BY AMY GESENHUES
If you were stuck in traffic driving up the knobs at 7 a.m. last Friday, please accept my most sincere apology. It was all my fault. Of course, when I tell you why I stopped traffic, there is a chance you may refuse my apology. In fact, there is a chance you may stop reading.
But here it goes anyway. I ran out of gas. Yes, I am a 35-year-old wife, mother of two and professional woman who failed to stop and put gas in her car. I was sure that I had enough to get to the top of the knobs. Come to find out, I only had enough to get halfway up the knobs (or what I now refer to as the worst possible place to run out of gas when driving in Southern Indiana).
If you are still reading, please know that I did not have my kids with me and that I am blaming my complete lack of responsibility on being awake at 4:30 a.m. I was coming home from a 5:30 a.m. workout session and was not thinking about things clearly (or my gas tank at all).
My car came to a stop halfway on the road and halfway on the tiny strip of gravel that worked as a curb. As much as it pained me to do, the first call I made was to my husband who did not answer since he had just stepped in the shower. In hindsight, this was probably the best thing that could have happened. The last thing a husband wants to hear is that his wife was too busy to stop and gas up her car. (OK, maybe it’s not the last thing, but I am sure it was not on my husband’s top 10 list that morning).
I sat there in my car halfway on the road, halfway on the curb scrolling through my contact list trying to decide who I could ask for help. Before I came up with one name, three separate men (or angels?) stopped to help push my car off the side of the road. They were quick about it and acted as if that was just part of their daily routine.
There were no looks of disgust, no eye rolling, no “I can’t believe you ran out of gas” comments. They simply lined up on my back bumper and shoved my 1996 Toyota Avalon to the side of the road and took off in the dark of the morning. The one did ask if there was anything else he could do before he left the scene, but I was not about to ask him if he could bring me enough gas to make it to the Sav-a-Step.
The next three calls I made were to my dad, my brother, and my sister. No answer. I called my husband once more. Still no answer. (He takes long, long showers, but who am I to complain? Obviously.)
And then I gathered all the courage I had and stuffed all my shame and embarrassment to the back of my throat. I called one of our friends who live at the top of the knobs. He has been my husband’s best friend since high school. Before that day, I would have said that he’s the type of guy who would do anything for you. Now I can say it with proof.
At just past 7 a.m. on a Friday morning, this guy left his house to drive halfway down the knobs and gas up my tank for me. He used to be my friend and my husband’s best friend. I have now taken him for my best friend too.
His kindness was not a random act, but it definitely wasn’t something he premeditated for any length of time. He got my phone call and then immediately got in his truck to help. I owe him. (Even after purchasing his coffee that morning, sending him a thank you via e-mail, calling out his kindness on Facebook, and dedicating this column to him, I still don’t feel that I have expressed all of my gratitude).
Since I am giving thanks, another needs to go to the officer who stopped traffic for us that morning. Without his help, my friend could have easily been hit by oncoming traffic while putting gas in my car.
While my irresponsibility may have caused a long line of traffic, the more important lesson is the selfless act of kindness my new best friend displayed. Feb. 9 marks the beginning of Random Acts of Kindness week. My hope is that by sharing my story (even in all my dim-witted glory) you will be inspired to do something out of your way for someone who has committed an unbelievably stupid error in judgment. And not just for one week in February, but for the whole year through. Amy Gesenhues is a freelance writer who lives in Floyd County. You can read her daily commentaries at www.AmyWroteIt.Wordpress.com. E-mail her directly at amy@amywroteit.com.
