I was on my way home from the gym and a bunch of errands
when the clutch on my Honda finally gave out.
I had foolishly been putting off having it fixed for weeks, adding more
brake fluid to keep it going, but when it wouldn’t go into gear approaching the
intersection of Park and Taft Streets, I rolled it halfway onto the grassy
median, a couple car-lengths before the stoplight. I didn’t know what else to do…
I immediately called my roadside repair service, which I’ve
paid for every month for years and have never used, and waited. And waited.
For almost two hours, calling every twenty minutes to be put on hold,
transferred around, and finally told that it would be twenty more minutes
before the tow truck arrived. But during
that time, as I played games on my phone and read my e-book, I found out
something awesome. Most people are nice.
It’s rare that I’m in so vulnerable position in a car,
parked with flashers flashing, half-in and half-out of a busy lane of traffic,
worried that someone would crash into me on general principles of road rage. But to my astonishment in two hours, only one
person angrily honked at me, and that was a school bus driver, who also
screamed curses at me as she sharply cut in front of me to turn left. (I know that’s a stressful job, honey, but
take it out on the kids, will ya?)
In that two hours, at least a dozen people, all strangers,
slowed down or actually pulled over and stopped to ask if I needed help. These included young people, old people, men
and women, black people, white people, a FedEx driver, a school crosswalk
guard, and finally a policeman who finally helped me push the car fully onto
the grass. I’m often not a fan of police
– but this guy was so super sweet, and he really didn’t have to do it,
legally.
I know that I often do the same thing - offer to call
someone, or push a car off the road, or tell someone they have a flat, or hand
a couple dollars to a median beggar.
Without thinking. Why? Because compassion doesn’t need a reason.
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