A fellow who does things that count, doesn’t usually need to stop to count them.
~Albert Einstein
Our PT Cruiser broke down at a dark and dismal highway rest stop somewhere between California and Arizona. With all the spectacle and force of Yellowstone’s Old Faithful geyser, caustic anti-freeze steam rose from the car’s engine, giving off a sour smell that turned rancid as the fumes touched our tongues.
My boyfriend Mark and I had been traveling with a fully packed car and camping trailer. We were transporting Mark’s teenage son and all his belongings to Arizona so he could come live with us. Needless to say, our maiden voyage was not turning out well.
There we stood at the rest stop — sun setting, front hood open, green puddles at our feet — realizing we had a significant leak in the engine cooling system and only so much battery life left in our flashlight.
That’s when I saw it . . . “the look.”
Mark attempted to look in control of the situation while troubleshooting, but the look dripped out and spilled all over his face. The look said, “We’re screwed.”
At a minimum, we needed a repair shop, a replacement hose, and more than a snow cone’s chance in Hades that we could have both our car and trailer towed pronto and for less than a small fortune. Chances of that were slim to none on a Sunday night.
We were stranded. Moments after that realization, a black car appeared from out of the darkness, backing up to ours. A man of small stature stepped out of the car, wearing a neat, white shirt and light-colored shorts that hung well past his knees.
“Jou got problems with jour car?” the Spanglish-speaking man asked Mark.
“Uh, yeah, but it’s no easy fix. It’s leaking somewhere underneath, but I can’t get under to find it.”
“I mechanic. I help.”
“But we can’t fit . . ..”
“Under car? No problem. I fit,” the man said.
“No. You can’t. It’s too tight, and you’ll ruin your . . .”
“I fit!” he said, waving an arm behind him, dismissing our concerns while going to the trunk of his car. Within seconds, he emerged with a sturdy car jack. Ours was buried under boxes, so all we could manage was to roll the front left tire onto a low curb. The little man jacked up our car even higher and gave it a good shake to make sure it was stable. Without hesitation, he slipped under the car on a blanket we laid down to protect his body and clothing.
Mark and I looked at each other quizzically.
“An angel,” I uttered out loud.
“No kidding,” he said, and then called down into the engine, “Hey, what’s your name?”
“Rodr . . . g . . .,” came the muffled reply.
“What? I can’t hear you. How about I call you Rod?”
“Okay,” came the reply.
Within an hour, after many radiator water refills, engine turnovers, and intense investigations in and around our car’s underbelly, Rod emerged with the broken hose. Just what Mark did and didn’t want to see.
Rod checked the time on his watch and then let out a sigh. “Auto parts closed.” His shoulders slumped, so ours did, too. Screwed.
Then Rod perked up. “I try . . .” he said, animating with his hands how he would cut the damaged end off the hose and try to re-seat it.
Mark had his doubts. The hose was barely three inches long and seemed to be an exact, necessary length. “I see what you’re saying, but I think we’re gonna need a new hose.”
“I have hose,” Rod said.
“What?” Mark asked. “You have a hose?”
“Si.”
“You have a hose.”
“Si. But we try this first. Okay?”
Mark repeated himself one more time — one last attempt to let it sink in.
“Si,” Rod said, signaling us to follow him over to his car. “I pick up today from junkyard, from old car.”
In Rod’s trunk were several grocery bags of parts pulled from old cars. In one of the bags were several hoses — one of which was a potential match for our broken hose. Also in the trunk were eight bags of groceries. And from inside Rod’s car emerged a young mother and three small children. Immediately, I felt terrible we were imposing on not just Rod’s time, but his family, as well.
Mark greeted the family and then held a lone hose up into the dim light, examining it. It wasn’t perfect, but it looked like it could work. I watched his wrinkled brow relax as he turned his fascination to Rod. “Where did you come from?” Mark asked.
“Qué? . . . my car,” Rod said.
“No, where did you come from?”
Rod tried again. “Blythe,” he said, but clearly the question remained over his head.
“You’re heaven sent,” I said, but Rod still didn’t understand.
Most of the time that Rod tended to our car, his wife and children milled around, easily keeping themselves entertained. Even when Rod’s youngest son collapsed into a tear-filled meltdown after he or one of his siblings slammed a car door on his fingers, Rod checked on the crying child, but quickly returned to working on our car. Even while groceries in the back of their car were warming in the seventy-five-degree night air, Rod kept working on our car. Even though Rod’s family had been out the entire day and seemed tuckered out, Rod kept working on our car.
Just about midnight, Rod and Mark fixed the car enough to make it drivable. Realizing we had a good chance of making it home, we fought back tears and squeezed Rod with heartfelt hugs. I hugged Rod’s wife and thanked her profusely for her family’s great kindness and patience, to which she simply said, “We had this happen to us once. We remember what it was like.”
Mark and I scrounged up sixty dollars between us and gave it to Rod, apologizing for our meager offering for four hours of selfless work. We asked for his address, intending to do something more for him and his family afterwards.
“Ah . . . Rodrigo!” I said, as I read the name that appeared on the scratch paper.
“Si!” he said, with a big smile.
Rodrigo received our offering graciously, but seemed more concerned about us making it home safely. Without hesitation, he insisted on following us for forty miles on the highway and texted us the rest of the way until we walked in our door.
The next day, I looked up Rodrigo’s name on the Internet, hoping to find out more about this exceptional man. One of the search results listed the qualities typical of people by the name of Rodrigo. It said, “You are tolerant and like to help humanity. You are generally warmhearted and give freely of your time, energy, and sympathetic understanding. Universal and humanitarian in outlook. This is a very compassionate name.” We couldn’t agree more.
~Susan Maddy Jones
