The Good Samaritan Strikes Again by Patrick F. McManus

Author:Patrick F. McManus
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Henry Holt and Co.
Published: 1993-08-15T07:00:00+00:00

THE GOOD SAMARITAN STRIKES AGAIN

You probably heard about the fellow who rescued a person in distress and then vanished without even leaving his name. “Who was that heroic and modest guy?” bystanders asked.

It was me.

Returning from an ice-fishing trip a few years ago, I got caught in a blizzard at the top of a mountain pass. As I crept along through the blinding swirls of snow, a panel truck passed me. I decided to follow it, on the assumption the driver obviously knew where the road was. Presently, the driver smashed into a road divider, thereby ruining my perfectly good assumption, not to mention his truck. The truck bounced ten feet into the air and plopped back to the road.

This was the kind of emergency for which years of experience had prepared me. I stopped and calmly sized up the situation. This, by the way, is a good approach to emergencies, because it allows time for someone else to show up, someone who might be even more of a take-charge guy than you are. But there wasn’t another vehicle in sight.

Despite an old war wound that causes my knees to buckle during moments of crisis, I crossed the road and peeked in a broken window of the crumpled and steaming vehicle. The dark interior of the car appeared unoccupied, but I spoke into it anyway: “How ya doin’?” A stupid question is often the best kind in a crisis situation.

“Fine, buddy,” a voice croaked. “I really like it here in the glove compartment.”

As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I ascertained that the victim wasn’t actually in the glove compartment but pretty well compressed under the dashboard. I knew better than to move an accident victim and thereby cause him further injury. Still, I thought I should do something. But what? The victim and I stared silently at each other, he from under the dashboard and I through the broken window. Maybe he would be comforted by some light conversation, I thought.

“So, some storm we’re having, huh?” I tried.

“I really don’t feel up to light conversation at the moment.”

“Right. Okay, then, maybe I better have a look under the hood,” I said.

“Great,” croaked the victim. “Go look under the hood.”

The hood was on the other side of the highway. I went over and looked under it. Nothing. I can never tell anything from looking under a hood anyway, but that’s what my friends always say, “Let’s have a look under the hood.” It sounds good.

I walked back and looked in the engine compartment, then went back to the window. “Looks like you’re going to need a little front-end work,” I said.

“You’re telling me,” the victim croaked. “My truck’s going to need some, too.”

Suddenly, I thought of something actually to do. “Wait here,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

“No hurry,” he croaked.

“You seem to be croaking,” I said, thinking he might need a drink of water.

“You really think so?”

“Definitely. Maybe you’re catching cold.”

“Big deal,” he said.

I went back to my

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