13 May 2014
Houston
Angelo Custode, di Pietro da Cortona, 1656
Do you believe in Guardian Angels?
Belief in some sort of protective spirit or angel has persisted throughout many cultures since ancient times. Even people who are not particularly religious sometimes feel they are being watched over or protected by some sort of tutelary spirit.
But how many of us have actually had a face-to-face encounter with their Guardian Angel? In the Christmastime classic movie, "It's a Wonderful Life," George Bailey had an up-close and personal relationship with his, an unlikely clockmaker, who showed George that he was indeed fortunate in his life, despite his current troubles.
I believe I have actually encountered my Guardian Angel. Here are my stories; it's not what you think:
QI had just begun a brand-new job as salesman of duty-free products. I would call on ships in the Port of New Orleans and nearby areas. This was my first "real" job.
I wasn't into cars at all as a means of transportation back then. As a protest to the general misuse and worshipping of the automobile, I deferred getting my drivers' license as long as I could, opting to use public transportation, riding my bike, and even (I blush to confess...) WALKING places!
This was fine when in school or commuting to a 9-5 job downtown, but one day reality hit me in the face: my new job REQUIRED that I drive (a company car was even in the package!) and if I wished to provide for my family, I needed to use the tools provided. The places I needed to go, by and large, were not served by public transportation, and besides, I was required to carry a generous quantity of samples and advertizing materials, impractical on a bus. So I really wasn't "selling out," I justified to myself.
The first two weeks went very well. I was in my glory, speaking foreign languages all day and getting paid to do it! To be quite frank, I actually enjoyed the company car as well.
As I said, driving was a new thing to me, and I was very inexperienced as to vehicle maintenance and upkeep.
One day, my boss, the National Sales Manager of our company, came down from New York City to work with me! Things went well enough that week, even for a new guy, and we had arrived at a Thursday afternoon, when my boss would have to catch his plane back to the corporate office.
He was a likeable man, well enough, but he only had (as far as I could ever determine) one pet peeve: GET HIM TO THE AIRPORT ON TIME!!! Even first thing that morning he was a little antsy. Come early afternoon, and he began to suggest that we forego much of the rest of the day's activities and maybe begin heading toward the airport. When bosses "suggest" something, it's definitly best to take them seriously.
We had just gotten onto the Pontchartrain Expressway in downtown New Orleans, and headed west. Traffic was light. We were making good time, and were very early.
I had just toped an overpass at Carrollton Avenue when the car began to act strangely. There was no power when I depressed the accelerator.
"What's the matter? What's wrong?" asked my boss, with a worried expression on his face.
"I don't know!" I told him, as I watched my speedometer plunge and felt the car go completely dead.
I pulled off onto the paved shoulder, and noticed, to my horror: I WAS OUT OF GAS!!!
Beads of sweat formed on my forehead and my heart raced as I confessed: "I - I just ran out of gas."
"You WHAT??" exclaimed Mr. T., now beside himself.
I remembered I had put a gas can in the trunk of the car earlier, to buy some for my lawnmower, but had not yet done so. The can and my tank were both empty.
I had been there not more than a minute, and had just gotten out of the car, when a light-skinned young black man in a red sports car suddenly pulled over onto the shoulder and stopped right behind me.
He got out quickly. "Are you all right?" he asked.
"No, " I replied, shaking my head, "I just ran out of gas."
"You got a can?" he asked.
"Yes. Right here," I said, showing him my gas can.
"OK, hop in and I'll take you to get gas; there's a station at this next exit."
Bidding the apprehensive Mr. T. a temporary farewell, we sped off in the sports car, went to the station, got gas, and returned. I thanked the man, and proceeded to pour the contents into the tank. The car started up, and we left for the airport. Time lost: just under ten minutes.
I thought for sure I was going to get fired, but my boss made the flight, and I kept my job none the worse for wear. When we worked together on later occasions, he enjoyed telling the story of me running out of gas at a crucial time. It was all in fun. He was a forgiving soul in an often unforgiving world.
TA few years later, I was a salesman for a ship supply company, which, like the previous firm, required me to call on steamships in the port and in outlying areas - this time somewhat further away from New Orleans.
Instead of a company car, I had to use my own, which was an old 1957 Chevrolet station wagen I had been given by my cousin. As my mother would have said: "It had four wheels, a motor, and it ran." What more does anybody want, really? The only thing wrong with it, as far as I could see, was a broken gas gauge. Lesson learned from before, I got around that problem by frequently filling up the tank.
I had just made a late-night sales call on a ship docked at Burnside, La., a tiny River Road community boasting, at that time, two gas stations, a single blinking caution light, and not much else. I was heading for home.
It was about 2:30 in the morning. I remembered I needed to get gas, but the stations there were closed. I was heading down this tiny, two-lane highway toward U.S. Highway 61 and the promise of several open service stations, when the car sputtered and the engine stopped. I coasted in dead silence for about a quarter of a mile, and came to rest on the shoulder of the road, just under the overpass of the I-10 - then under construction.
I was livid. I was also somewhat afraid, because of the darkness and the hour, yes, but mostly because of the complete desolation. There was not a single vehicle in sight. There was not a street light for at least a mile, and no sign of any house or building. The only thing I heard in the distance was the howling of a dog.
That didn't help.
I put my hood up and had just begun to contemplate my next move, when a pair of headlights came into view in the distance. I watched as the lights drew closer, and as it approached, the car veered off and onto the shoulder, as if that was it's intended destination. A light-skinned black man steps out of a little red sports car and asks: "Are you OK?"
"No, " I told him, "Gas gauge busted, and I was trying to make it to 61 but ran out of gas."
"Hop in," he offers, " I'm going that way.
In nothing flat we arrived at a service station. It was reassuring to see the lights of the place shine in the distance, illuminating the otherwise total darkness. I had my can in my hand. As luck would have it, there was a man in a pickup truck who was giving yet another fellow who had run out of gas a lift down the same road. I thanked the first man, hopped into the bed of the pickup with the other guy, and quick as a wink we were at my car.
I lost just under ten minutes.
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A couple of years later I was headed to Baton Rouge in a hurry. It took FOREVER to build that old I-10 section through Gonzales, La., and for years we had to get off 1-10 and piddle through that little town, wary constantly of the local constabulary who were there to eagerly pull over and ticket speeders.Well, I was doing a fair clip, making good time, when some couillon in a farmer's wagon hurried up and pulled right in front of me, and then proceeded to go real slow. I was fuming.
"All right for you!" I thought, as I stared at the slow-moving turnip truck ahead of me, calling that man ahead all kinds of names in several languages. We plodded on for a couple of miles, and then he made a turn. I almost waved bye-bye to him, we had become so well-acquainted.
I hit the gas, and as soon as I did, a little red sports car passed me by like I was standing still. I stayed with him for a few minutes, but couldn't: he was going to fast. Then I lost sight of him.
I was making a turn further down the road when I noticed: that little red sports car was on the side of the road, with a non-smiling local cop standing by his door, writing something on a little pad.
I thought: "Wow! If it hadn't been for that little red sports car, I'd've got a big ticket!" I did a double-take: say, that car looked familiar. The driver was a light-skinned black guy. He saved me from a huge expense that, at that time I could ill-afford.
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Now, I know that there are logical explanations for these stories, but I ask: what are the odds that a light-skinned black man in a little red sports car would appear three times in my life to help me out of a jam?? Believe what you like, but as for me, I know what my Guardian Angel looks like.
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