June 2007, Tuscaloosa, Alabama

By Carmen K. Sisson

If there was one thing I didn’t have that day, it was time. No time for things to go right, definitely no time for things to go wrong. But things were going to go wrong. Things were going to come to an absolute grinding halt.

As a journalist, I spend a lot of time on the road, and here I was again, two hours from the pasture where I was to photograph a wedding.

Sitting in a one-light town, watching a graffiti-laden freight train wearily shuffle by, I fumed. With more than 200 miles left to cover, I could pull it off — if this damned train would make like an Amtrak train and “git on gone” as people here like to say.

Finally. I threw a fine spray of gravel as I kicked the car into gear and headed north. And then it happened. Cresting a hill at 80 mph, I felt an odd sensation — something like a giant rubber band pulling my ‘99 Taurus backward. For a terrifying moment, I could see myself sliding down the hill into the kudzu-blanketed ravine, but somehow, I managed to coast into a parking lot.

Not knowing the first thing about cars, I did the logical thing — I popped the hood and peered into its greasy depths. The scalding heat radiating from the engine, coupled with an intense burning odor of Obscure Part You Can’t Afford, told me something important: I was screwed.

It wasn’t enough that I was skirting eviction daily. Or that my refrigerator and computer had died last week. Or that relationship stress was pushing me to the end of my tether. It wasn’t enough to be living constantly on edge, never having enough food, enough money, enough time — God, the time. I was going to be late for the wedding. My career, along with my car, was going up in smoke.

Three days later, I was certain that life was on a downward slide. The car remained abandoned in a no-name town on the way to nowhere. I couldn’t scrape up the cash to make a call, let alone afford the $300 that towing companies were asking for to bring it home. Without wheels, I couldn’t work, and without work, I couldn’t do anything. I felt helpless.

I called my friends; I called my family; I called on God. And then I posted a message on an Internet forum. I’d written there sporadically, but not often.

Every time I’d dropped in, it was like Thanksgiving with inlaws — a sprawling dysfunctional mess that left me in the bathroom heaving. I’d made a few friends and defended a few people, but for the most part, I stayed out of the fray.

But desperate times called for desperate measures, and I was desperate. I needed the name of a good mechanic I could trust in a town where I knew no one.

Within the hour, I’d received an answer, but not the one I expected: “What’s the address? Someone’s on their way to get your car and tow it back to Tuscaloosa.”

“I don’t have money for that,” I typed back. “I need to get it fixed there.”

“Taken care of. Call Mr. Transmission, and give him the address.”

Before I could respond, the stranger wrote again: “Don’t waste time thanking me. No thanks required. Call.”

It was a holiday, and I doubted that the shop would be open, but I dialed the number anyway. The owner was waiting. He said he had a friend who ran a towing company — there’d be no charge. As for the car, we’d see what it needed, once it was back on home turf.

The stranger wrote that evening to make sure that the car arrived safely, and then there was no further contact. With not even a dollar in my checking account, I applied for a loan and was rejected. I didn’t know how I was going to pay for the repairs.

The next day, the mechanic called, and my heart sank. He had completed the repairs without even calling in an estimate. The bill totaled $2,700. I started to cry, great hiccupping tears of shame and frustration. What a loser I was. Now I owed this man more money than I made in three months.

“Your car is paid for,” he said. “Your friend paid the bill.”

When he learned the whole story - how a person I’d never met answered a prayer I’d never asked - the mechanic was moved. Checking under the hood, he found a few other problems, minor issues that weren’t handled by his shop.

Suddenly, a very strange story became more odd. He sent me to the Ford dealership, telling me to go to the back door and ask for Devin. There, Devin handed me a bag of parts and told me to go to an auto service center a few miles down the road and ask for Terry. By this time, I wasn’t even asking questions; I was just following blind faith.

Three months have passed, and my car runs like a charm. I’ve driven from Alabama to Kansas and back. Next week, I’ll drive to Texas. Next month, I’ll drive to Tennessee.

Sometimes, when every red light and freight train conspires against me, I close my eyes and think of the people who helped. They didn’t have to stop what they were doing that day. They didn’t have to contribute money or hands or time. But they did. And by doing so, they not only repaired my car, they repaired my heart.

Carmen K. Sisson is a writer and photographer, recording the byways and highways of the Deep South. There’s nothing she loves more than a long drive on a sunny day, chasing a random story in a forgotten town. She’s a frequent contributor to The Christian Science Monitor and is working on her first novel about a girl, a boy and, of course, a car.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Tuesday, August 21st, 2007 | Email This Post

This entry was posted on Tuesday, August 21st, 2007 at 12:02 am. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.