Celebrating Everyman on Labor Day
Thirty-three or thirty-four years ago—1990 or ’91, I can’t remember which—I was hanging out at the local Citgo station (where Big Apple now stands), waiting for my friend Dewey to finish his shift. It was a Sunday evening in mid-May, clear and bright and cool, and Dewey had just finished “sticking the tanks”—measuring the fuel levels of the in-ground tanks with a giant wooden ruler—when in rolled a Chevy pickup. My friend and I watched through the window as a thirty-something man in a t-shirt and jeans climbed down from the cab and thanked the driver with a pat on the door and an appreciative wave. The truck pulled away while the fellow we now took for a hitchhiker began running toward the station entrance. Dewey flicked the ash from his Marlboro and said, “Well, this ought to be interesting.”
The station’s old wooden door flew open fast enough to rattle its pane. “Thank God you’re here,” exclaimed the stranger to my friend behind the counter. “I need a tow truck.” His voice contained a notably high level of desperation.
Dewey asked what happened.
The man’s reply, in a nutshell: road washed out, passenger van, front end sunk into the mud, wife and children still with the vehicle.
“Whereabouts?” asked Dewey.
“Back side of Big Spencer Mountain.”
At that, I let out an audible, “Oh boy.”
The region in question was well over an hour’s drive from town--most of it on gravel roads.
Dewey looked over his shoulder at the clock on the wall. It read five minutes to six. He turned back around, butted his cigarette in the ashtray, and broke the news as gently as he could.
“This ain’t your lucky day,” he said, and nodded toward the window. “See that tow truck across the street? It’s the only one in town. And the guy who drives it is on vacation.”
“Oh my God,” said the man, bringing a hand to his mouth.
“It’s gonna be okay,” assured Dewey. “Don’t get your panties in a bunch. I’m out of here in five minutes. I’ll get you unstuck. And if I can’t, I’ll at least get your wife and kiddos back to town.”
My friend looked over at me. “Road trip?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
The stranger spoke. “I sure hope one of you guys has a four-wheel drive.”
“Nope,” said Dewey. He broke into a grin and jerked a thumb in my direction. “Dumbass here doesn’t have a car, and I drive a Ford Escort.”
The man’s jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”
I tried my best to console the poor guy. “Not to worry,” I said. “It’s top of the line. Even has a pin stripe.”
We arrived at dusk. The man reunited with his wife and two young children while Dewey and I surveyed the scene: a vintage Volkswagen van, front wheels submerged halfway up their hub caps. Dewey asked the man’s wife to drive in reverse while we three men pushed. The VW budged not an inch. For perhaps the next quarter hour, we batted around bad idea after bad idea. Then someone noticed that the van sat far over to the right side of the road. Might we have enough road on the van’s left side to swing its front end clear of the washout? I turned to the man’s wife. “You folks have a jack?”
We worked in the glow of headlights, mud and icy water halfway up our shins. Again and again, we jacked the front of the van as high in the air as possible and pushed it from the side. Sometimes we managed to nudge it a foot, sometimes just three or four inches. Together, though, we eventually rotated that van far enough to land her wheels back on solid ground.
I don’t recall exactly how much money my friend earned in those days. But I remember well that I took a job several years later for $4.25 per hour. If Dewey cleared one hundred-fifty dollars per week pumping gas at that station, I’d be very surprised. And yet, when the van owner reached out with a wad of bills, Dewey told him to put it away.
“C’mon man, you just saved our vacation.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Take it, please.”
Dewey waved him off. “Nah,” he said, “Just buy your gas from us next time you’re in town.”
Happy Labor Day, and thank you for all you do.
