Mixmaster
Man oh man, I had a run in with an angel yester eve.I am driving home from a friend's house. I have imbibed, once again, a few beverage products (so much for spring cleaning eh?) but I am OK to drive, not OK for the cops, but OK to drive, if you know what I mean. I'm on 183 and I am using the mixmaster to enter southbound Mo-Pac. So as I enter the ramp for the fly-over my check engine light comes on, my car makes a few muffled sputters and then full stall. No power and I can't get it started again. I coast to a stop right at the Y for north or south. I am on a pretty steep grade. Its a really bad place to be stopped. There is no shoulder and no chance of me pushing the vehicle out of the way. I begin to freak out a little bit. I put on my hazard lights and I get out of the car and start waving people around me. All I can think about is the near certainty of me being arrested. My thoughts are "nobody is gonna stop to help me except for an officer of the law," And, "there's no way a policeman is gonna stop and help me without fully investigating the situation." And "I'm a really terrible liar." I pretty much thought I was fucked.
Somehow, after many a hard knocks experience, I remember that I am for sure fucked if I panic. So I calm myself a little and begin pleaded with passing drivers. "Help" I say, "Help, my car is stalled, Help I DON'T have a phone." Much to my surprise a stately, white-haired gentleman in a suburban, leans out his window and says "You need some help?"
"Yes please," my frightened response.
So he pulls in front of my car. He digs around in his back seat for what seems like an eternity. He pulls out a chain with hooks on both ends. He gets down under my car, and at this point I am really terrified that someone might hit my car endangering not only my feeble life but also the life of this blessed good samaritan. He is down there for what seems like another eternity while I frantically wave cars around this flim flam on the jim jam of a situation. He finally gets back up, he secures the chain to his truck. He then proceeds to tell me what to do.
"Yes sir,...yes sir." come my answers.
He asks me if I'm drunk.
"A little bit," I reply, then I wonder to myself if this gentleman is associated with the APD. "Nevermind." I think, at this point I honesty is the best policy.
So then the Suburban and its saintly owner pull me down to the next exit. As we exit the highway, the chain breaks, but I have enough momentum to get into a Hollywood Video parking lot. He shoots ahead but comes back around to see how he can help out anymore. I thank him profusely. I tell him I can handle it from here. He asks what I wanna do and where I live. I tell him and he offers me a ride. I accept because I am still buzzing scared of being incarcerated and I just wanna flee the scene.
His name is Walter Cardwell and he is an ex-International Business lawyer who now manufactures non-lethal weapons, like pepper spray. What a nice dude. If you see Walter give him big ups from the Dep and let him know his work is appreciated.
Lucky MO fo.
I still don't know what's wrong with my ride, I don't really care but I must be more careful. Yar.
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