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Herb Benham: Father Herb gives last rites to a dying car on the side of the road — again
| Saturday, Jul 5 2008 11:41 AM
Last Updated: Thursday, Jul 3 2008 11:51 AM
Recently, I was driving west on Truxtun toward Albertsons in my ’92 Chevy truck. I had just gone by Truxtun Lake, a body of water I can scarcely pass without remembering David Couch floating in it in a small boat during one of his City Council campaigns.
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Lacking air conditioning, I had the windows rolled down and had my left arm resting on the outside of the driver’s side door. When you press your arm hard against the door, it makes it look bigger, as if you have been lifting weights.
Put a truck driver’s tan together with a weight-lifter’s pump and you have an irresistible combination.
Past the lake, the truck sputtered and began to act as if it were running low on gas. I had a half tank so I knew it couldn’t be the gas unless the gauge was broken, which, on a paid-for truck, is not unusual.
I pressed on the accelerator, thinking maybe I had some dirty gas, not that I can tell dirty gas from clean gas, and the truck picked up for a second and then began to die again. Then it died completely and I began to coast.
My goals changed. A few minutes earlier, I was turning over the grocery list in my mind. Planning my strategy.
Now, I wondered if I could coast to a cutout on Truxtun, pull into the dirt and be clear of the road. My expectations, which had been modest to begin with, had become even more humble.
There is a moment of peace when you are gliding along in a truck without the benefit of the engine. It’s like being in a hang glider. The world is quiet again.
A truck has good glide. I made it several hundred yards past the lake to a triangle of dirt close to the canal, not far from the intersection of Gosford and Truxtun.
The truck stopped. I sat there and tried to start it. No go. In a couple of minutes I tried again. Nothing.
I was not angry, I was curious. Being by the side of the road in a broken-down car is not unfamiliar territory. People talk about how much time they spend sleeping. I wondered how much of my life I had spent by the side of the road giving one car or another its last rites.
I called Geico and reached their emergency road service. I know they have more than one operator, but I’m always surprised they don’t know me by name.
“Yes, you’re the guy in Bakersfield,” they might say. “Which car is it this time?”
Which car? It’s whatever car I’m driving. That’s the one that breaks down. I am not angry, however. That is my lot in life. Some see it as misfortune, I look at it as a pilgrimage. It is almost a ministry.
I am most comfortable when I’m broken down by the side of road, standing in the dirt with the sun beating down on me. That’s where I belong.
A green van pulled over. Look, a disciple. Pretty soon, I’d have an inn and be in the sheep business.
“Do you need some help?” said Kristin who, as it turned out, was my neighbor. “We saw you when we were going the other way.”
How kind of her. Bakersfield is like that. Break down and you’re sure to meet someone you know.
I thanked her, maybe even blessed her and told her to go home and take care of her four cute boys.
Forty-five minutes later, Fleet Services arrived with a tow truck. We shook hands warmly. We were glad to see each other.
It is his lot in life to help stranded motorists. It is mine to be that friendly face by the side of the road.
Opinions expressed are those of Herb Benham, not The Californian.