A couple days ago, in The Stafford Challenge facebook group, Mike Luster's poem about a stranger helping change a flat, reminded me of a stranger helping me out of a bind years ago. No fancy poetic forms today . . . just some free verse.
Lifesaver
The brisk temps this morning, in the low 30s,
reminded me of the Utah desert 40+ years ago.
I was pulled over on I-80, long enough after sunset
that it was about full dark. Not much traffic at all.
Late spring, mid-May, heading home for summer
from college, and my Karmann Ghia was dead.
Dead in the water, as they say, except no water,
just snowflakes spitting across my windshield.
Every time a vehicle would come by, headlights
spiking through desert darkness, I would open
my driver’s side door and blink my little flashlight.
It was starting to fade. No luck stopping anyone.
That night was beautiful. Stars filling the sky,
the Milky Way a long splash of diagonal light.
But I couldn’t appreciate it. Cold. Getting late.
Then headlights. I flashed again. Last chance.
The semi slammed on its brakes, screeching
and almost fishtailing. The rig came to a stop
a hundred yards ahead and then backed up
to thirty feet in front of me. Crazy good driving!
The driver clambered out and we talked there
on the roadside. After hearing my story, the red
light on the dash signaling electrical trouble,
the long wait as car after car after car sped by,
the driver said, “Let’s bump-start her. I bet
she’ll fire up.” The two of us pushed the Ghia
to a roll and I jumped in and popped the clutch.
To my great surprise, it started, bucking a bit.
He said, “Get going in front of me, no lights,
and I’ll shine my high beams right over you.
We’ll make it to Wendover, fifteen miles up.”
And off we went, the semi just five feet behind.
I could see the road very well with his lights.
I was afraid to look in my rear-view, ’cause
his bumper and grille were right there,
about to drive up my ass if I faltered at all.
On the other side of the highway, passing
cars flashed their high beams: your lights
are off, dummy, and a semi is tailgating you!
I ignored them all and concentrated. Hard.
After maybe ten minutes, the Ghia started
to buck like a bronc, and I had to pull over.
Miraculously, the semi did not run me down.
We stood again next to the two vehicles.
He said, “Let me get a rope and we’ll tie
her behind the trailer. When we come up
to the Nevada state line, I’ll pull you
through the scales and let ’em know
I’m assisting a motorist.” He pulled the rig
ahead and backed up to within ten feet,
and we tied the Ghia to his back bumper
with a hefty rope. Then off we went again.
This time, I had to really watch out
that I didn’t run him down — yeah, right! —
if he had to slow down. We were going
freeway speed. Maybe more frightening!
In Wendover, Nevada, he pulled us
into a huge casino parking lot. Glitzy
lights on the tall building, very different
from the Utah desert’s dark landscape.
We rolled the car into a space alongside
a closed gas station, and I offered to buy
him dinner. “My name’s Merlin,” he said.
“I’m a Mormon.” Over a couple burgers —
no beers — he told me funny stories
of the many highway rescues he’d done
over the last twenty years on the road.
Damn, that Merlin was a wizard, for sure!
Later, out by the Ghia, he told me, “Don’t
fix it here. They’ll take an arm and a leg.
Just have ’em charge up your battery
and drive till you’re about to die, then
pull into a gas station and do it again.
You’ll get into Frisco before nightfall.
Good luck!” And up he went into his cab.
Next morning, at sunrise, I started his plan
and leapfrogged all the way to The City.
I pulled into my father’s driveway just
before dark. I often wonder about Merlin:
is he out there, 80 now, still saving lives?
—Draft by Vince Gotera [Do not copy or quote . . . thanks.]
Friends, won’t you comment, please? Love to know what you’re thinking.
Ingat, everyone. ヅ
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