Nothing, not even the dreaded commute, was going to keep me from getting to my class on time. It’s simply a matter of determination: if I say I’m going to be somewhere, I’m going to be there. It’s not so much the distance (100 miles) I detest as it is the hour, sometimes two, of dead time, creeping along in bumper to-bumper traffic. Besides, the satisfaction I derive from teaching makes the journey well worth the effort.

There is some irony as we will see later that the specific class I was going to teach was Introduction to Counseling: The Helping Relationship. While there are a number of principles and issues I cover, there is one I consider essential, a beginning point from which everything else follows. I believe that if you are in an helping profession or want to be one day, it’s necessary to have some familiarity with the impact that the stigma associated with needing, asking for and receiving help has on our individual psyches as well as our society at large. I, of course, am no longer bound by the stigma and have reached the point in my personal development that I can ask for and/or offer help freely. I pride myself on this.

In any case, I figured that if I left my office promptly at 2:55 pm. I’d in my car at 3:00. Factoring in the commute, three hours to get to Sacramento from San Francisco should be sufficient. My car is sound mechanically; it’s why I got a Honda. My gas tank is full. In a worse case, say two hours going ten miles an hour, I’d still make it there by 6:00pm. When it’s a beautiful day, passing the time listening to music or talk-radio, the drive can be downright pleasant.

It was one of those perfect sunny days when you could see forever. Something lying on the road in the distance caught my attention. It wasn’t a rock. It looked like a tiny space ship getting bigger as I got closer to it, making me think fast. What is that? Some kind of machine part or something. What’s it doing there? What is it made of? Will I run over it? Oh no! Am I going to I clear it? Shit. I don’t want it to hit the bottom of my car! There was no room to swerve on this one-lane road, with oncoming traffic to my left, road construction to my right, cars close behind. I hope it clears! A little bump. Whatever it was, it was hard. I don’t think it did any damage. That was a close call! That would have been trouble. These Hondas are the best.

No sooner than a half a minute, maybe a half mile or so, a car passed me, the driver was trying to get my attention. I thought he was pointing to my car. I didn’t know there was anything wrong. My tires were okay. No dummy lights were on. There was nothing on my roof. My trunk was closed. I had no idea anything was wrong. Then I saw this huge truck in my rear-view mirror, the driver was motioning, waving me off the road. I wasn’t sure whether to pull off of the road. I couldn’t imagine what the problem was. I didn’t know who this truck driver guy was or what he wanted. I finally decided that I’d better stop and find out what’s going on. I rolled my window down, stuck my head out.

“Something is leaking from you car,” he yelled out.

“Leaking?” I repeated, unsure whether I had heard him correctly. He nodded. I gestured a thanks to him as he drove off. “Jeez, what could be leaking?” I bent over to look underneath my car and saw a a clear liquid, not water, running out like a faucet. I couldn’t make out where it was coming from. Shit. It had to be my gas tank. That thing, whatever it was, had punctured my gas tank.

I then checked my gas gauge to confirm whether this was the proverbial worst case scenario. It was registering half-full; yet I had filled the tank that morning. I sat there staring at the gauge. I couldn’t believe it. I saw it moving gradually and steadily toward empty when I was standing still. Cars were whizzing by. I didn’t have a cell phone. Was I going to have to sit there until my car ran completely out of gas? I glanced into my side-view mirror, hoping to see a police car, but no such luck.

The only thing I saw was this old flat-bed truck also sitting on the side of the road, thirty or so feet behind me. How long was that car sitting there? Was I so oblivious to not even notice its presence? Then I watched this medium-built, Hispanic-looking fellow approaching my car.

Now what does this guy want? He asked me in Spanish, “Problema?” I wasn’t about to explain to him what happened when it was apparent he was barely spoke English. My response was a heavy sigh, a hapless, aggravated snivel and a shake of my head. It occurred to me that I needed to show him the gushing.

“What to do?” I understood what he meant. Just plain flabbergasted, I threw up my hands. He said something he seemed to keep repeating, “tanque de gas,” shaking his head as if it were a major problem. He saw it wasn’t quite registering. When he got down and pointed, I got it. “Yeah. The gas tank.” There I was on the shoulder off of the freeway feeling disgusted and helpless. Okay. We know what the problem is. But, how am I going to get a gas tank? He got that I no idea what to do. The whole situation felt surreal, like it was some kind of dream, but there I was in the middle of nowhere with my gas tank about to empty with complete stranger who didn’t speak English offering to help me. What is this guy doing? It’s not his problem. What could he do for me? What does he want?

Still no police car. It was already 3:30. I didn’t know the area
except that I was too close to an area known to avoid. I turned
to this man helplessly. “Donde? Donde am I going to find a gas
tank?” I was glad that that donde was one of the three Spanish
words I knew. He paused, as if trying to remember, but then with
confidence and assuredness pointed in the direction we’d be heading. Oh no. I shouldn’t have asked. It was obvious we were heading to an area where where addicts, prostitutes, dark and desperate people roam the streets, not a place for little White Boy like myself to be.

“Okay…” I was still trying to figure out what to do. Does he think I’m going to follow him? As if he answered my thought, he then indicated that I follow him. Needing a bit more specificity, “How far?” Despite my efforts to sound matter-of-fact, not paranoid, not needing to protect myself from being tricked, mugged, robbed, or shot, my voice fainted as the words came out. “Dias minutas.” “How long?” “Dias, vente. No mucho.” Mesmerized by his warm brown eyes, my hesitation melted away. I got the sense that I was safe with this guy, that he was not going to hurt me. But before I could proceed any further, I had to pose another question. “Trabajo? Don’t you have to work?”

“Is Okay. Not to worry.” I understood him trying to tell me that he was a courier and that although he did have a package to deliver he could just as well do it later.

“Your name?” I thought I should know.

“Carlos.”

“Okay. Let’s go!”

The needle was near empty and I was running out of time. I hope he knows where we this place is. I hope we get there soon. Just in the nick of time, Carlos was pulling over. Impressed and relieved, I saw where we were. The wrecking yard area. How clever! I parked my car. He and I walked into shop together, like buddies, I as his interpreter. They didn’t have a gas tank for my car. “Shit!”

“Not to worry. Not to worry,” he said, as if he knew exactly what to do next. “I take you.”

“You mean I’ll leave my car here and go with you?”

Carlos seemed to suggest, “Why not? It’s what we have to do,” which made perfect sense to me. I grabbed my wallet from my car, locked it and hopped into the front of his truck.

Thank God, the next shop had my gas tank! As I was getting out my credit card, I suddenly remembered something. Oh, shit.! My class. How am I going to make it by 6:00pm. I better call to alert them that I was running late. The guy was happy to let me use the shop phone. But then I realized that I didn’t have a plan. What was I going to do with the gas tank? Where was I going to take it? I wasn’t putting a new gas tank on my car. I looked at Carlos.

“Not to worry. Not to worry.”

“What do you mean, not to worry? What am I going to do with this gas tank?”

“Mi casa. Mi casa. Es okay!”

“What am I going to do with the car?”

“Mi casa. Mi casa. Es okay!”

“ Where do you live?”

I didn’t know the area. “Daly City.” Things were beginning to make sense, if only I could believe it were possible. “Okay. So I’m going to have my car towed to your house and I will go with you to your house. Right?” He shrugged, “Not to worry.” He pointed to his package in his car, “I come back. Vente minutes.” “You’re going to leave me here?” “Not to worry. I come back.” At this point I had already decided that I could trust this guy, soI was going to dowhat he said – have my car towed to his house, I wasn’t sure where that was and wait for him to get home. Okay.

When I called the AAA guy for the tow, he asked me the address where the car was to be towed to. I forgot to get his address. “Hold on!” I ran out of the shop, hoping that Carlos hadn’t left yet, “Carlos! Carlos!” He must have seen me in his rear view mirror for he turned around a drove back. “Address. Address. Where do you live?” “No problema.” He took a piece of paper, dug around for a pen and wrote it down, barely legibly, but enough for me to read it.

Fortunately the tow guy knew where to go. It seemed pretty far
away and it was getting late, already 5pm. By the time we get
there, it might be 5:30 or 6pm. Getting to my class had become
an impossibility. It then occurred to me cancel the class altogether for there was no way I was going to get there in a remorely reasonable time frame. I figured that when I got to Carlos’, I’d notify my students that they could all go home.

It took a half an hour to get there. Within a couple of minutes, Carlos had driven up. He told the tow guy to leave my car in his driveway. Ancie to inform the class to go home, “Telephone?” I asked, with my thumb to my ear and my pinky to my mouth, unnecessarily making sure he understood when he already did .

“No problema.” Carlos indicated to me to go beyond his gated stairway, up the flight of stairs, and go inside. I guess he had already informed his family of my arrival because they were all sitting down in their living room, offering me food and asking if I were hungry.

“Mucho gratious. Telephone solo. Gratsy.Gratsy.” I knew a little Spanish. His wife intrduced herself, as well as his two beautiful teenaged daughters and younger son, all of whom appeared to be emersed in homework projects. Their hospitality was intended to make me feel right at home.

Carlos was trying to tell me something. “Donde (where) class?” As if it were a forgone conclusion, I answered, “Sacramento. Not to worry,” assuring him and expressing appreciation at the same time for all he has done for me. “I could get home from here. I just have to figure out where to have my car taken for repair.”

“Sacramento?” His eyes were flitting around as he was trying to calculate the time and distance. “Two hours. At least two hours.” I told him, “Not to worry” (for all he had already done, as if he could do no more) I’ll schedule a make-up.” I knew he didn’t get what I meant, but it hardly mattered. “One phone call. It’s okay.” I was dialing his phone. Looking like he had an idea he wanted me to consider, he motioned for me put the phone down. What could he possibly be thinking? Pointing to his clock, “What time the class?”

“It’s too late! I doubt I’d make it back before midnight. Besides, I was going to spend the night at my sister-in-law’s house and return early the next morning. “It’s too late for me to be driving. I get tired. It’s not worth it to rent a car for the night,” in case that was what he was thinking.

“What time back?” he asked again.

“In the morning?” I asked. He nodded. “Probably like around 7.”

He said something barely audible.

“What?”

“My car. Es okay” I was sure he was kidding, commiserating that
I was up the creek without a paddle.” At this point, I was in disbelief. I laughed appreciatively, as he had already gone far beyond the call of duty and could do no more. “Really. Es okay. Not to worry. Not to worry. I fix your car.”

This was another surreal moment when I was completely taken aback. “Okay, Let me get this straight. I take your car tonight. Come back in the morning. You put the gas tank in while I’m gone and be done by the time I get back?”

“Not to worry. Not to worry.” It wasn’t computing. I left a message at the school to wait for me, that I’d be there, albeit late.

Carlos tested my sensibilities. He went far beyond the unexpected; certainly this was no way to treat a stranger. All I kept saying was “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you so much.” I felt so inept, words so inadequate.

“Not to worry. Not to worry. No problema. No problema.” A random act of kindness that wasn’t random for Carlos. What was I to do? He wanted nothing in return. It seemed so natural for him, like he was from a different time and place.

Actually, he was. He told me he was from Nicaragua. Maybe that’s how people act toward each other in Nicaragua. The odds are a million to one that I would have ever stopped on the side of the road for a complete stranger and go so far out of my way. If the situation was reversed, he’d be the one up the creek without a paddle. I guess help would have arrived eventually. Jeez, I don’t know that I’d do anything like that even now.

When I returned the next morning, my car was ready. With a smile
on his face, he proudly showed me the puncture in the tank, as if it were no big deal. While shaking his hand and thanking him
without words, I stood there awkwardly pondering. What can I do?
How do I show my gratitude? Am I just going to walk away from
him, possibly never see him again? I’m glad I filled up his tank
before arriving at his house. It was the least I could do. How
much money should I give him? I went into my pocket and took out the whole wad of cash I had. Maybe a hundred dollars. “Es okay. Not to worry,” I kept saying, insisting that he take the money and pushed it into his hand.

As I thought about Carlos on my way back home, I felt a gnawing disappointment. He did something that I wouldn’t do, perhaps never do. Maybe something was wrong with me. Here I am, a teacher who waxes on and on about it being okay to need help, to accepting help and what a relief it is to get it, yet I don’t practice what I preach. I couldn’t understand why I felt a bit guilty and ashamed for the kindness Carlos bestowed upon me. There were all these mixed feelings I couldn’t sort out. I was elated by the feat of having gotten to my classes, overcoming hurdles. I was also amazed by what happened, bordering on a miracle, so hard as it was to believe. And I was humbled, aswell, for Carlos validated an underlying philosophy, faith or trust, that helping each other is natural. But I was also left sunken and self-doubting, wondering why I can’t live up to my own expections.