09/28/2001

Out of Gas

The gas gauge read half full; then why had the engine conked out without warning?

There I was, stranded, on a cold night in November. At least I was able to coast off the road and onto the shoulder before coming to a dead stop. I hadn't realized until then that this stretch of highway was unlighted. No gas and miles from the nearest town. What should I do? Consider my options, I guess.

I could get out and walk to the nearest house and call for help. Why have I always insisted that I don't need or want a cellphone? It was freezing outside, and all I had was a sweater. Naturally I was wearing pumps and had no sneakers in the car. Miss Girl Scout, that's me. Never prepared. It was probably not so cold that I would get frostbite. Still, I wasn't sure it was a good idea to leave the car by the side of the road. It might get towed away.

I could flag down a passing motorist, but maybe it would be better to wait for a good Samaritan to stop. That way I would know it was someone who really wants to help me. Just as I was wishing a cop would come by, someone pulled up behind me.

What a junkheap! The way it coughed and sputtered, I wondered if that driver was having car trouble, too. There was more rust on that thing than an iron bedstead at the junkyard.

A tall man with a felt hat on leaned on the car by the driver's side where I sat in the dark shivering. "Having trouble, lady?" He was as black as night and had white wavy hair.

Leery of talking to strangers but needing his help, I told him, "I think I'm out of gas."

"I have a gas can in my trunk, Ma'am. I'll find a gas station, fill 'er up and be right back."

He got back into his car and pulled out onto the highway, driving off with engine sputtering and a cloud of blue smoke billowing out from the exhaust pipe.

I waited. About ten minutes later, another car pulled up behind me. This time it was a police cruiser.

The officer walked over to my window. "What's the problem?" he asked.

Happy to see him but not wanting to offend the man who had offered to help, I told the officer that everything was fine and that I was just waiting with the car for a kind motorist to return with some gas.

The officer left.

What am I, nuts? Why didn't I ask the cop to stay and wait with me? Because I refused to judge someone by anything other than what he did, that's why.

I saw dusty headlights in the rearview mirror and heard the unmistakable chug of the black man's old V-8. He carried the full gas can over to my car, but it didn't have a nozzle, and we had no funnel. I got the bright idea to make a funnel out of one of the maps in the glove compartment. That was quick thinking!

We managed to pour the gasoline into the tank with minimum spillage. I thanked him profusely for his help, climbed back in the car, turned the key and it started right up. I assured him that he didn't need to follow me to the nearest gas station, but he trailed along anyway, just to make sure. After I reached a station safely, he waved good-bye and drove away.

Although a bit shaken, I felt proud of myself that I had trusted him, but I felt foolish at the same time. Anyone I talk to about this incident says that I should have asked the policeman to stay with me, just to be on the safe side. I know they're right, but I think the man would have been hurt. He would have assumed that I didn't trust him, just because of his skin color, and it would be just one more incident between white and black that separates us.

I think that his behavior spoke for itself. No one else stopped to help me except the policeman, who was simply doing the job he's paid to do. The man who helped me could have made an anti-white decision, too. He could have driven right by, just because I was a white girl. He didn't do that.

Thank you, sir, wherever you are.

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