joang
December 27th, 2003, 04:19 PM
This is from the Dilbert Newsletter 28.0 December 1999
In the tradition of the Dilbert Newsletter, I give you a special holiday
story with no humor content whatsoever.
It was one of those cold winter nights in the Haight district of San
Francisco, the kind where the rain hurts and your breath forms huge
cotton balls that bounce on the pavement. I was driving an eyesore that
could only be referred to as a "car" by someone who was either a
shameless liar or a good friend. Technically, the vehicle was totalled
when I bought it from an unscrupulous neighbor, because it needed an
engine overhaul that would have cost more than the car itself. I added
a quart of oil before every journey. Most of it would leak out along
the way. I tried to imagine I was driving a huge magical snail; that
way I didn't mind the slow speeds and the slime trail it left.
The car's outer paint had transformed into a hideous mixture of rust and
"something brown." The engine sounded like a lawnmower with
tuberculosis. If anyone ever wondered what the inside of an automobile
seat looked like, my car had the answers.
It was a difficult car to drive because you had to keep your fingers and
toes crossed to keep the engine running. That night I must have
uncrossed my fingers to scratch something. The car died in the middle
of a four-lane stretch of Oak Street. I coasted as far as I could,
hoping for a place to turn off, but the street was lined with parked
cars and the nearest intersection was beyond coasting distance. There I
sat, in busy evening traffic, no lights, no locomotion, as tons of steel
and plastic screamed by.
In my rearview mirror I saw a pair of headlights pull up and stop behind
me. I knew what was coming. Soon the horn would start and someone
would be cursing at me. In San Francisco, if you dawdle too long after
a light turns green, you get the horn. If you dare to come to a full
stop at a stop sign, you get the horn from the car behind you. I
figured I was begging for trouble.
But I was wrong.
A stranger got out of the car and came to my window. He shouted, "Do
you want a push?" I was stunned but must have nodded in the affirmative.
He waived to his car and two teens piled out to apply themselves to my
bumper. When I was safely delivered to a side street, they hopped back
into their car and rejoined the sea of anonymous traffic. I didn't get
to thank them.
Over the years I've realized something about the stranger who stopped to
help. I've noticed that every time I'm in trouble, he appears. He
never looks the same. Sometimes he's a woman. His age and ethnicity
vary. But he's always there. I've started to understand he's the best
part of what makes us human beings. The one true thing in this world is
an unasked kindness provided by a stranger. It's the invisible cord
that binds us all together and makes life worthwhile.
This year, when you find yourself immersed in the clutter and bustle of
the holiday season, annoyed by the long lines, baffled about how you'll
get everything done, remember this: One of the people in that crowd is
the stranger. Today, maybe it's you.
Have a great holiday season, everyone.
[I have met that stranger too. J]
In the tradition of the Dilbert Newsletter, I give you a special holiday
story with no humor content whatsoever.
It was one of those cold winter nights in the Haight district of San
Francisco, the kind where the rain hurts and your breath forms huge
cotton balls that bounce on the pavement. I was driving an eyesore that
could only be referred to as a "car" by someone who was either a
shameless liar or a good friend. Technically, the vehicle was totalled
when I bought it from an unscrupulous neighbor, because it needed an
engine overhaul that would have cost more than the car itself. I added
a quart of oil before every journey. Most of it would leak out along
the way. I tried to imagine I was driving a huge magical snail; that
way I didn't mind the slow speeds and the slime trail it left.
The car's outer paint had transformed into a hideous mixture of rust and
"something brown." The engine sounded like a lawnmower with
tuberculosis. If anyone ever wondered what the inside of an automobile
seat looked like, my car had the answers.
It was a difficult car to drive because you had to keep your fingers and
toes crossed to keep the engine running. That night I must have
uncrossed my fingers to scratch something. The car died in the middle
of a four-lane stretch of Oak Street. I coasted as far as I could,
hoping for a place to turn off, but the street was lined with parked
cars and the nearest intersection was beyond coasting distance. There I
sat, in busy evening traffic, no lights, no locomotion, as tons of steel
and plastic screamed by.
In my rearview mirror I saw a pair of headlights pull up and stop behind
me. I knew what was coming. Soon the horn would start and someone
would be cursing at me. In San Francisco, if you dawdle too long after
a light turns green, you get the horn. If you dare to come to a full
stop at a stop sign, you get the horn from the car behind you. I
figured I was begging for trouble.
But I was wrong.
A stranger got out of the car and came to my window. He shouted, "Do
you want a push?" I was stunned but must have nodded in the affirmative.
He waived to his car and two teens piled out to apply themselves to my
bumper. When I was safely delivered to a side street, they hopped back
into their car and rejoined the sea of anonymous traffic. I didn't get
to thank them.
Over the years I've realized something about the stranger who stopped to
help. I've noticed that every time I'm in trouble, he appears. He
never looks the same. Sometimes he's a woman. His age and ethnicity
vary. But he's always there. I've started to understand he's the best
part of what makes us human beings. The one true thing in this world is
an unasked kindness provided by a stranger. It's the invisible cord
that binds us all together and makes life worthwhile.
This year, when you find yourself immersed in the clutter and bustle of
the holiday season, annoyed by the long lines, baffled about how you'll
get everything done, remember this: One of the people in that crowd is
the stranger. Today, maybe it's you.
Have a great holiday season, everyone.
[I have met that stranger too. J]