I wave as the black and white police car approaches. The driver doesn’t stop to help. Fifteen minutes later a second police car approaches. Again, it passes me by.
I’m standing on the side of the road in San Jose, California where Interstate 280 crosses over US 101 and turns into Interstate 680. It’s the evening rush hour. The fuel pump on my car stopped without any warning, and I am stranded.
A third and fourth police car pass me by.
I am a Director at a High Tech startup wearing a custom shirt, tie, slacks and an expensive pair of Italian shoes. It’s the early 1990’s and I don’t own a cellphone yet. My ill-fated commute has quickly transformed my situation. I am powerless and I feel like a nobody.
Eight lanes of commuter traffic, with four moving at the speed limit in my direction, and no one will help me. Over 100 cars per minute are passing me. The police don’t stop. I wonder about the 1000s of other people who are passing me by. I wonder if I would stop to help someone out.
After about 45 minutes, I walk down the bank of dry grass south of the Interstate. Over a rise I see a number of homeless men. They stand in groups around 55 gallon drums burning debris to stay warm. They are in worse shape than I am in. At the moment, there is nothing I can do to help them.
I return to my position at the side of the Interstate. Suddenly a car pulls over and rolls slowly to a stop near me. Finally, some help. A pretty Hispanic woman in her early 30s steps out and walks up to me. Maria is out of gas. And then, the fun begins.
Within a few minutes an early 1960s Chevy Impala two-door pulls over to pick us up. Maria and I crawl into the back seat. Two Mexican men in their early 20s sit in the front of the car. They remind me of Cheech and Chong. I don’t intend to be disrespectful. I’m Caucasian. Other than three years of Spanish in Junior High, my only glimpse into Hispanic culture, at that time in my life was from sitting next to Alice Sanchez in the 3rd grade and listening to Cheech & Chong records.
A conversation begins in Spanish, but I am overcome by the interior of the vehicle. It is immaculate. There is shag carpet on the floor, and on the headliner. Colorful dingle balls decorate the periphery of the windows. Fuzzy dice hang from the rear view mirror. The really cool touch is chain link steering wheel.
I have never sat in a car like this. I like this car. A lot.
Maria’s laughter jars me out of my admiration of the Hispanic Eco-system I’ve encountered. The two men think Maria and I are married. Maria explains the situation and the conversation moves to English. After some car talk and a lot of laughter we arrive at a pay phone. The driver gives me change to make the phone call to my wife and they wait until they are sure we will be OK.
Nancy, my wife, picks us up bringing a couple of gallons of gas for Maria. Maria is good to go and gives us her phone number so that she can make dinner for us as a thank-you.
Whenever I read the story of the Good Samaritan in Luke, I think of Maria, the two young men, and their car. They saw me as their neighbor, they saw my need, and they put love into action.