Dear Dumb Samaritan:
Thank you for stopping for us last night. You pulled over on the shoulder and climbed out of your Trans Sport, your ridiculously baggy Vikings jersey and knee-length cutoff shorts instantly soaking through in the sheeting rain. You had a flashlight like state troopers carry; you meant business. But we were just stopped for the same reason as the three or four other cars on the side of the highway: to wait out the storm.
Perhaps disappointed, you ran back to your minivan and pulled forward 50 feet, stopping behind the next car on the shoulder. We groaned as we watched you get out and approach them with your flashlight, only to be rebuffed yet again. All you wanted was to be helpful.
As you disappeared into the tempest, I imagined you pulling over again and again for every vehicle, getting more desperate with each rejection. Hoping for a flat tire, a jump, anything. Finally, you happened across an old lady waiting nervously in her Oldsmobile, trying to get home to Milaca. You sat in her car and called her son on your cellphone to let him know she was alright. You talked to her about your family as you waited for the rain to let up, then followed her down the highway once you deemed it safe enough to proceed.
All this while I sat in the car and whined because I was worried that the hail might put a chip in the windshield. You’re a better person than me, Dumb Samaritan.
Jenni