For I was hungry and you gave me no food,
I was thirsty and you gave me no drink,
I was a stranger and you did not welcome me …

— Matthew 25:42-43.

My tolerance was being tested.I knew I was running low on gasoline, but I expected the refuel signal to come on when I was almost out. No such luck. My car was dead, again. I was at the corner of 15th Avenue S.E. and University at 9:30 on Mother’s Day morning, sitting in an immobile Oldsmobile and watching streams of autos pass by.
Maybe I was out of gas, but I wasn’t sure since I’ve had problems with the choke before. I tried to put the car in neutral and push it to the curb, but the gear shift was stuck. I turned on the hazard lights, ran to a pay phone and called Gopher Towing. Fifteen minutes, they said.
I walked to my car and sat on the trunk, pointing people to the right as I blocked traffic. I noticed a man with scruffy brown hair and a beard sitting on a bus stop bench on the University side of University Avenue. Under his windbreaker was a T-shirt featuring a reproduction of the Led Zeppelin “Houses of the Holy” album cover. A brown paper sack sat at his side. He looked like he had had a long succession of long nights. “Hey-a. What’s up?” he asked.
“I was looking for a signal, but it didn’t come on,” I said, trying to explain my situation before confessing the embarrassing reality. “I think I’m out of gas.”
“That’s shit,” he said.
“Yup,” I agreed. “That’s shit.”
Our conversation continued, sporadically. The man lived somewhere along bus Route 2. His name was Eddie.
Cars kept passing. Early church services were ending, and many of the cars contained well-dressed families. I had gone running earlier in the morning, and my sweats, old T-shirt and the bandanna wrapped around my head undoubtedly made for interesting conversation for people passing by.
I spoke with several of the families when the lights turned red. Yeah, my signal didn’t show I was low on gas. That’s OK, thanks — I already called a tow truck. Yup, it’s a nice day out. Is that your mother? Wife? Sorry … People were unfailingly cordial. Many of them offered to help me.
When the light was green I’d speak to Eddie. He’d been at a party last night. He’d had too much to drink. He didn’t know when his bus would arrive. Would I mind if he sat next to me on the trunk? “Nah,” I said. “I’m not going anywhere ’til the tow truck arrives.”
Eddie came over and sat on the trunk. He smelled like gin. He had a pack of Camels. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked.
“Go right ahead.”
“So, go to the U?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“I used to go to the U,” he said. “Graduated in 1984. Took some classes in locksmithing, too. I could bust into any building on this block. See that church over there?” he said, pointing down the street at a building that wasn’t a church. “I could get in there in no time.”
He laughed. “But I don’t ever do it,” he said. “What am I gonna do, anyway? Rob Jesus? I don’t want nothing.”
Cars kept passing. Me and Eddie, sitting on my trunk. Still no Gopher Towing. Still no bus. People weren’t offering to help me anymore; nobody talked to Eddie and me when the light was red. People glanced from the corners of their eyes as Eddie finished his first cigarette, then his second. One boy in a minivan stuck his head out a side window and shouted, “ROCK ON, DUDES!” Eddie smiled and made a devil sign as the van kept going. The boy’s mother looked concerned.
After a few minutes (Still no bus. Still no truck) we saw a police car coming our way. “Shit,” Eddie said, jumping off my trunk. The car pulled up behind us.
“This is an odd sight,” the officer said, stepping out of his car. “Two clean, strapping young men like yourselves sitting at an intersection …”
“I already called for help,” I said. Eddie had moved to the sidewalk. His head was down. “I think I’m out of gas,” I continued. “I was expecting a signal …”
The officer walked past us, got in my car and shifted it into neutral. “You couldn’t shift it?” he asked. I shook my head no, feeling like an idiot. “Is this a friend of yours?” the officer asked, pointing at Eddie.
“That’s Eddie,” I said.
“Well you and Eddie are going to push this car to the curb.” He turned to Eddie. “Hey, you — you hear that? You’re gonna help him push this car!”
“OK,” Eddie said. We pushed the car to the curb. I parked it. The officer went to his squad car. I walked over to him.
“Help should be here any minute. I’m just going to wait, sir.”
“OK,” he said. “You should watch your friend.”
“He’s not hurting anybody. He doesn’t want anything.”
“Right.” The officer drove away.
Eddie was standing by the curb. Still no Gopher. Still no bus. Twenty-five minutes. “Say, I was wondering,” Eddie said. “Could you give me a ride? I live on …”
A tow truck came around the corner. “Gopher Towing!” a man said cheerfully as he climbed out of his truck. “What can I do for you?”
“I might be out of gas, or it might be the choke,” I said. “I was looking for a signal …”
“Well, maybe we can save you a tow,” he said, pulling out a gas can. “Let’s pop that hood open and see what’s going on.”
“Oh. This should be interesting,” Eddie said. He peered under the hood of my car.
The man from Gopher stopped. “This guy a friend of yours?”
“Recent acquaintance. He doesn’t want anything,” I said.
“Well, I’d appreciate it if he stayed away from here. You stay over by that corner,” he said to Eddie.
“He’s not hurting anybody.”
“Well, he’s making me nervous.”
“OK,” Eddie said. He walked to the corner.
The guy from Gopher Towing looked under the hood, then added two gallons of gasoline to my tank. “Fire ‘er up,” he said. I turned the ignition.
Nothing. He went back to the hood and fiddled around underneath it for a while. “Try it again.” The car started.
“Looks like you won’t have to be towed.”
“Thanks.”
The Gopher guy walked to his truck to write out a receipt. I walked over to Eddie.
“Hey. Sorry you had to stand here,” I said.
“Looks like your car’s running,” he said.
“Yup.”
“Say I don’t know when my bus is going to show up. Would you give me a ride to my place? I live at …”
I tensed up. What did he want?
Pause. “I’m — I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know you very well. It just — it just makes me nervous.”
Another pause. “OK,” Eddie said. He walked back to the bench and sat next to his brown paper sack.
I walked back to the tow truck. My receipt was ready. “There you go,” said the Gopher guy. He looked over at Eddie and lowered his voice. “So how do you put up with guys like that? They make me nervous.”
“I don’t know. I … “
The Route 2 bus had arrived, and Eddie got on. The bus pulled away.
“How do you tolerate all that?”
The bus rolled past us. Eddie stuck his head out the window. “GOOD LUCK MAAAAAANN!!!” he yelled.
“You’re a lot more tolerant than most people,” the Gopher guy said as he handed me the receipt.
“I’m not so sure,” I replied.
I got in my car and drove away.

Alan Bjerga’s column appears Wednesdays in the Daily. He can be contacted at [email protected]