I hopped out of my Toyota and headed toward him. The first thing I noticed, other than the guy’s flat right-rear tire, was the red MAGA bumper sticker affixed to the back of his pickup.

Oh, wonderful.

MAGA. Make America Great Again.

The clarion call of the ignorant, uneducated, brainwashed simpletons who, for reasons beyond comprehension, supported a certain orange pit viper who’d managed to slither his way into the Oval Office some two years earlier. Make America Great Again. These four simple words had never failed to pump my already borderline blood pressure into the stratosphere, four words that had always conjured up every mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging bully I’d encountered since childhood.

Clearly this brittle codger was a proud, red-blooded ’Merican. To me, however, he was nothing more than a crash-test dummy, an easily-suckered hayseed who’d somehow managed to earn the right to vote.

The man’s gravelly voice shook me from my brief reverie. “You wouldn’t happen to have a jack, would ya?” he inquired.

Sorry, buddy, but I don’t help people with a room-temperature IQ, I said, flashing him two middle fingers before pivoting back toward my Toyota. Find another neofascist to help you.

Actually, I wanted to say that. I wanted to unload on the stranger.

But I swallowed my words.

Because when the man sighed, tilted back his Stetson, removed his sunglasses and backhanded the sweat from his forehead, I saw something in his eyes that I hadn’t expected: a blend of desperation and resigned sadness.

“The missus and I gotta get to the doctor,” he said, gesturing into the pickup’s interior. “Pronto.”

I then spotted a thin, pallid woman, roughly the man’s age, collapsed in the F-150’s front passenger seat. A thin tube ran from her nostrils into what I assumed was an oxygen tank at her feet. On her head rested, you guessed it, a red MAGA baseball cap. Turning her head in my direction, she managed a feeble smile.

A few minutes later, I was hunkered down next to the flat tire, breaking free the rusty lug nuts that held the wheel to the Ford.

“Name’s Will,” the man said, bending over slightly and offering his hand.

“Larry,” I said, gripping a surprisingly large paw calloused from decades of hard work.

“Looks like you know what you’re doing,” he observed. “I really appreciate your help.”

“Not a problem,” I said. “This isn’t the best place to get a flat.”

“No it ain’t. Where you headed, anyway?”

“Los Angeles,” I said. “That’s where I’m from. Burbank, actually.”

Will stood, stretched his lower back and said, “Go figure. Jenny – that’s my better half up front – she has a sister in Burbank. Been there for years.”

“Small world,” I said as I worked the jack, slowly raising the pickup from the gravel.

“Jenny and I, we were thinking of visiting her while we still can,” Will said. “The wife, she don’t have a lot of time.”

I stopped raising the truck and looked up at Will. “Sir, I’m really sorry,” I said.

“Thanks,” Will replied. “Emphysema. You suck down them cancer sticks for the fifty years I’ve known her, and this is what happens. Honestly, I don’t know what I’m gonna do after she’s gone, and … and … ”

Will’s voice cracked.

So did a piece of my heart.

Once the spare tire was affixed to his pickup, I turned toward my car, carrying my jack and tire iron. Will stepped forward and again offered his hand.

“Thank you so much.”

No handshake this time. No sir. Hesitating only briefly, I moved in closer, dropped my hardware, and gave Will a hug. I was as surprised as he was.

I felt his upper body briefly stiffen, then relax, as he sighed into my left shoulder.

“You take care of your wife,” I said, patting him on the back. “And take care of yourself.”

“Maybe we’ll see you in Burbank,” Will said.

“Maybe you will,” I said, smiling, before heading back toward my car. “Be well.”

Kudos and high-fives to my friends in the Write Hearted community, with a special nod to Simon Emslie, aka The Pipe Writer, for his wise feedback.