The Kindness of Strangers

One spring in the late ‘seventies, when I was in my mid-twenties, I drove solo from Los Angeles to Provo, Utah in my first car, a tan 1976 Ford Mustang. Everything I owned, which wasn’t much, was stuffed beneath its hatchback. I had left Provo and my friends about six months previously, looking for adventure in the land of glamour and movie stars. When I ran out of money and dreams, it was time to head for the nearest exit.

I left LA broken hearted, as so many people do, early one morning, completely broke and with a quarter tank of gas to drive the almost 650 miles home. So I took off, hoping for the best but expecting the worst; after all, I had no idea how I would actually get there.

The crinkled map was folded crookedly and lay face down on the passenger’s seat. I didn’t need to look at the two dots representing my end points to know which way to go. I took I-10 east, and then I-15 north. There was a lot of barren country in between the dots and a lot of distance between towns.

I drove as fast as I could, imagining somehow that I might make it home without the need for gas, as if I were in some sappy Hollywood movie where a weird miracle occurs just to make the audience cry. It didn’t. Just this side of Las Vegas, I had no choice but to fill up.

My heart pounding, I stopped and filled up at a lonely station in the desert, and then went inside to face the music. The young kid inside was stymied until he decided to call the owner who told him to take something of mine that was worth a tank of gas. I gave him my tape player and he seemed satisfied.

So off I went with a full tank of gas and hundreds of miles still to go, but ever so grateful he hadn’t had me arrested. I chugged up the gentle hills and then put the car in neutral and coasted downhill to save gas. I drove and drove forever, afraid to stop, afraid to waste even one drop of precious gasoline. Hurtling across the vast Nevada desert, I waited for the cough, cough, cough and sputter of the engine that would leave me as high and dry as a Bedouin in the Sahara.

As I finally crossed the invisible line into Utah, I found that spring had not yet reached the Beehive State and I turned on my heater. By then I had the center-line crazies from driving so long without stopping, but I was determined to reach my destination before dark.

Like the best laid plans, it didn’t happen. Night fell and I was still on the move. I was driving on a fume and a prayer and finally I had to stop. I pulled into the town of Springville, south of Provo and found the gas station. It was closed for the day. I stopped up against a fence around the side and settled in for the night. After a few hours, a local police officer on his rounds pulled in beside me.

“Can I help you?”

“Nope, I just need some gas.”

“Do you want me to call the owner over for you?”

“No thank you officer. I need a rest anyway. I can wait till morning.” I didn’t want to tell him that I had no money and was going to have to convince the station owner to barter with me in some way. I tried to sleep, but I was cold, and I worried about what would happen in the morning. How far was I from Provo anyway? I was sure it was too late to call anyone…

Early the next morning before the sun was even awake, a pickup truck pulled into the station and kept its motor running. A middle-aged man got out and motioned for me to put my window down.

I did, warily, and when he asked me why I didn’t have my engine running to keep warm, I told him I was out of gas. He invited me to sit in his truck, and though everything in me screamed, “You know better than to get in a stranger’s car!” I did it anyway. The thought of thawing out my frozen feet knocked all sense right out of my head.

I climbed numbly into his passenger seat, and as I sat getting all warm and toasty, I told him my story.

Next thing I knew, he was opening his wallet and handing me a ten dollar bill. “Fill up with this, and maybe you’ll have a few bucks over to get some breakfast.” After all, this was 1978 when gas was less than seventy cents a gallon.

I demurred. “That’s very nice of you to offer, but I can’t take your money. I don’t even know you.”

He insisted. “I have a daughter about your age. If she were ever in your predicament, I’d hope someone would help her out.”

The notion of “paying it forward” hadn’t become popular yet, and I wondered if he believed in Karma, or how he thought helping me might help his daughter out in some vague future, but I was willing to accept it, because I was beginning to think I might end up walking the rest of the way home.

I thanked him effusively, and by then the station owner was opening up. I filled my gas tank and was home a few minutes later. Turned out I was only a few short miles from home. My roommate said, “Why didn’t you call me? I would’ve come to get you.”

Silly me. I’d had no idea I was that close. And still, it I had called her, I never would have had a chance to meet the wonderful man who was happy to help out a complete stranger.

I thought of him many years later when I worked in a church and was watching the front office while everyone else was at lunch. A man I didn’t know came in and begged me to give him ten dollars. “We’re trying to get back home and we don’t have the money for gas,” he said. “I’ll mail it back to you as soon as I get home.”

I dug in my purse for a ten dollar bill and handed it to him smiling. “Get home safely,” I told him, happy to finally have the chance to repay a debt. “You don’t have to return it to me. Use it to help someone else out who needs it.”

I nodded silently to the man who helped me out so long ago, knowing he was finally repaid for his kindness.