The Cold Samaritan

"I wouldn't mind so much, but that was a nearly new tire. Now I could forgive if it were an old bald tire, or a cheap tire, or even a plain road tire. But no, it was a top of the line steel-belted radial, all-terrain, load range E truck tire on a four wheel drive pickup. It had a few miles on it, but the tread...look at that tread. Hardly touched."
I was ticked and didn't mind telling the tire man so. His tire had let me down at the worst time and in the worst possible place. "And that's another thing. I've seen pictures of tires being driven over nails, glass, even drills. Your's gives up the ghost to a damn little rock."
It started as a simple Sunday drive, but I wanted something different, out of the ordinary. "What say we take the metal detector and a lunch and go out to Martin, maybe dig up a few old coins?"
"Where on earth is Martin?" my wife asked.
"It's out in the desert there," I pointed to a spot on the road map.
"I don't see anything about any place called Martin," she said, peering at the page.
"Well, of course not. It's a ghost town now. A hundred years ago it was a major railroad stop, a mining center, there was a lot of stuff then. There's still a few buildings left, part of the old roadbed. Who knows what me might find?"
"It does sound interesting. OK, I'll go make some sandwiches, you fill up the cooler and the tank. I'll have it all ready when you get back from the station."
I got the cooler down and filled it full of soda, then I got a bag of ice out of the freezer and dumped it on top. I put it in the back and went down and filled up the gas tank. She had everything else ready when I got back, just as she promised. I took the picnic basket and the metal detector, threw a couple of folding chairs in the back, and we headed down the highway.
A few hours of cruising later, we were far from the interstate, and I turned onto the dirt road that went to Martin. The autumn sun was loafing that afternoon, and the sky was laced with fleece. Just threads, really, like light strokes with the tips of the brush.
The road had been recently surfaced with a layer of gravel. We growled over the rocks, the tires crunching the individual rocks as we passed over. I didn't mind at all. It kept the dust down.
It was over forty miles from the pavement before we pulled into the skeleton remains of what had once been one of the largest cities in the state. We hadn't passed a house, a tree or a telephone pole in getting there.
I stopped the truck and we got out. "This must have been the main street," I remarked to my wife.
"Ghost town is right. The last thing left was that tree, and now it's dead."
I looked where she was pointing. The tree was still standing, but the leaves were gone, never to come again. "I guess we won't get any shade today, except from the truck."
"Well, I'm starving. Let's eat, and then you can go chase coins."
I put the chairs in the shade of the truck cab and we enjoyed the lunch we'd brought. By the time I'd finished the fruit course, I was getting a little sleepy. She saw my head nodding.
"If you're going to look for coins, you'd better start moving, before you pass out."
"What about you? You going to look with me?"
"No," she replied. "Thanks anyway. I think I'll crawl in the cab and take a nap for you."
I laughed. "Better roll the windows down a way, then. It wouldn't do to get cooked."
I went off swinging the coil of the metal detector, and digging up bits of rusty iron, mostly old nails. Occasionally I'd find a small square of sheet metal, something used to patch a hole in the roof, I suspected. A few hours later, I wandered back, having found a few pennies, nickels and a quarter. They were all minted within the last twenty years, so they must have been dropped by others like ourselves.
She was sitting in one of the chairs we'd brought, reading a paperback novel. "Had enough excitement for one day?"
"Yes, all I found was about fifty cents, all modern coins. No gold pieces for this kid today."
The sun was approaching the horizon. It would be dark in a few hours. I folded up the chairs and started to put them in the back when I noticed the bed didn't look straight. It was tilted to one side. I walked around to the other side of the truck. The back tire was completely flat.
"Oh, no!" I cried.
"What's the matter?" Her voice was heavy with concern. She ran around to see what the problem was. We stood in silence for a few seconds, looking at the damage.
She looked at me, a resigned expression on her face. "What do we do now?"
"Nothing to it lady, cell phone to the rescue," I said brightly. I got our cellular phone out of the glove box and turned it on.
"There's a toll-free number I can call 24 hours a day, from anywhere in the country, and they'll send a tow truck out to haul us in." The phone beeped and I looked at the screen. NO SERVICE.
"Anywhere in the country except here, it looks like," she commented wryly.
"Well, I guess we'll just have to do things the hard way." I popped the hood and got the jack and jack handle out. It was the first time I'd ever had them out of their holders. The jack was stiff with rust. I couldn't move it.
"Any ideas?" she asked. Her concern was deeper now.
"Oil, I need oil." There was no oil in the truck. I stared at the jack for a moment.
"Wait a minute! I know where there's several quarts. The crankcase! I'll drip some on the jack from the dipstick."
I took out the dipstick and applied the oil that dripped from its tip to the rusty jack and began working it. In a few minutes it was turning freely. I put the dipstick back and walked to the back of the truck. "The hard part comes now. I don't look forward to crawling in the dirt to get the jack under the axle, but there's no choice."
I lay in the dust and wormed the jack into position. It's an easy job when the tires are up, but with one flat, there's not quite enough clearance to get the jack under the axle. I pushed it back and forth in the dirt, trying to dig a shallow hole. Eventually the hole was deep enough to get the jack in place, and I began winding the jack handle. The truck began to rise and soon the tire was off the ground. I scrambled out from under it and walked to the passenger's side of the cab.
"Where are you going?" she asked, puzzled.
"Got to get the key for the spare. I've seen too many spare tires stolen, so I hooked ours to the frame with a chain and a padlock." I got the key out of the glovebox and crawled back under the bed again.
I struggled with the lock trying to fit the key in the slot, but it wouldn't go. "Now what's wrong?' I muttered. I was losing my patience, and I'm a patient man.
I turned the lock toward the light and tried to insert the key again, but it wouldn't fit. Close examination showed that the keyhole had been battered by the road gravel until the hole was almost hammered shut. I'd never get the key in it. The lock had a case hardened hasp, and I knew I couldn't cut it off even if I had a hacksaw, which I didn't.
I got out from under again and pondered our situation for a few minutes. My exertions had made me a little winded. A cool breeze chilled my back. Daylight would soon be gone.
"Can I help?" she asked.
"I wish I knew how. I'm afraid we're stuck and stuck good. Is there anything left to drink in the cooler?"
She found that there were several cans of cold soda and brought me one. I opened it and drank at least half of it in one swallow. I choked a little.
"The lock's ruined. I can't get the spare off to change it. Looks like we're stuck here for the night. Don't pour the ice water out of the cooler, we may have to drink it tomorrow."
She looked around and shivered. "Oh, goody. We get to stay over night in a ghost town. Just what I've always wanted to do. I guess that blanket will come in handy after all."
"Blanket? What blanket?"
"I threw an old blanket in, so we'd have something to sit on I guess. I didn't think about why, I just tossed it in with the other stuff."
"I'm glad you did. It just might come in handy."
It's seems paradoxical that the desert can be so hot during the day, and cool off so much at night. As the sun went down, we discussed our options and plans for the next day. "I can walk at about three miles an hour for several hours. At that pace, I should be able to reach the road by dark tomorrow night. Think you can spend a night here by yourself?"
"I think I'd rather walk out with you. It's going to be an ordeal, isn't it?"
"Yes, I'm afraid it is. We better try to get some sleep, it's going to be a long night."
I was suddenly struck by the realization that I hadn't seen an animal, a bird, no living thing since we'd arrived. Not so much as a fly. "How very odd," I thought.
We wrapped ourselves in the blanket and settled in for the night. With our shared warmth, we soon dozed off.
I awoke, instantly alarmed. Something had stirred me out of my sleep, but what? I looked out the window of the truck. The moon was up, and this graveyard of a town was lit by its soft fluorescent light. I'd heard something. I rolled the window down slightly and held my breath, listening. Only my wife's gentle snoring disturbed the silence.
I wondered what time it was and looked at my watch. The face of the digital timepiece was cracked and blank. "Must have hit it against the frame when I was jacking up the truck," I thought. It was an inexpensive watch, no great loss.
I looked down the road that we would walk in the morning. Something seemed out of place, but I couldn't quite tell what. I started to doze off when I heard something. A car, a truck, something was coming. I could see a little cloud of dust which was moving in our direction. A minute or so later I saw lights, dim, but lights. I shook my wife gently.
"What? What's happening? What did you wake me up for, I just got to sleep."
"You've been asleep for hours. Look, off in the distance. I can see someone coming."
She looked down the road where I was staring. "Yes, I see a light. Someone is coming all right. We won't have to walk out of here after all."
By now the sound of the truck was quite plainly heard. I hadn't heard a sound like that since I was a kid. Our neighbor had a Model A Ford, and the sound was the same. I got out of the truck as the old pickup pulled up next to us so I could greet our rescuer.
I was immediately glad that the wind was calm. The temperature was in the thirties.
A middle-aged man got out of the ancient vehicle and walked toward me. He had on bib overalls, a T-shirt and an old felt hat of the type my dad always wore. They don't make 'em like that anymore. I thought his complexion was a bit pale and in the moonlight he looked positively blue.
"Looks like you folks got a little trouble," he said smiling.
"We sure do. The tire went flat and I couldn't get the spare off, the lock's busted."
He walked around to the back of the truck, got on his knees and surveyed the damage.
"Can't do much here, but I can take you to town and you can get a truck to come out and tow you " He looked at the tire, straining to see the brand.
"We sell that brand, be glad to help you out. You and your missus want to hop in the truck, and we'll get started. Better bring that blanket, though. The heater in this old truck isn't up to much."
My wife grabbed the blanket and we got in. He got behind the wheel and we started off. "I can't thank you enough. I don't know what we'd have done if you hadn't come along. How'd you happen to come this way in the middle of the night?"
His face melted into a bashful smile. "Now that's a long story. Let's just say I had something I had to do out this way, and I found you."
I was too grateful to press him. Whatever it was, it was obviously none of my business, and I don't stick my nose in where it isn't wanted.
"Well at any rate, we're certainly glad you came by."
He didn't seem inclined to talk much, so I just let it drop. It was a long cold bumpy ride back to town. I was glad we had the blanket, he hadn't understated the facts about the truck's heater. It was frigid in the cab, and I felt concerned for his comfort.
"Wouldn't you like to share our blanket? It's pretty frosty in here."
"Why, thanks very much. I appreciate your offer, but the cold don't bother me none. Me and this old truck go way back and the heater never did work very well. I guess I'm used to it."
I roomed at college with a man who'd lived for a few years in Scotland. He always wanted to sleep with the window open, even during the dead of winter. People can get used to the cold. We rode the rest of the way in silence.
The pink of false dawn was tinting the east when we reached town. He pulled up in front of a tire dealership. "This is our place. Someone should be along to open up in a few minutes. That tire shouldn't cost you anything, but you'll have to pay for the labor and such. They might charge you extra to go out and tow you in."
"That's only fair. I wouldn't expect anything else."
He waved at us as he drove away. A gust of wind blew the dust and the noise of his truck away, and he disappeared around a corner. Just as he said, a few minutes later a young man walked around the corner and stopped, surprised to see us huddling in the doorway trying to keep warm.
I was anxious to get our truck tire fixed as soon as possible, and I told him what had happened. "Sounds like you folks had a run of bad luck, with a little good luck at the end. I'll call Dad so he knows what's up, and then we'll go out and tow you in."
He telephoned his father and explained the situation. Dad agreed about what needed to be done, and we got in the tow truck with the boy and headed back to Martin. He talked about the stock car he was in the process of building, and since I had an interest in racing, we talked engines, fuel and driving strategy and all the various things that go into racing. I enjoyed our visit. My wife even got into the act. Some of her brothers had done a little racing, dirt tracks mostly, and she was knowledgeable.
We arrived back where we'd left the truck, and everything was just as we'd left it. He checked the damage and hitched the truck up to his, and we were off again. The trip back to the shop was spent in much the same way as the trip out had been, and it seemed like no time at all before he had the broken padlock pried loose and the bad tire off and was inspecting the damage. That's when our disagreement started.
"What's all the racket back there?" his dad inquired. "Sounds like you two are about to come to blows over something, and there's nothing in here that's that important."
"Your son says there's no road hazard coverage on that tire. Is that true?"
"Let's have a look," he said and walked back to where we were...discussing, shall we say, the terms of the tire replacement.
"The boy's right," he said. "The company dropped that kind of coverage about ten years back. I sell other brands that have it, but they don't."
"That's the pits. Your other helper told me there wouldn't be any charge for the tire, just for labor and the towing service."
"I don't know what other helper you are referring to sir, there's just the two of us. This has been a father and son business for three generations."
"I mean the old guy who found us out there and gave us a ride into town. He said 'we sell that brand', and called this business 'our place'. How could you not know him?"
I could hear the son whispering, "Dad, what's he trying to pull? That's an expensive tire, and he just too tight to pay, that's all."
His dad whispered something back, but I didn't catch it. I looked around the office, searching for something that would convince them. It didn't look good.
It wasn't so much a matter of being short of cash as it was wanting justice. A nearly new tire, top of the line, damage that most tires would have stood up to and other companies would warranty, and their own man telling me it wouldn't cost me. I spied an old photograph in a dusty frame.
"Why, that's him, there in the picture. Now don't tell me you don't know him when you have his photograph sitting on your desk."
The owner picked the up the picture. "You're saying this man picked you up out at Martin in the middle of the night, drove you here, and said you wouldn't have to pay for the tire?"
"That's exactly what I'm saying."
He stared at the picture, his face as blank as a new note pad. "So it's happened again." He put the picture on the desk.
"Give them the tire, son. In fact," he turned to me, " I'm not charging you for the labor or the tow. You don't owe us a dime."
The boy looked at his dad, trying to puzzle out what he was talking about. Dad looked a little puzzled himself. My wife looked puzzled and I'm sure I did, too. I was glad to get all this free, but I had no idea of what he was talking about.
"Dad! Have you gone nuts?"
"Calm down, boy. There are things you don't know, things I haven't told you. Never told anyone." He paused for a second.
"Things I don't understand, things I can't explain," he muttered to himself.
"You see, mister, this isn't the first time something like this has happened. There must have been three or four times in the last twenty years or so."
"The man in that picture was my dad, the boy's grandfather. When I was a boy, he never stopped to help anybody, not once. It was his policy not to get involved. He'd tow people if they hired him, but never stopped just to help somebody who was broke down, stranded like you were."
He looked at the old photo again. "I don't know why he went to Martin that winter, but his truck broke down out out there and a storm blew in, snowed a couple of feet. Record cold. He froze to death out there because nobody came to his aid. I think he's been trying to make amends ever since and I'll do whatever I can to help him."
The next week, I sent a sizable contribution to Traveler's Aid, anonymously. I wanted to do what I could, also.

This story was inspired by an actual happening. The main difference is that a truck full of teenagers came and helped me change the tire. They seemed to come out of noplace and disappeared in a cloud of dust. There was no ghost ... or was there?

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