Steel-Toed Boots
Steel-Toed Boots
Time: Wednesday, 17 May 2006, 1800L (6PM).
South Portland, Maine - It had rained for days. The sun had finally broken through, warming us to near sixty degrees Fahrenheit. I was planning on driving the scenic, coastal route to the gym in Bath, aiming to arrive at 1900L (7PM) as the weight room emptied out.
I drove past a shoe store that advertised a sale, and pondering for a moment the near-heretical notion of purchasing something other than steel-toed work boots.
A small white car's emergency lights flashed just ahead. It had stalled in traffic at a busy intersection, blocking the right-hand lane. The drivers in front of me selfishly but legally failed to allow the drivers trapped behind the disabled vehicle to merge. I let the first trapped vehicle go ahead - a bright blue Subaru. This created a zipper effect other drivers continued.
Wishing to turn right into the parking lot of a gas station and convenience store in order to safely park out of the way and then assist the disabled car’s driver, the Subaru I’d let through blocked my turn, its driver obliviously chatting away on his cell phone.
I’ve toyed with the idea of test driving a Subaru one day in order to determine if Subaru cars are slow or if it's just Subaru drivers. By the far end of the lot I was finally able to turn in, and circled my pick-up truck back to the nearer end so to approach the disabled car on foot.
I walked towards the passenger side of the white car. The driver, a very attractive young woman with long brown hair spotted me and leaned over to shout "I’ve run out of gas." She was alone and coping, obviously relieved to see help. Happily she lacked the odour of nicotine addiction.
The light was red then, thus the drivers behind her were not laying on their horns. Her distressed denim skirt revealed very shapely legs, and I was glad to be wearing dark shades as my eyes might have lingered a moment too long to be polite.
She'd run out of gas some 100 yards short of the pumps just up hill. In fact it was likely the hill had done her in: on level ground what bit of gas she had in her tank would not have shifted rearwards. I’ve helped many people in similar dire straits. I hesitated only a moment when I noticed she was driving an automatic. In my subjective experience a standard transmission seems easier to push. There was the small matter of the hill also. Despite these challenges I was confident I could push her car up the hill and to the pumps.
Referring to the gas station and convenience store, she asked "Do you think they’ll loan me a gas can or something?"
Having experience in such matters, I answered "Not likely, though we could try. Or I could push you up the hill."
She hadn’t considered that, but then, why would she? I left the decision to her. I was there to help, not dictate. "We can do that?" she asked, surprised.
The light changed to green, and drivers laid on their horns straight away: no zippering here. I pointed to the lazy twit honking behind her, and curtly gestured that he should steer around us. He seemed shocked, but trapped in traffic he laid off his horn and sat there looking confused. Other drivers kept on honking from the imaginary safety of their vehicles. When pushed I can be a muscular attitude problem not to be trifled with.
I returned my attention to the girl, a much prettier sight. "We can", I answered gently, adding "You’re a traffic hazard here. Just pop her into Neutral, you steer and I’ll push." It always helps to remain calm in a situation, nor was I annoyed at her. To paraphrase Winnie the Pooh, I, too, have been a tight bear in a stuck place.
She complied instantly. I ran behind her car and caught it as it started to roll backwards down the hill, towards the wide-eyed punk behind her.
I felt chagrined: I should have been clearer in my instruction.
I placed my hands carefully, and dug in, grateful for my steel-toed work boots. Cars are quite fragile, actually, and I did not want to damage her sheet metal. My boots gripped the rain soaked pavement well enough as I ignored the constant beeping and angry shouting and began pushing her vehicle forward up the hill.
This hill was steeper than I had anticipated. For a moment I thought of Sisyphus, and wondered "How much further?" I decided to think instead of Boxer, from George Orwell’s Animal Farm. "I will work harder", I told myself as a slogged my way up the hill, head down, pushing the car ahead of me.
The traffic behind us was held by a red light then but now we had traffic bearing in from our left, the honking and shouting coming from there. I glanced up to see no one was giving us quarter so neither did I - I pushed the car straight through, and to her credit the driver did not touch her brakes. Fifty yards to go, and a man ran up to help. Our driver yelled back as us "Thank you so much - both of you."
He was blond, older but fit, and I was glad for his help: with two of us pushing the task became light work. Able to raise my head up now, I saw the driver struggled with the wheel for a moment as we turned into the lot. She was unused to the lack of power steering, apparently, but handled it well.
Level at last, we walked her car to the pumps triumphantly. "Thanks for your help", I said to the man. "I was going to work-out", I joked ruefully.
"You won’t have to now", he grinned. His wife was waiting for him in their car at the parking lot. She gone ahead to wait for us after he had leapt out to our aid: Huzzah for him!
"Thank you both so much", the driver repeated to us near giddy with relief. She really was beautiful. I was suddenly aware that my now pumped muscles were bulging through my blue t-shirt, and shyly turned away.
"You’ll be all right now?" I asked her over my shoulder.
"Oh, yes", said she, crossing the lot to pre-pay for her gas. I insist on only use pre-pay stations as a last resort, and sparingly at that. I resent businesses that treat me as a criminal. Luckily, in Maine, this practice is relatively rare. The last time I stopped at a pre-pay pump, I pumped just one gallon - enough to get me to the next non-pre-pay station.
The man whom had helped was buckled in. "Thanks, again", I said to him as I walked past to my truck, observing "Most people would rather honk than help."
We waved to each other as his wife drove him away, and I crossed the lot to my pick-up. I noticed one of South Portland’s finest had parked his cruiser in the lot to fetch a snack from inside the convenience store. The only legal way for him to have entered the lot was past us, likely when I was pushing alone and had my head down to the task.
That annoyed me some. I was reminded of the Rick Gaber’s quote:"Overload the police with victimless crimes and other minutiae and eventually only creeps and bullies remain cops."
Overload the police with coffee and doughnuts and eventually...?
I’m not cruel. I could see the officer in question was not up to physical tasks, and I certainly would not expect him to hurt himself with muscular exertions like helping to push a car up a hill in traffic. I think he could have used his cruiser’s emergency lights to escort us through the intersection, though, and into the gas station! Not a thinker, that one.
The driver I’d helped was finishing pumping gas as I drove out of the lot. Thinking it rude to simply drive away, I rolled down my window and asked "Everything all right now?"
"Thanks to you", she beamed, "You’re a life-saver." I blushed just a little at her exuberant exaggeration. She was quite fetching really. I’ve a rule about not taking advantage of other people’s gratitude, however, and that includes when I help beautiful young women.
She added "I loaned my car to a friend and they brought it back on empty...and here I am in a skirt." Indeed she was wearing a skirt, and wearing it well. I’m suspect she didn’t want me to think her silly, but really, why would she care what I think about how she got into her predicament? What if I thought her easy to take advantage of then, or a poor judge of character? I wondered, too, if the "they" were a "he" friend or a "she" friend? Not my business really. I can’t imagine such a girl being alone except by choice, or the lack there of.
"It’s happened to us all some time or another", I reassured her. I didn’t think her silly at all; I think she simply got stuck with an empty tank. She’d likely have made it too, were it not for that hill. "I hope your day get’s better now", I waved lamely as I drove away, cringing at my awkwardness. She beamed after me as if her day really was getting brighter. It had stopped raining after all.
My steel-toed boots are staying: lesser shodding might have burst apart.
Time: Wednesday, 17 May 2006, 1800L (6PM).
South Portland, Maine - It had rained for days. The sun had finally broken through, warming us to near sixty degrees Fahrenheit. I was planning on driving the scenic, coastal route to the gym in Bath, aiming to arrive at 1900L (7PM) as the weight room emptied out.
I drove past a shoe store that advertised a sale, and pondering for a moment the near-heretical notion of purchasing something other than steel-toed work boots.
A small white car's emergency lights flashed just ahead. It had stalled in traffic at a busy intersection, blocking the right-hand lane. The drivers in front of me selfishly but legally failed to allow the drivers trapped behind the disabled vehicle to merge. I let the first trapped vehicle go ahead - a bright blue Subaru. This created a zipper effect other drivers continued.
Wishing to turn right into the parking lot of a gas station and convenience store in order to safely park out of the way and then assist the disabled car’s driver, the Subaru I’d let through blocked my turn, its driver obliviously chatting away on his cell phone.
I’ve toyed with the idea of test driving a Subaru one day in order to determine if Subaru cars are slow or if it's just Subaru drivers. By the far end of the lot I was finally able to turn in, and circled my pick-up truck back to the nearer end so to approach the disabled car on foot.
I walked towards the passenger side of the white car. The driver, a very attractive young woman with long brown hair spotted me and leaned over to shout "I’ve run out of gas." She was alone and coping, obviously relieved to see help. Happily she lacked the odour of nicotine addiction.
The light was red then, thus the drivers behind her were not laying on their horns. Her distressed denim skirt revealed very shapely legs, and I was glad to be wearing dark shades as my eyes might have lingered a moment too long to be polite.
She'd run out of gas some 100 yards short of the pumps just up hill. In fact it was likely the hill had done her in: on level ground what bit of gas she had in her tank would not have shifted rearwards. I’ve helped many people in similar dire straits. I hesitated only a moment when I noticed she was driving an automatic. In my subjective experience a standard transmission seems easier to push. There was the small matter of the hill also. Despite these challenges I was confident I could push her car up the hill and to the pumps.
Referring to the gas station and convenience store, she asked "Do you think they’ll loan me a gas can or something?"
Having experience in such matters, I answered "Not likely, though we could try. Or I could push you up the hill."
She hadn’t considered that, but then, why would she? I left the decision to her. I was there to help, not dictate. "We can do that?" she asked, surprised.
The light changed to green, and drivers laid on their horns straight away: no zippering here. I pointed to the lazy twit honking behind her, and curtly gestured that he should steer around us. He seemed shocked, but trapped in traffic he laid off his horn and sat there looking confused. Other drivers kept on honking from the imaginary safety of their vehicles. When pushed I can be a muscular attitude problem not to be trifled with.
I returned my attention to the girl, a much prettier sight. "We can", I answered gently, adding "You’re a traffic hazard here. Just pop her into Neutral, you steer and I’ll push." It always helps to remain calm in a situation, nor was I annoyed at her. To paraphrase Winnie the Pooh, I, too, have been a tight bear in a stuck place.
She complied instantly. I ran behind her car and caught it as it started to roll backwards down the hill, towards the wide-eyed punk behind her.
I felt chagrined: I should have been clearer in my instruction.
I placed my hands carefully, and dug in, grateful for my steel-toed work boots. Cars are quite fragile, actually, and I did not want to damage her sheet metal. My boots gripped the rain soaked pavement well enough as I ignored the constant beeping and angry shouting and began pushing her vehicle forward up the hill.
This hill was steeper than I had anticipated. For a moment I thought of Sisyphus, and wondered "How much further?" I decided to think instead of Boxer, from George Orwell’s Animal Farm. "I will work harder", I told myself as a slogged my way up the hill, head down, pushing the car ahead of me.
The traffic behind us was held by a red light then but now we had traffic bearing in from our left, the honking and shouting coming from there. I glanced up to see no one was giving us quarter so neither did I - I pushed the car straight through, and to her credit the driver did not touch her brakes. Fifty yards to go, and a man ran up to help. Our driver yelled back as us "Thank you so much - both of you."
He was blond, older but fit, and I was glad for his help: with two of us pushing the task became light work. Able to raise my head up now, I saw the driver struggled with the wheel for a moment as we turned into the lot. She was unused to the lack of power steering, apparently, but handled it well.
Level at last, we walked her car to the pumps triumphantly. "Thanks for your help", I said to the man. "I was going to work-out", I joked ruefully.
"You won’t have to now", he grinned. His wife was waiting for him in their car at the parking lot. She gone ahead to wait for us after he had leapt out to our aid: Huzzah for him!
"Thank you both so much", the driver repeated to us near giddy with relief. She really was beautiful. I was suddenly aware that my now pumped muscles were bulging through my blue t-shirt, and shyly turned away.
"You’ll be all right now?" I asked her over my shoulder.
"Oh, yes", said she, crossing the lot to pre-pay for her gas. I insist on only use pre-pay stations as a last resort, and sparingly at that. I resent businesses that treat me as a criminal. Luckily, in Maine, this practice is relatively rare. The last time I stopped at a pre-pay pump, I pumped just one gallon - enough to get me to the next non-pre-pay station.
The man whom had helped was buckled in. "Thanks, again", I said to him as I walked past to my truck, observing "Most people would rather honk than help."
We waved to each other as his wife drove him away, and I crossed the lot to my pick-up. I noticed one of South Portland’s finest had parked his cruiser in the lot to fetch a snack from inside the convenience store. The only legal way for him to have entered the lot was past us, likely when I was pushing alone and had my head down to the task.
That annoyed me some. I was reminded of the Rick Gaber’s quote:"Overload the police with victimless crimes and other minutiae and eventually only creeps and bullies remain cops."
Overload the police with coffee and doughnuts and eventually...?
I’m not cruel. I could see the officer in question was not up to physical tasks, and I certainly would not expect him to hurt himself with muscular exertions like helping to push a car up a hill in traffic. I think he could have used his cruiser’s emergency lights to escort us through the intersection, though, and into the gas station! Not a thinker, that one.
The driver I’d helped was finishing pumping gas as I drove out of the lot. Thinking it rude to simply drive away, I rolled down my window and asked "Everything all right now?"
"Thanks to you", she beamed, "You’re a life-saver." I blushed just a little at her exuberant exaggeration. She was quite fetching really. I’ve a rule about not taking advantage of other people’s gratitude, however, and that includes when I help beautiful young women.
She added "I loaned my car to a friend and they brought it back on empty...and here I am in a skirt." Indeed she was wearing a skirt, and wearing it well. I’m suspect she didn’t want me to think her silly, but really, why would she care what I think about how she got into her predicament? What if I thought her easy to take advantage of then, or a poor judge of character? I wondered, too, if the "they" were a "he" friend or a "she" friend? Not my business really. I can’t imagine such a girl being alone except by choice, or the lack there of.
"It’s happened to us all some time or another", I reassured her. I didn’t think her silly at all; I think she simply got stuck with an empty tank. She’d likely have made it too, were it not for that hill. "I hope your day get’s better now", I waved lamely as I drove away, cringing at my awkwardness. She beamed after me as if her day really was getting brighter. It had stopped raining after all.
My steel-toed boots are staying: lesser shodding might have burst apart.