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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