And there was this truck barrelling down on me. I moved the car over as far as it could go -- and then some. The right front tire fell off the side of the road onto the dirt shoulder and was slashed by the rough, unfinished pavement at the edge.
So there I was, standing on the side of the road with no jack, wondering how to get the flat tire off the car and the spare on. A neighbor of mine came down and stood with me looking over the damage. He suggested that I call a towing service for help.
After about 10 minutes, a taxi driver stopped and offered to help out. He looked like a typical Israeli cab driver, except that this one was willing to help a fellow motorist. He spoke English, too! He came around to look at the damage, brought out his jack, and tried to hoist the car high enough to change the tire. But the jack didn't fit my particular car.
The next vehicle down the road was another one of those huge dump trucks with dust and stones bouncing out of its trailer -- the kind that had originally forced me off the road. This one, however, stopped. Putting my frustration behind me -- a bit -- I thought, "Fantastic! Here's a burly, macho, road veteran, someone who has seen it all on Israel's idyllic interchanges, and the Holy Land's harmonious highways. After all, this is a truck driver! For sure, this is the guy who will help.
You can imagine my surprise when the driver rolled himself down out of the driver's seat. He had to, because he was too small to get out any other way. This is a guy who had to stand on tip-toes to reach average height. He had a small, thin frame, and a big happy smile on his face where I had imagined a powerful, matter-of-fact look might be resident.
But what really floored me was his garb. He was wearing black pants and a dark-colored shirt, with tzitzit dangling out from his waistband. His darkish face featured a beard and payot down to his shoulders, and on his relatively short hair was perched a massive black kippah. And then I noticed that he had sephardi religious music blaring out of his truck. This was a guy one could picture much more easily in a small yeshiva somewhere learning kabbalah.
Was this to be my helper on this winding backroad? Sure enough, this guy whipped out an airhose attached to a pump under his truck. While he was trying unsuccessfuly to pump air back into my tire, the cab driver and the neighbor looked on skeptically. We had all figured that the hole in the tire was too big for it to be reinflated. The neighbor had a jack that fit my car, and the truck driver proceeded to hoist the car, change the tire, and lower the car in a matter of five minutes.
The cab driver started talking to me about where I might go to get a permanent replacement tire. There was a gas station on the highway that could probably help, but I had to make sure they put on the right kind of tire. If not, the car would not be properly balanced. Then again, if I thought I could make it all the way to Jerusalem on the spare, he could recommend a really good place in Talpiot.
When the cabbie had finished, I turned to thank the trucker profusely. Both he and his rig, however, were gone. Soon after, the taxi driver too had left.
I got back into the car, and drove the 20 minutes to Jerusalem. It gave me some time to reflect on the events of the still-early morning. It was an interesting combination of people that helped get me back on the road, and it provided a much better glimpse of the country in which we live than one generally gets in the news or opinion pages.
So wherever the little trucker is, and wherever the cab driver is, thank you. It is nice once in a while to see what the heart of Israel really looks like.
Copyright 1999. Reproduction in print or electronic format by permission only.
