I left San Diego to
take a new job in Boston in the winter of 1979. There were more
reasons to make the move than just the promise of a new position. I
know leaving the sunny beaches for the winter storms of New England
sounds crazy but it was something I had to do.
I had a 1963 Dodge
Dart convertible that we referred to as the Squad Car. It had
more than a few rust spots and a cheap replacement top from J. C.
Whitney. A slant 6 engine and a push button automatic transmission. It was called the Squad Car because wherever we went it was
the car we took. To the beach, to the clubs, 3 people, 8 people, the
Squad Car was it.
Now I was driving
across Kansas in the middle of the night heading for another new
beginning. I had just passed an off-ramp for some unknown town when I
began to hear a squeal from under the car. Normally I would just
press on and trust to luck but something about this noise made me
turn around and make my way to the town I had just passed.
It was one of those
Middle America towns with maybe 600 people and a high school for all
the farm kids in the county. I came down Main Street and parked in
front of a service garage. It was freezing cold so I hunkered down
and turned on the engine every once in a while for what little warmth
the heater had to offer.
I woke to the sound
of people coming to work and went in to explain my troubles to the
manager. Hearing that I was on my way to a new job he told me to
bring it into the service bay and they would look at it immediately. I
had just started up the ramp when the right front wheel fell off! The squealing sound I'd heard was the wheel bearings committing suicide! Lucky that I had turned around when I did.
They rushed out and
lifted the front end with one of those jacks with wheels and I slowly
inched the car forward onto the lift. Once there they came to the
conclusion that it was indeed fatal. The parts would cost more than
the car was worth. Just as I was contemplating hitchhiking to Boston
one of the mechanics remarked that he thought there was another Dart
out at the junk yard and they might be able to get parts off of it. A
phone call confirmed the existence of the parts for the total sum of
$25.
The crew seemed to
think that this was the most excitement they'd had in a long time and
threw themselves into gear. In the mean time I was stranded with
nothing to do while they went to get the parts.
The manager suggested a diner down the street for coffee and
breakfast.
I walked into 1945
when I entered the diner. I took a stool at the counter and a
waitress walked up. “You must be that guy with the car that the
wheel fell off. Want some coffee?” 30 minutes haven't gone by since
the incident and I'm already famous! I had coffee with eggs and bacon
when the waitress told me that the crew had come back with the parts
but it would still be a couple of hours before they would be done.
She assured me that I was welcome to stay as long as I wanted. I
thanked her but said I wanted to walk around a bit.
As cold as it was
that didn't last long and I headed into the town library for warmth.
The librarian came up to inform me that they were closed except for
school kids. Then she looked at me with a smile and said, “I'll bet
you're the guy with the car that the wheel fell off.” Word travels
fast in a small town. She told me that I was welcome to take a seat
over to one side and to let her know if the kids made too much noise.
She come over later
and let me know that my car was ready. My own personal assistant. I
walked back to the garage and there was my car sitting out front on
all four wheels. They informed me that my timing was off so they had
set that correctly and did a couple of other things that “needed
attention”
The bill was
absurdly low for all the work and care they had put into it. This was
America at its best. People helping people without agenda or
expectation just because they needed it.
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