The Good Bad-Ass Samaritan
February 2015
by John Robinson
Home was calling. It was Friday, and the sun’s heat was shimmering on the highway ahead of me. Erifnus, my car, pointed her nose toward Columbia. By then, she’d show 290,000 miles on her odometer.
Cruising along I-70, we fell into the rhythm of the road. Then Erifnus shot me a stark S.O.S. Her battery light came on. I knew what it meant. Her alternator had quit. Without her pacemaker, she would die soon.
I turned off the radio and the fan, and we kept rolling toward Tiger Town. I called her mechanic and told him to prepare a bay for her.
“Think we’ll make it?” I asked.
“Not likely.”
But the car kept going, and hope springs eternal in old bones and brains. Maybe we could make it on the juice left in her battery. But Erifnus was doomed, and the problem reflected out of her eyes. The precious battery charge bled out through her headlights.
Soon Erifnus was showing symptoms of a heart attack. Passing Warrenton, her dashboard lights began flashing, her tachometer started swinging wildly.
Next exit was a mile away. Long mile.
I coaxed her through the final turn. She rolled up the ramp and coasted into an empty parking lot. Erifnus was dead.
Our landing pad was a typical interstate gas station. The mechanic bay had morphed into aisles of snack foods and Slurpee machines. Alongside the store, a man crouched, airing a front tire on his car, which looked older than Erifnus. I approached him carefully because, well, you never know.
“Where’s the nearest auto repair shop?”
He jumped up from his crouch and pointed. “Just down the service road. You broke down? I’ll give you a lift.”
The guy looked older than me, with a weatherbeaten face covered by a beard that some folks would label Duck Dynasty. His wiry frame moved like a crab through the car’s floorboards, picking up beer bottles and trash to make room for me.
“That’s okay, man,” I answered. “I can walk....”
A cigarette hung alternately from his lips and fingers as he spoke. “I’ll take you. I know the mechanic. Good guy. They got a wrecker. I always jump at the chance to help somebody.” His enthusiasm was disarming.
Still, I knew that riding shotgun on this new adventure might turn out badly. I hadn’t hitchhiked much since college.
“Vietnam vet,” he said proudly. “Always glad to help an American.” He sized me up, too, figuring I was a long-haired good ‘ole boy. He wasn’t wrong, really, since I know my way around banjo music.
He kept talking, a helpful trait that would give me clues.
“I was a badass in my younger days,” he said. “People wanna kill me.” I believed him. “I don’t like to fight, but if they come at me.... Wife left me a couple years ago, ran off with another man.” He took a deep drag on his cigarette, through teeth the color of his fingers. “Women...” He rolled his bloodshot eyes. I agreed because, well, I was in survival mode.
“Let’s get you to the mechanic.”
I walked over to Erifnus, cranked up her windows, locked her doors, and gave her a goodby pat, lest she never see me again. With a sigh, I climbed into his car and began the next leg of this adventure. Seat belt for me, none for him.
He drove out of the lot and onto the street. I hoped this mission wouldn’t change from rescue to recovery. Pictures went through my mind. Cheryl, the kids and grandkids.
He drove, talking through another cigarette. “Worked at a body shop fer 40 years. I’ll be 68 next birthday. Got cancer and the doc says my days are numbered. So I’m just glad to help folks when I can.”
“Man, I appreciate the ride...but I coulda walked. You got things to do....”
“Got nothin’ better to do than helpin’ a brother out.” I agreed.
We led the wrecker back to Erifnus.
I turned to the Samaritan, tried to hand him five bucks. He refused. “I don’t take charity.”
“It’s for gas...or beer....” He refused.
Then I got an idea. I dug a book out of Erifnus’ backseat and scribbled: “Thanks for saving my life.”
“Here,” I handed him a copy of A Road Trip Into America’s Hidden Heart. “You’ll be in the next book.”
“Don’t use my real name,” he said. “People wanna kill me....”
John made it home. Erifnus is fine. See more at JohnDrakeRobinson.com/blog. His books, Coastal Missouri and A Road Trip Into America’s Hidden Heart are available at independent bookstores and online booksellers everywhere.
Cruising along I-70, we fell into the rhythm of the road. Then Erifnus shot me a stark S.O.S. Her battery light came on. I knew what it meant. Her alternator had quit. Without her pacemaker, she would die soon.
I turned off the radio and the fan, and we kept rolling toward Tiger Town. I called her mechanic and told him to prepare a bay for her.
“Think we’ll make it?” I asked.
“Not likely.”
But the car kept going, and hope springs eternal in old bones and brains. Maybe we could make it on the juice left in her battery. But Erifnus was doomed, and the problem reflected out of her eyes. The precious battery charge bled out through her headlights.
Soon Erifnus was showing symptoms of a heart attack. Passing Warrenton, her dashboard lights began flashing, her tachometer started swinging wildly.
Next exit was a mile away. Long mile.
I coaxed her through the final turn. She rolled up the ramp and coasted into an empty parking lot. Erifnus was dead.
Our landing pad was a typical interstate gas station. The mechanic bay had morphed into aisles of snack foods and Slurpee machines. Alongside the store, a man crouched, airing a front tire on his car, which looked older than Erifnus. I approached him carefully because, well, you never know.
“Where’s the nearest auto repair shop?”
He jumped up from his crouch and pointed. “Just down the service road. You broke down? I’ll give you a lift.”
The guy looked older than me, with a weatherbeaten face covered by a beard that some folks would label Duck Dynasty. His wiry frame moved like a crab through the car’s floorboards, picking up beer bottles and trash to make room for me.
“That’s okay, man,” I answered. “I can walk....”
A cigarette hung alternately from his lips and fingers as he spoke. “I’ll take you. I know the mechanic. Good guy. They got a wrecker. I always jump at the chance to help somebody.” His enthusiasm was disarming.
Still, I knew that riding shotgun on this new adventure might turn out badly. I hadn’t hitchhiked much since college.
“Vietnam vet,” he said proudly. “Always glad to help an American.” He sized me up, too, figuring I was a long-haired good ‘ole boy. He wasn’t wrong, really, since I know my way around banjo music.
He kept talking, a helpful trait that would give me clues.
“I was a badass in my younger days,” he said. “People wanna kill me.” I believed him. “I don’t like to fight, but if they come at me.... Wife left me a couple years ago, ran off with another man.” He took a deep drag on his cigarette, through teeth the color of his fingers. “Women...” He rolled his bloodshot eyes. I agreed because, well, I was in survival mode.
“Let’s get you to the mechanic.”
I walked over to Erifnus, cranked up her windows, locked her doors, and gave her a goodby pat, lest she never see me again. With a sigh, I climbed into his car and began the next leg of this adventure. Seat belt for me, none for him.
He drove out of the lot and onto the street. I hoped this mission wouldn’t change from rescue to recovery. Pictures went through my mind. Cheryl, the kids and grandkids.
He drove, talking through another cigarette. “Worked at a body shop fer 40 years. I’ll be 68 next birthday. Got cancer and the doc says my days are numbered. So I’m just glad to help folks when I can.”
“Man, I appreciate the ride...but I coulda walked. You got things to do....”
“Got nothin’ better to do than helpin’ a brother out.” I agreed.
We led the wrecker back to Erifnus.
I turned to the Samaritan, tried to hand him five bucks. He refused. “I don’t take charity.”
“It’s for gas...or beer....” He refused.
Then I got an idea. I dug a book out of Erifnus’ backseat and scribbled: “Thanks for saving my life.”
“Here,” I handed him a copy of A Road Trip Into America’s Hidden Heart. “You’ll be in the next book.”
“Don’t use my real name,” he said. “People wanna kill me....”
John made it home. Erifnus is fine. See more at JohnDrakeRobinson.com/blog. His books, Coastal Missouri and A Road Trip Into America’s Hidden Heart are available at independent bookstores and online booksellers everywhere.