Chapter Six
The Ghost Samaritan; or, A Suburban Legend
All that was needed was a scarecrow, and maybe a pumpkin patch.
Dead leaves. Bare trees. An empty farm
field. A chilly wind stirring the leaves.
And an empty road, with my car on the shoulder. The front right tire flat and shredded; the wheel nuts on so tight that no amount of effort or leverage would budge them.
And all the while, at the back and front and sides of my mind, fear and worry. One of my best friends was undergoing surgery that morning.
My boss, who was with me, had a thought. “It’s just a year since our colleague Larry was killed in a crash. I wonder if this is where it happened?” I picked up the jack handle ....
It all came of working for madman.
My boss’s boss’s had a death in the family, and the funeral was that morning in eastern Pennsylvania. I would have been more than willing to go, and drive anyone else who wanted to go; but for my friend’s surgery. Not that there was anything I could do for her; but worry had eroded my ambition and concentration. In the end, I decided someone from work should be there, and I told my boss I would go.
He said he’d meet me in The Bronx at 7:30 (he lived on the Upper East Side) so that we could get to the Bridge easily. At 6:00 that morning my phone rang. He thought it would be better if I picked him up on East 86th Street at 7:30. I won’t say what I thought.
I got to his building about 7:32. He wasn’t outside, as he had said he would be. In those pre-cell phone days, there was little I could do. After a few minutes, he emerged. Since I had been “late” he had gone back upstairs to call, to see if I were really coming.
There is no easy way to get to the GWB from East 86th Street; but there was no easy way to do anything with him, so why should this be different. He insisted we take the Lincoln Tunnel. Not for the last time, I should have ignored him. But: he was my boss; my thoughts and feelings were elsewhere; and I wanted this to go as effortlessly as possible.
And an empty road, with my car on the shoulder. The front right tire flat and shredded; the wheel nuts on so tight that no amount of effort or leverage would budge them.
And all the while, at the back and front and sides of my mind, fear and worry. One of my best friends was undergoing surgery that morning.
My boss, who was with me, had a thought. “It’s just a year since our colleague Larry was killed in a crash. I wonder if this is where it happened?” I picked up the jack handle ....
It all came of working for madman.
My boss’s boss’s had a death in the family, and the funeral was that morning in eastern Pennsylvania. I would have been more than willing to go, and drive anyone else who wanted to go; but for my friend’s surgery. Not that there was anything I could do for her; but worry had eroded my ambition and concentration. In the end, I decided someone from work should be there, and I told my boss I would go.
He said he’d meet me in The Bronx at 7:30 (he lived on the Upper East Side) so that we could get to the Bridge easily. At 6:00 that morning my phone rang. He thought it would be better if I picked him up on East 86th Street at 7:30. I won’t say what I thought.
I got to his building about 7:32. He wasn’t outside, as he had said he would be. In those pre-cell phone days, there was little I could do. After a few minutes, he emerged. Since I had been “late” he had gone back upstairs to call, to see if I were really coming.
There is no easy way to get to the GWB from East 86th Street; but there was no easy way to do anything with him, so why should this be different. He insisted we take the Lincoln Tunnel. Not for the last time, I should have ignored him. But: he was my boss; my thoughts and feelings were elsewhere; and I wanted this to go as effortlessly as possible.
He waved his directions to the funeral, and his
map of New Jersey, in my face. I said,
not for the last time, “I know what we have to do from here till we have to
exit Route 22; then I’ll ask you to remind me of the directions.”
Coming up the helix on the New Jersey side, he unfolded his map, holding it up in front of him and spreading it wide, blocking most of the windshield. I said “I know what we have to do from here till we have to exit Route 22; then I’ll ask you to remind me of the directions.”
Coming up the helix on the New Jersey side, he unfolded his map, holding it up in front of him and spreading it wide, blocking most of the windshield. I said “I know what we have to do from here till we have to exit Route 22; then I’ll ask you to remind me of the directions.”
Heading south on the Turnpike, to take 78 west. He said “exit 14.” I knew it was 14A; I had gone that way to 78 a dozen times. He was insistent. He rummaged in his pockets and came out with his hand-scrawled directions to the funeral. Again, and even more against such judgment as I retained, I gave way, thinking that if he saw that he was obviously wrong, and I obviously knew how to go, the rest of the trip might he less contentious.
I think it was turning around in the rubble-strewn lot in Bayonne (or wherever it was) that inflicted the damage to the tire, which was not to show up till later. I didn’t hear anything at the time, because of his repeated “I was sure it was exit 14.”
At long last reaching Route 22, I got out the sketch map I had prepared. In those pre-GPS days, I would sketch a map, with the destination at the top, showing the turns, route numbers and exits from bottom to top; when laid in my lap, it aligned with the direction I was going.
He snatched it out of my lap, giving me quite a start. He unfolded his giant map across the windshield. “Your map is upside down” he told me. I tried once to explain. A mistake.
“Are you telling me ...” he began, “are you telling me that you read from bottom to ....” This went on for quite a while.
Thump. Thump thump. Thump thump thump thump .... the car was pulling hard to right; I fought to get it as smoothly as possible onto the shoulder. I got out and looked at the ruined tire; while he sat crumpled like a marionette with broken strings, with his crumpled map in his lap. He finally got out, and looked at the tire. “It doesn’t look too bad.” I didn’t answer him, but just got out the jack. The wheel nuts were very tight. They were very, very tight. Neither I nor the boss, nor our combined efforts, nor even putting my full weight on the handle of the wrench would budge them.
There was an exit a few hundred yards ahead. The tire was already ruined; it would make sense to drive on it to the exit. There was always a gas station at exits.
There was a farm field, and an empty road.
We tried again, and failed again. The boss was inspired to think about the tragic death of a friend the year before. “It’s just a year since our colleague Larry was killed in a crash. I wonder if this is where it happened?” I picked up the jack handle. I thought, with all that tall grass and dead vegetation, how long before the boss’s body would be discovered? I slammed the handle against the nuts, and tried again.
They wouldn’t budge.
I don’t remember how long we stood there, waiting for a car to come by. I was considering backing up the exit ramp onto the highway, when a pickup truck came along. The friendly, sympathetic driver tried all his strength, and all his weight, without success. He said “I’ll go and get some tools and come back.”
The boss said to me “why don’t you go with him? I’ll wait here.” I was going to try to send the boss, while I waited at the car; but it was impossible to convince him; and who knows what would happen if he were to set off alone in the truck with the Good Samaritan. I might never see either of them again; and I needed the Samaritan.
Our benefactor and I set out in his truck, down a series of twisting, progressively narrower, more rutted, and more desolate roads. As we went, he told me his name, and that he restored antique furniture. He spoke of his interest in paleontology, and in DNA research. He mentioned that he was concerned about our growing dependence on computers. And finally, he told me he suffered from severe attention deficit disorder.
At length we pulled up to a well-kept but very secluded house. I thought idly “I think I’ve seen this movie.” He went into the basement, and was gone a while. I worried about his ADD; would he remember that he was going to help us, or even who I was, or why I was in his house?
He emerged from the basement carrying a long-handled axe. I thought “I’ve definitely seen this movie.” But he said “this will do it!” and we set off. And indeed it did do it: a few hard blows with the blunt end of the axe head on the inside of the wheel, and the nuts came loose. We changed the tire, and our benefactor departed, refusing to take anything for his trouble. But he had given me his furniture business card, and already I knew what I could do to reward him.
The boss and I set out, knowing it was too late for the service, but hoping to get to the cemetery in time. He consulted his version of the directions. “West on Swamp Road.” Swamp Road got progressively more rutted and winding, and eventually vanished into a muddy field. He studied his directions again. “‘East on Swamp Road’ I should have said.”
Since it was now obviously too late to catch the funeral party at the cemetery, we heading north and east again, with my normally morose boss talking cheerfully about how maybe this was all meant to be. Approaching the city, he decided that he would not in fact go up to The Bronx to the office, so that I could battle the Manhattan traffic to get him to the Upper East Side, before heading to what was left of the work day myself.
Back at work I accomplished nothing. For probably only the second time in my life, I paced the floor, worrying about my friend and her surgery. As it developed, she had come through it well; but no one thought to call me with the news.
Our Good Samaritan had refused to take anything for his time and effort and concern. But his conversation: paleontology, DNA, computer risks, had given me an idea. I bought a copy of the recently-published Jurassic Park and mailed it to the address on his business card, along with a note expressing my thanks. A few days later, it was back in my mailbox. “No such address.” A call to the number on the card resulted in a “no such number” message.
And that’s my true story of worry, delay, misdirection, and stranding; and of rescue by the Ghost Samaritan.
I don’t remember how long we stood there, waiting for a car to come by. I was considering backing up the exit ramp onto the highway, when a pickup truck came along. The friendly, sympathetic driver tried all his strength, and all his weight, without success. He said “I’ll go and get some tools and come back.”
The boss said to me “why don’t you go with him? I’ll wait here.” I was going to try to send the boss, while I waited at the car; but it was impossible to convince him; and who knows what would happen if he were to set off alone in the truck with the Good Samaritan. I might never see either of them again; and I needed the Samaritan.
Our benefactor and I set out in his truck, down a series of twisting, progressively narrower, more rutted, and more desolate roads. As we went, he told me his name, and that he restored antique furniture. He spoke of his interest in paleontology, and in DNA research. He mentioned that he was concerned about our growing dependence on computers. And finally, he told me he suffered from severe attention deficit disorder.
At length we pulled up to a well-kept but very secluded house. I thought idly “I think I’ve seen this movie.” He went into the basement, and was gone a while. I worried about his ADD; would he remember that he was going to help us, or even who I was, or why I was in his house?
He emerged from the basement carrying a long-handled axe. I thought “I’ve definitely seen this movie.” But he said “this will do it!” and we set off. And indeed it did do it: a few hard blows with the blunt end of the axe head on the inside of the wheel, and the nuts came loose. We changed the tire, and our benefactor departed, refusing to take anything for his trouble. But he had given me his furniture business card, and already I knew what I could do to reward him.
The boss and I set out, knowing it was too late for the service, but hoping to get to the cemetery in time. He consulted his version of the directions. “West on Swamp Road.” Swamp Road got progressively more rutted and winding, and eventually vanished into a muddy field. He studied his directions again. “‘East on Swamp Road’ I should have said.”
Since it was now obviously too late to catch the funeral party at the cemetery, we heading north and east again, with my normally morose boss talking cheerfully about how maybe this was all meant to be. Approaching the city, he decided that he would not in fact go up to The Bronx to the office, so that I could battle the Manhattan traffic to get him to the Upper East Side, before heading to what was left of the work day myself.
Back at work I accomplished nothing. For probably only the second time in my life, I paced the floor, worrying about my friend and her surgery. As it developed, she had come through it well; but no one thought to call me with the news.
Our Good Samaritan had refused to take anything for his time and effort and concern. But his conversation: paleontology, DNA, computer risks, had given me an idea. I bought a copy of the recently-published Jurassic Park and mailed it to the address on his business card, along with a note expressing my thanks. A few days later, it was back in my mailbox. “No such address.” A call to the number on the card resulted in a “no such number” message.
And that’s my true story of worry, delay, misdirection, and stranding; and of rescue by the Ghost Samaritan.
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